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Mathematical Platonism

Mathematical platonism is any metaphysical account of mathematics that implies mathematical entities exist, that they are abstract, and that they are independent of all our rational activities. For example, a platonist might assert that the number pi exists outside of space and time and has the characteristics it does regardless of any mental or physical activities of human beings. Mathematical platonists are often called “realists,” although, strictly speaking, there can be realists who are not platonists because they do not accept the platonist requirement that mathematical entities be abstract.

Mathematical platonism enjoys widespread support and is frequently considered the default metaphysical position with respect to mathematics. This is unsurprising given its extremely natural interpretation of mathematical practice. In particular, mathematical platonism takes at face-value such well known truths as that “there exist” an infinite number of prime numbers, and it provides straightforward explanations of mathematical objectivity and of the differences between mathematical and spatio-temporal entities. Thus arguments for mathematical platonism typically assert that in order for mathematical theories to be true their logical structure must refer to some mathematical entities, that many mathematical theories are indeed objectively true, and that mathematical entities are not constituents of the spatio-temporal realm.

The most common challenge to mathematical platonism argues that mathematical platonism requires an impenetrable metaphysical gap between mathematical entities and human beings. Yet an impenetrable metaphysical gap would make our ability to refer to, have knowledge of, or have justified beliefs concerning mathematical entities completely mysterious. Frege, Quine, and “full-blooded platonism” offer the three most promising responses to this challenge.

Nominalism, logicism, formalism and intuitionism are traditional opponents of mathematical platonism, but these metaphysical theories won’t be discussed in detail in the present article.

Table of Contents

  1. What Is Mathematical Platonism?
    1. What Types of Items Count as Mathematical Ontology?
    2. What Is It to Be an Abstract Object or Structure?
    3. What Is It to Be Independent of All Rational Activities?
  2. Arguments for Platonism
    1. The Fregean Argument for Object Platonism
      1. Frege’s Philosophical Project
      2. Frege’s Argument
    2. The Quine-Putnam Indispensability Argument
  3. Challenges to Platonism
    1. Non-Platonistic Mathematical Existence
    2. The Epistemological and Referential Challenges to Platonism
  4. Full-Blooded Platonism
  5. Supplement: Frege’s Argument for Arithmetic-Object Platonism
  6. Supplement: Realism, Anti-Nominalism, and Metaphysical Constructivism
    1. Realism
    2. Anti-Nominalism
    3. Metaphysical Constructivism
  7. Supplement: The Epistemological Challenge to Platonism
    1. The Motivating Picture Underwriting the Epistemological Challenge
    2. The Fundamental Question: The Core of the Epistemological Challenge
    3. The fundamental Question: Some Further Details
  8. Supplement: The Referential Challenge to Platonism
    1. Introducing the Referential Challenge
    2. Reference and Permutations
    3. Reference and the Löwenheim-Skolem Theorem
  9. References and Further Reading
    1. Suggestions for Further Reading
    2. Other References

1. What Is Mathematical Platonism?

Traditionally, mathematical platonism has referred to a collection of metaphysical accounts of mathematics, where a metaphysical account of mathematics is one that entails theses concerning the existence and fundamental nature of mathematical ontology. In particular, such an account of mathematics is a variety of (mathematical) platonism if and only if it entails some version of the following three Theses:

  1. Existence: Some mathematical ontology exists.
  2. Abstractness: Mathematical ontology is abstract.
  3. Independence: Mathematical ontology is independent of all rational activities, that is, the activities of all rational beings.

In order to understand platonism so conceived, it will be useful to investigate what types of items count as mathematical ontology, what it is to be abstract, and what it is to be independent of all rational activities. Let us address these topics.

a. What Types of Items Count as Mathematical Ontology?

Traditionally, platonists have maintained that the items that are fundamental to mathematical ontology are objects, where an object is, roughly, any item that may fall within the range of the first-order bound variables of an appropriately formalized theory and for which identity conditions can be provided. Section 2 provides an outline of the evolution of this conception of an object. Those readers who are unfamiliar with the terminology “first-order bound variable” can consult Model-Theoretic Conceptions of Logical Consequence. Let us call platonisms that take objects to be the fundamental items of mathematical ontology object platonisms. So, object platonism is the conjunction of three theses: some mathematical objects exist, those mathematical objects are abstract, and those mathematical objects are independent of all rational activities. In the last hundred years or so, object platonisms have been defended by Gottlob Frege [1884, 1893, 1903], Crispin Wright and Bob Hale [Wright 1983], [Hale and Wright 2001], and Neil Tennant [1987, 1997].

Nearly all object platonists recognize that most mathematical objects naturally belong to collections (for example, the real numbers, the sets, the cyclical group of order 20). To borrow terminology from model theory, most mathematical objects are elements of mathematical domains. Consult Model-Theoretic Conceptions of Logical Consequence for details. It is well recognized that the objects in mathematical domains have certain properties and stand in certain relations to one another. These distinctively mathematical properties and relations are also acknowledged by object platonists to be items of mathematical ontology.

More recently, it has become popular to maintain that the items that are fundamental to mathematical ontology are structures rather than objects. Stewart Shapiro [1997, pp. 73-4], a prominent defender of this thesis, offers the following definition of a structure:

I define a system to be a collection of objects with certain relations. … A structure is the abstract form of a system, highlighting the interrelationships among the objects, and ignoring any features of them that do not affect how they relate to other objects in the system.

According to structuralists, mathematics’ subject matter is mathematical structures. Individual mathematical entities (for example, the complex number 1 + 2i) are positions or places in such structures. Controversy exists over precisely what this amounts to. Minimally, there is agreement that the places of structures exhibit a greater dependence on one another than object platonists claim exists between the objects of the mathematical domains to which they are committed. Some structuralists add that the places of structures have only structural properties—properties shared by all systems that exemplify the structure in question—and that the identity of such places is determined by their structural properties. Michael Resnik [1981, p. 530], for example, writes:

In mathematics, I claim, we do not have objects with an “internal” composition arranged in structures, we only have structures. The objects of mathematics, that is, the entities which our mathematical constants and quantifiers denote, are structureless points or positions in structures. As positions in structures, they have no identity or features outside a structure.

An excellent everyday example of a structure is a baseball defense (abstractly construed); such positions as pitcher and shortstop are the places of this structure. Although the pitcher and shortstop of any specific baseball defense (for example, of the Cleveland Indians’ baseball defense during a particular pitch of a particular game) have a complete collection of properties, if one considers these positions as places in the structure “baseball defense,” the same is not true. For example, these places do not have a particular height, weight, or shoe size. Indeed, their only properties would seem to be those that reflect their relations to other places in the structure “baseball defense.”

Although we might label platonisms of the structural variety structure platonisms, they are more commonly labeled ante rem (or sui generis) structuralisms. This label is borrowed from ante rem universals—universals that exist independently of their instances. Consult Universals for a discussion of ante rem universals. Ante rem structures are typically characterized as ante rem universals that, consequently, exist independently of their instances. As such, ante rem structures are abstract, and are typically taken to exist independently of all rational activities.

b. What Is It to Be an Abstract Object or Structure?

There is no straightforward way of addressing what it is to be an abstract object or structure, because “abstract” is a philosophical term of art. Although its primary uses share something in common—they all contrast abstract items (for example, mathematical entities, propositions, type-individuated linguistic characters, pieces of music, novels, etc.) with concrete, most importantly spatio-temporal, items (for example, electrons, planets, particular copies of novels and performances of pieces of music, etc.)—its precise use varies from philosopher to philosopher. Illuminating discussions of these different uses, the nature of the distinction between abstract and concrete, and the difficulties involved in drawing this distinction—for example, whether my center of gravity/mass is abstract or concrete—can be found in [Burgess and Rosen 1997, §I.A.i.a], [Dummett 1981, Chapter 14], [Hale 1987, Chapter 3] and [Lewis 1986, §1.7].

For our purposes, the best account takes abstract to be a cluster concept, that is, a concept whose application is marked by a collection of other concepts, some of which are more important to its application than others. The most important or central member of the cluster associated with abstract is:

1. non-spatio-temporality: the item does not stand to other items in a collection of relations that would make it a constituent of the spatio-temporal realm.

Non-spatio-temporality does not require an item to stand completely outside of the network of spatio-temporal relations. It is possible, for example, for a non-spatio-temporal entity to stand in spatio-temporal relations that are, non-formally, solely temporal relations—consider, for example, type-individuated games of chess, which came into existence at approximately the time at which people started to play chess. Some philosophers maintain that it is possible for non-spatio-temporal objects to stand in some spatio-temporal relations that are, non-formally, solely spatial relations. Centers of gravity/mass are a possible candidate. Yet, the dominant practice in the philosophy of mathematics literature is to take non-spatio-temporal to have an extension that only includes items that fail to stand in all spatio-temporal relations that are, non-formally, solely spatial relations.

Also fairly central to the cluster associated with abstract are, in order of centrality:

2.  acausality: the item neither exerts a strict causal influence over other items nor does any other item causally influence it in the strict sense, where strict causal relations are those that obtain between, and only between, constituents of the spatio-temporal realm—for example, you can kick a football and cause it (in a strict sense) to move, but you can’t kick a number.

3.  eternality: where this could be interpreted as either

3a. omnitemporality: the item exists at all times, or

3b. atemporality: the item exists outside of the network of temporal relations,

4.  changelessness: none of the item’s intrinsic properties change—roughly, an item’s intrinsic properties are those that it has independently of its relationships to other items, and

5. necessary existence: the item could not have failed to exist.

An item is abstract if and only if it has enough of the features in this cluster, where the features had by the item in question must include those that are most central to the cluster.

Differences in the use of “abstract” are best accounted for by observing that different philosophers seek to communicate different constellations of features from this cluster when they apply this term. All philosophers insist that an item have Feature 1 before it may be appropriately labeled “abstract.” Philosophers of mathematics invariably mean to convey that mathematical entities have Feature 2 when they claim that mathematical objects or structures are abstract. Indeed, they typically mean to convey that such objects or structures have either Feature 3a or 3b, and Feature 4. Some philosophers of mathematics also mean to convey that mathematical objects or structures have Feature 5.

For cluster concepts, it is common to call those items that have all, or most, of the features in the cluster paradigm cases of the concept in question. With this terminology in place, the content of the Abstractness Thesis, as intended and interpreted by most philosophers of mathematics, is more precisely conveyed by the Abstractness+ Thesis: the mathematical objects or structures that exist are paradigm cases of abstract entities.

c. What Is It to Be Independent of All Rational Activities?

The most common account of the content of “X is independent of Y” is X would exist even if Y did not. Accordingly, when platonists affirm the Independence Thesis, they affirm that their favored mathematical ontology would exist even if there were no rational activities, where the rational activities in question might be mental or physical.

Typically, the Independence Thesis is meant to convey more than indicated above. The Independence Thesis is typically meant to convey, in addition, that mathematical objects or structures would have the features that they in fact have even if there were no rational activities or if there were quite different rational activities to the ones that there in fact are. We exclude these stronger conditions from the formal characterization of “X is independent of Y,” because there is an interpretation of the neo-Fregean platonists Bob Hale and Crispin Wright that takes them to maintain that mathematical activities determine the ontological structure of a mathematical realm satisfying the Existence, Abstractness, and Independence Theses, that is, mathematical activities determine how such a mathematical realm is structured into objects, properties, and relations. See, for example, [MacBride 2003]. Athough this interpretation of Hale and Wright is controversial, were someone to advocate such a view, he or she would be advocating a variety of platonism.

2. Arguments for Platonism

Without doubt, it is everyday mathematical activities that motivate people to endorse platonism. Those activities are littered with assertions that, when interpreted in a straightforward way, support the Existence Thesis. For example, we are familiar with saying that there exist an infinite number of prime numbers and that there exist exactly two solutions to the equation x2 ­– 5x + 6 = 0. Moreover, it is an axiom of standard set theories that the empty set exists.

It takes only a little consideration to realize that, if mathematical objects or structures do exist, they are unlikely to be constituents of the spatio-temporal realm. For example, where in the spatio-temporal realm might one locate the empty set, or even the number four—as opposed to collections with four elements? How much does the empty set or the real number p weigh? There appear to be no good answers to these questions. Indeed, to even ask them appears to be to engage in a category mistake. This suggests that the core content of the Abstractness Thesis–that mathematical objects or structures are not constituents of the spatio-temporal realm–is correct.

The standard route to the acceptance of the Independence Thesis utilizes the objectivity of mathematics. It is difficult to deny that “there exist infinitely many prime numbers” and “2 + 2 = 4” are objective truths. Platonists argue—or, more frequently, simply assume—that the best explanation of this objectivity is that mathematical theories have a subject matter that is quite independent of rational beings and their activities. The Independence Thesis is a standard way of articulating the relevant type of independence.

So, it is easy to establish the prima facie plausibility of platonism. Yet it took the genius of Gottlob Frege [1884] to transparently and systematically bring together considerations of this type in favor of platonism’s plausibility. In the very same manuscript, Frege also articulated the most influential argument for platonism. Let us examine this argument.

a. The Fregean Argument for Object Platonism

i. Frege’s Philosophical Project

Frege’s argument for platonism [1884, 1893, 1903] was offered in conjunction with his defense of arithmetic logicism—roughly, the thesis that all arithmetic truths are derivable from general logical laws and definitions. In order to carry out a defense of arithmetic logicism, Frege developed his Begriffsschift [1879]—a formal language designed to be an ideal tool for representing the logical structure of what Frege called thoughts. Contemporary philosophers would call them “propositions,” and they are what Frege took to be the primary bearers of truth. The technical details of Frege’s begriffsschift need not concern us; the interested reader can consult the articles on Gottlob Frege and Frege and Language. We need only note that Frege took the logical structure of thoughts to be modeled on the mathematical distinction between a function and an argument.

On the basis of this function-argument understanding of logical structure, Frege incorporated two categories of linguistic expression into his begriffsschift: those that are saturated and those that are not. In contemporary parlance, we call the former singular terms (or proper names in a broad sense) and the latter predicates or quantifier expressions, depending on the types of linguistic expressions that may saturate them. For Frege, the distinction between these two categories of linguistic expression directly reflected a metaphysical distinction within thoughts, which he took to have saturated and unsaturated components. He labeled the saturated components of thoughts “objects” and the unsaturated components “concepts.” In so doing, Frege took himself to be making precise the notions of object and concept already embedded in the inferential structure of natural languages.

ii. Frege’s Argument

Formulated succinctly, Frege’s argument for arithmetic-object platonism proceeds as follows:

i. Singular terms referring to natural numbers appear in true simple statements.

ii. It is possible for simple statements with singular terms as components to be true only if the objects to which those singular terms refer exist.

Therefore,

iii. the natural numbers exist.

iv. If the natural numbers exist, they are abstract objects that are independent of all rational activities.

Therefore,

v. the natural numbers are existent abstract objects that are independent of all rational activities, that is, arithmetic-object platonism is true.

In order to more fully understand Frege’s argument, let us make four observations: (a) Frege took natural numbers to be objects, because natural number terms are singular terms, (b) Frege took natural numbers to exist because singular terms referring to them appear in true simple statements—in particular, true identity statements, (c) Frege took natural numbers to be independent of all rational activities, because some thoughts containing them are objective, and (d) Frege took natural numbers to be abstract because they are neither mental nor physical. Observations (a) and (b) are important because they are the heart of Frege’s argument for the Existence Thesis, which, at least if one judges by the proportion of his Grundlagen [1884] that was devoted to establishing it, was of central concern to Frege. Observations (c) and (d) are important because they identify the mechanisms that Frege used to defend the Abstractness and Independence Theses. For further details, consult [Frege 1884, §26 and §61].

Frege’s argument for the thesis that some simple numerical identities are objectively true relies heavily on the fact that such identities allow for the application of natural numbers in representing and reasoning about reality, especially the non-mathematical parts of reality. It is applicability in this sense that Frege took to be the primary reason for judging arithmetic to be a body of objective truths rather than a mere game involving the manipulation of symbols. The interested reader should consult [Frege 1903, §91]. A more detailed formulation of Frege’s argument for arithmetic-object platonism, which incorporates the above observations, can be found below in section 5.

The central core of Frege’s argument for arithmetic-object platonism continues to be taken to be plausible, if not correct, by most contemporary philosophers. Yet its reliance on the category “singular term” presents a problem for extending it to a general argument for object platonism. The difficulty with relying on this category can be recognized once one considers extending Frege’s argument to cover mathematical domains that have more members than do the natural numbers (for example, the real numbers, complex numbers, or sets). Although there is a sense in which many natural languages do contain singular terms that refer to all natural numbers—such natural languages embed a procedure for generating a singular term to refer to any given natural number—the same cannot be said for real numbers, complex numbers, and sets. The sheer size of these domains excludes the possibility that there could be a natural language that includes a singular term for each of their members. There are an uncountable number of members in each such domain. Yet no language with an uncountable number of singular terms could plausibly be taken to be a natural language, at least not if what one means by a natural language is a language that could be spoken by rational beings with the same kinds of cognitive capacities that human beings have.

So, if Frege’s argument, or something like it, is to be used to establish a more wide ranging object platonism, then that argument is either going to have to exploit some category other than singular term or it is going to have to invoke this category differently than how Frege did. Some neo-Fregean platonists such as [Hale and Wright 2001] adopt the second strategy. Central to their approach is the category of possible singular term. [MacBride 2003] contains an excellent summary of their strategy. Yet the more widely adopted strategy has been to give up on singular terms all together and instead take objects to be those items that may fall within the range of first-order bound variables and for which identity conditions can be provided. Much of the impetus for this more popular strategy came from Willard Van Orman Quine. See [1948] for a discussion of the primary clause and [1981, p. 102] for a discussion of the secondary clause. It is worth noting, however, that a similar constraint to the secondary clause can be found in Frege’s writings. See discussions of the so-called Caesar problem in, for example, [Hale and Wright 2001, Chapter 14] and [MacBride 2005, 2006].

b. The Quine-Putnam Indispensability Argument

Consideration of the Quinean strategy of taking objects to be those items that may fall within the range of first-order bound variables naturally leads us to a contemporary version of Frege’s argument for the Existence Thesis. This Quine-Putnam indispensability argument (QPIA) can be found scattered throughout Quine’s corpus. See, for example, [1951, 1963, 1981]. Yet nowhere is it developed in systematic detail. Indeed, the argument is given its first methodical treatment in Hilary Putnam’s Philosophy of Logic [1971]. To date, the most extensive sympathetic development of the QPIA is provided by Mark Colyvan [2001]. Those interested in a shorter sympathetic development of this argument should read [Resnik 2005].

The core of the QPIA is the following:

i. We should acknowledge the existence of—or, as Quine and Putnam would prefer to put it, be ontologically committed to—all those entities that are indispensable to our best scientific theories.

ii. Mathematical objects or structures are indispensable to our best scientific theories.

Therefore,

iii. We should acknowledge the existence of—be ontologically committed to—mathematical objects or structures.

Note that this argument’s conclusion is akin to the Existence Thesis. Thus, to use it as an argument for platonism, one needs to combine it with considerations that establish the Abstractness and Independence Theses.

So, what is it for a particular, perhaps single-membered, collection of entities to be indispensable to a given scientific theory? Roughly, it is for those entities to be ineliminable from the theory in question without significantly detracting from the scientific attractiveness of that theory. This characterization of indispensability suffices for noting that, prima facie, mathematical theories are indispensable to many scientific theories, for, prima facie, it is impossible to formulate many such theories—never mind formulate those theories in a scientifically attractive way—without using mathematics.

However, indispensability thesis has been challenged. The most influential challenge was made by Hartry Field [1980]. Informative discussions of the literature relating to this challenge can be found in [Colyvan 2001, Chapter 4] and [Balaguer 1998, Chapter 6].

In order to provide a more precise characterization of indispensability, we will need to investigate the doctrines that Quine and Putnam use to motivate and justify the first premise of the QPIA: naturalism and confirmational holism. Naturalism is the abandonment of the goal of developing a first philosophy. According to naturalism, science is an inquiry into reality that, while fallible and corrigible, is not answerable to any supra-scientific tribunal. Thus, naturalism is the recognition that it is within science itself, and not in some prior philosophy, that reality is to be identified and described. Confirmational holism is the doctrine that theories are confirmed or infirmed as wholes, for, as Quine observes, it is not the case that “each statement, taken in isolation from its fellows, can admit of confirmation or infirmation …, statements … face the tribunal of sense experience not individually but only as a corporate body” [1951, p. 38].

It is easy to see the relationship between naturalism, confirmation holism, and the first premise of the QPIA. Suppose a collection of entities is indispensable to one of our best scientific theories. Then, by confirmational holism, whatever support we have for the truth of that scientific theory is support for the truth of the part of that theory to which the collection of entities in question is indispensable. Further, by naturalism, that part of the theory serves as a guide to reality. Consequently, should the truth of that part of the theory commit us to the existence of the collection of entities in question, we should indeed be committed to the existence of those entities, that is, we should be ontologically committed to those entities.

In light of this, what is needed is a mechanism for assessing whether the truth of some theory or part of some theory commits us to the existence of a particular collection of entities. In response to this need, Quine offers his criterion of ontological commitment: theories, as collections of sentences, are committed to those entities over which the first-order bound variables of the sentences contained within them must range in order for those sentences to be true.

Although Quine’s criterion is relatively simple, it is important that one appropriately grasp its application. One cannot simply read ontological commitments from the surface grammar of ordinary language. For, as Quine [1981, p. 9] explains,

[T]he common man’s ontology is vague and untidy … a fenced ontology is just not implicit in ordinary language. The idea of a boundary between being and nonbeing is a philosophical idea, an idea of technical science in the broad sense.

Rather, what is required is that one first regiment the language in question, that is, cast that language in what Quine calls “canonical notation.” Thus,

[W]e can draw explicit ontological lines when desired. We can regiment our notation. … Then it is that we can say the objects assumed are the values of the variables. … Various turns of phrase in ordinary language that seem to invoke novel sorts of objects may disappear under such regimentation. At other points new ontic commitments may emerge. There is room for choice, and one chooses with a view to simplicity in one’s overall system of the world. [Quine 1981, pp. 9-10]

To illustrate, the everyday sentence “I saw a possible job for you” would appear to be ontologically committed to possible jobs. Yet this commitment is seen to be spurious once one appropriately regiments this sentence as “I saw a job advertised that might be suitable for you.”

We now have all of the components needed to understand what it is for a particular collection of entities to be indispensable to a scientific theory. A collection of entities is indispensable to a scientific theory if and only if, when that theory is optimally formulated in canonical notation, the entities in question fall within the range of the first-order bound variables of that theory. Here, optimality of formulation should be assessed by the standards that govern the formulation of scientific theories in general (for example, simplicity, fruitfulness, conservativeness, and so forth).

Now that we understand indispensability, it is worth noting the similarity between the QPIA and Frege’s argument for the Existence Thesis. We observed above that Frege’s argument has two key components: recognition of the applicability of numbers in representing and reasoning about the world as support for the contention that arithmetic statements are true, and a logico-inferential analysis of arithmetic statements that identified natural number terms as singular terms. The QPIA encapsulates directly parallel features: ineliminable applicability to our best scientific theories (that is, indispensability) and Quine’s criterion of ontological commitment. While the language and framework of the QPIA are different from those of Frege’s argument, these arguments are, at their core, identical.

One important difference between these arguments is worth noting, however. Frege’s argument is for the existence of objects; his analysis of natural languages only allows for the categories “object” and “concept.” Quine’s criterion of ontological commitment recommends commitment to any entity that falls within the range of the first-order bound variables of any theory that one endorses. While all such entities might be objects, some might be positions or places in structures. As such, the QPIA can be used to defend ante rem structuralism.

3. Challenges to Platonism

a. Non-Platonistic Mathematical Existence

Since the late twentieth century, an increasing number of philosophers of mathematics in the platonic tradition have followed the practice of labeling their accounts of mathematics as “realist” or “realism” rather than “platonist” or “platonism.” Roughly, these philosophers take an account of mathematics to be a variety of (mathematical) realism if and only if it entails three theses: some mathematical ontology exists, that mathematical ontology has objective features, and that mathematical ontology is, contains, or provides the semantic values of the components of mathematical theories. Typically, contemporary platonists endorse all three theses, yet there are realists who are not platonists. Normally, this is because these individuals do not endorse the Abstractness Thesis. In addition to non-platonist realists, there are also philosophers of mathematics who accept the Existence Thesis but reject the Independence Thesis. Section 6 below discusses accounts of mathematics that endorse the Existence Thesis, or something very similar, yet reject either the Abstractness Thesis or the Independence Thesis.

b. The Epistemological and Referential Challenges to Platonism

Let us consider the two most common challenges to platonism: the epistemological challenge and the referential challenge. Sections 7 and 8 below contain more detailed, systematic discussions of these challenges.

Proponents of these challenges take endorsement of the Existence, Abstractness and Independence Theses to amount to endorsement of a particular metaphysical account of the relationship between the spatio-temporal and mathematical realms. Specifically, according to this account, there is an impenetrable metaphysical gap between these realms. This gap is constituted by a lack of causal interaction between these realms, which, in turn, is a consequence of mathematical entities being abstract (see [Burgess and Rosen 1997, §I.A.2.a]). Proponents of the epistemological challenge observe that, prima facie, such an impenetrable metaphysical gap would make human beings’ ability to form justified mathematical beliefs and obtain mathematical knowledge completely mysterious. Proponents of the referential challenge, on the other hand, observe that, prima facie, such an impenetrable metaphysical gap would make human beings’ ability to refer to mathematical entities completely mysterious. It is natural to suppose that human beings do have justified mathematical beliefs and mathematical knowledge, for example, that 2 + 2 = 4, and do refer to mathematical entities, for example, when we assert “2 is a prime number.” Moreover, it is natural to suppose that the obtaining of these facts is not completely mysterious. The epistemological and referential challenges are challenges to show that the truth of platonism is compatible with the unmysterious obtaining of these facts.

This raises two questions. Why do proponents of the epistemological challenge maintain that an impenetrable metaphysical gap between the mathematical and spatio-temporal realms would make human beings’ ability to form justified mathematical beliefs and obtain mathematical knowledge completely mysterious? (For readability, we shall drop the qualifier “prima facie” in the remainder of this discussion.) And, why do proponents of the referential challenge insist that such an impenetrable metaphysical gap would make human beings’ ability to refer to mathematical entities completely mysterious?

To answer the first question, consider an imaginary scenario. You are in London, England while the State of the Union address is being given. You are particularly interested in what the U.S. President has to say in this address. So, you look for a place where you can watch the address on television. Unfortunately, the State of the Union address is only being televised on a specialized channel that nobody seems to be watching. You ask a Londoner where you might go to watch the address. She responds, “I’m not sure, but if you stay here with me, I’ll let you know word for word what the President says as he says it.”  You look at her confused. You can find no evidence of devices in the vicinity (for example, television sets, mobile phones, or computers) that could explain her ability to do what she claims she will be able to. You respond, “I don’t see any TVs, radios, computers, or the like. How are you going to know what the President is saying?”

That such a response to this Londoner’s claim would be appropriate is obvious. Further, its aptness supports the contention that you can only legitimately claim knowledge of, or justified beliefs concerning, a complex state of affairs if there is some explanation available for the existence of the type of relationship that would need to exist between you and the complex state of affairs in question in order for you to have the said knowledge or justified beliefs. Indeed, it suggests something further: the only kind of acceptable explanation available for knowledge of, or justified beliefs concerning, a complex state of affairs is one that appeals directly or indirectly to a causal connection between the knower or justified believer and the complex state of affairs in question. You questioned the Londoner precisely because you could see no devices that could put her in causal contact with the President, and the only kind of explanation that you could imagine for her having the knowledge (or justified beliefs) that she was claiming she would have would involve her being in this type of contact with the President.

An impenetrable metaphysical gap between the mathematical and spatio-temporal realms of the type that proponents of the epistemological challenge insist exists if platonism is true would exclude the possibility of causal interaction between human beings, who are inhabitants of the spatio-temporal realm, and mathematical entities, which are inhabitants of the mathematical realm. Consequently, such a gap would exclude the possibility of there being an appropriate explanation of human beings having justified mathematical beliefs and mathematical knowledge. So, the truth of platonism, as conceived by proponents of the epistemological challenge, would make all instances of human beings having justified mathematical beliefs or mathematical knowledge completely mysterious.

Next, consider why proponents of the referential challenge maintain that an impenetrable metaphysical gap between the spatio-temporal and mathematical realms would make human beings’ ability to refer to mathematical entities completely mysterious. Once again, this can be seen by considering an imaginary scenario. Imagine that you meet someone for the first time and realize that you went to the same university at around the same time years ago. You begin to reminisce about your university experiences, and she tells you a story about John Smith, an old friend of hers who was a philosophy major, but who now teaches at a small liberal arts college in Ohio, was married about 6 years ago to a woman named Mary, and has three children. You, too, were friends with a John Smith when you were at the University. You recall that he was a philosophy major, intended to go to graduate school, and that a year or so ago a mutual friend told you that he is now married to a woman named Mary and has three children. You incorrectly draw the conclusion that you shared a friend with this woman while at the University. As a matter of fact, there were two John Smiths who were philosophy majors at the appropriate time, and these individuals’ lives have shared similar paths. You were friends with one of these individuals, John Smith1, while she was friends with the other, John Smith2.

Your new acquaintance proceeds to inform you that John and Mary Smith got divorced recently. You form a false belief about your old friend and his wife. What makes her statement and corresponding belief true is that, in it, “John Smith” refers to John Smith2, “Mary Smith” refers to Mary Smith2, John Smith2’s former wife, and John Smith2 and Mary Smith2 stand to a recent time in the triadic relation “x got divorced from y at time t.” Your belief is false, however, because, in it, “John Smith” refers to John Smith1, “Mary Smith” refers to Mary Smith1, John Smith1’s wife, and John Smith1 and Mary Smith1 fail to stand to a recent time in the triadic relation “x got divorced from y at time t.”

Now, consider why John Smith1 and Mary Smith1 are the referents of your use of “John and Mary Smith” while John Smith2 and Mary Smith2 are the referents of your new acquaintance’s use of this phrase. It is because she causally interacted with John Smith2 while at the University, while you causally interacted with John Smith1. In other words, your respective causal interactions are responsible for your respective uses of the phrase “John and Mary Smith” having different referents.

Reflecting on this case, you might conclude that there must be a specific type of causal relationship between a person and an item if that person is to determinately refer to that item. For example, this case might convince you that, in order for you to use the singular term “two” to refer to the number two, there would need to be a causal relationship between you and the number two. Of course, an impenetrable metaphysical gap between the spatio-temporal realm and the mathematical realm would make such a causal relationship impossible. Consequently, such an impenetrable metaphysical gap would make human beings’ ability to refer to mathematical entities completely mysterious.

4. Full-Blooded Platonism

Of the many responses to the epistemological and referential challenges, the three most promising are (i) Frege’s, as developed in the contemporary neo-Fregean literature, (ii) Quine’s, as developed by defenders of the QPIA, and (iii) a response that is commonly referred to as full-blooded or plenitudinous platonism (FBP). This third response has been most fully articulated by Mark Balaguer [1998] and Stewart Shapiro [1997].

The fundamental idea behind FBP is that it is possible for human beings to have systematically and non-accidentally true beliefs about a platonic mathematical realm—a mathematical realm satisfying the Existence, Abstractness, and Independence Theses—without that realm in any way influencing us or us influencing it. This, in turn, is supposed to be made possible by FBP combining two theses: (a) Schematic Reference: the reference relation between mathematical theories and the mathematical realm is purely schematic, or at least close to purely schematic and (b) Plenitude: the mathematical realm is VERY large. It contains entities that are related to one another in all of the possible ways that entities can be related to one another.

What it is for a reference relation to be purely schematic will be explored later. For now, these theses are best understood in light of FBP’s account of mathematical truth, which, intuitively, relies on two further Theses: (1) Mathematical theories embed collections of constraints on what the ontological structure of a given “part” of the mathematical realm must be in order for the said part to be an appropriate truth-maker for the theory in question. (2) The existence of any such appropriate part of the mathematical realm is sufficient to make the said theory true of that part of that realm. For example, it is well-known that arithmetic characterizes an ω-sequence, a countable-infinite collection of objects that has a distinguished initial object and a successor relation that satisfies the induction principle. Thus, illustrating Thesis 1, any part of the mathematical realm that serves as an appropriate truth-maker for arithmetic must be an ω-sequence. Intuitively, one might think that not just any ω-sequence will do, rather one needs a very specific ω-sequence, that is, the natural numbers. Yet, proponents of FBP deny this intuition. According to them, illustrating Thesis 2, any ω-sequence is an appropriate truth-maker for arithmetic; arithmetic is a body of truths that concerns any ω-sequence in the mathematical realm.

Those familiar with the model theoretic notion of “truth in a model” will recognize the similarities between it and FBP’s conception of truth. (Those who are not can consult Model-Theoretic Conceptions Logical Consequence, where “truth in a model” is called “truth in a structure.”) These similarities are not accidental; FBP’s conception of truth is intentionally modeled on this model-theoretic notion. The outstanding feature of model-theoretic consequence is that, in constructing a model for evaluating a semantic sequent (a formal argument), one doesn’t care which specific objects one takes as the domain of discourse of that model, which specific objects or collections of objects one takes as the extension of any predicates that appear in the sequent, or which specific objects one takes as the referents of any singular terms that appear in the sequent. All that matters is that those choices meet the constraints placed on them by the sequent in question. So, for example, if you want to construct a model to show that ‘Fa & Ga’ does not follow from ‘Fa’ and ‘Gb’, you could take the domain of your model to be the set of natural numbers, assign extensions to the two predicates by requiring Ext(F) = {x: x is even} and Ext(G) = {x: x is odd}, and assign denotations Ref(a) = 2, and Ref(b) = 3. Alternatively, you could take the domain of your model to be {Hillary Clinton, Bill Clinton}, Ext(F) = {Hillary Clinton}, Ext(G) = {Bill Clinton}, Ref(a) = Hillary Clinton, and Ref(b) = Bill Clinton. A reference relation is schematic if and only if, when employing it, there is the same type of freedom concerning which items are the referents of quantifiers, predicates, and singular terms as there is when constructing a model. In model theory, the reference relation is purely schematic. This reference relation is employed largely as-is in Shapiro’s structuralist version of FBP, whereas Balaguer’s version of FBP places a few more constraints on this reference relation. Yet neither Shapiro’s nor Balaguer’s constraints undermine the schematic nature of the reference relation they employ in characterizing their respective FBPs.

By endorsing Thesis 2, proponents of FBP endorse the Schematic Reference Thesis. Moreover, Thesis 2 and the Schematic Reference Thesis distinguish the requirements on mathematical reference (and, consequently, truth) from the requirements on reference to (and, consequently, truth concerning) spatio-temporal entities. As illustrated in section 3 above, the logico-inferential components of beliefs and statements about spatio-temporal entities have specific, unique spatio-temporal entities or collections of spatio-temporal entities as their referents. Thus, the reference relationship between spatio-temporal entities and spatio-temporal beliefs and statements is non-schematic.

FBP’s conception of reference appears to provide it with the resources to undermine the legitimacy of the referential challenge. According to proponents of FBP, in offering their challenge, proponents of the referential challenge illegitimately generalized a feature of the reference relationship between spatio-temporal beliefs and statements, and spatio-temporal entities, that is, its non-schematic character.

So, the Schematic Reference Thesis is at the heart of FBP’s response to the referential challenge. By contrast, the Plenitude Thesis is at the heart of FBP’s response to the epistemological challenge. To see this, consider an arbitrary mathematical theory that places an obtainable collection of constraints on any truth-maker for that theory. If the Plenitude Thesis is true, we can be assured that there is a part of the mathematical realm that will serve as an appropriate truth-maker for this theory because the truth of the Plenitude Thesis amounts to the mathematical realm containing some part that is ontologically structured in precisely the way required by the constraints embedded in the particular mathematical theory in question. So, the Plenitude Thesis ensures that there will be some part of the mathematical realm that will serve as an appropriate truth-maker for any mathematical theory that places an obtainable collection of constraints on its truth-maker(s). Balaguer uses the term “consistent” to pick out those mathematical theories that place obtainable constraints on their truth-maker(s). However, what Balaguer means by this is not, or at least should not be, deductively consistent. The appropriate notion is closer to Shapiro’s [1997] notion of coherent, which is a primitive modeled on set-theoretic satisfiability. Yet, however one states the above truth, it has direct consequences for the epistemological challenge. As Balaguer [1998, pp. 48–9] explains:

If FBP is correct, then all consistent purely mathematical theories truly describe some collection of abstract mathematical objects. Thus, to acquire knowledge of mathematical objects, all we need to do is acquire knowledge that some purely mathematical theory is consistent [.…] But knowledge of the consistency of a mathematical theory … does not require any sort of contact with, or access to, the objects that the theory is about. Thus, the [epistemological challenge has] been answered: We can acquire knowledge of abstract mathematical objects without the aid of any sort of contact with such objects.

5. Supplement: Frege’s Argument for Arithmetic-Object Platonism

Frege’s argument for arithmetic-object platonism proceeds in the following way:

i. The primary logico-inferential role of natural number terms (for example, “one” and “seven”) is reflected in numerical identity statements such as “The number of states in the United States of America is fifty.”

ii. The linguistic expressions on each side of identity statements are singular terms.

Therefore, from (i) and (ii),

iii. In their primary logico-inferential role, natural number terms are singular terms.

Therefore, from (iii) and from Frege’s logico-inferential analysis of the category “object,”

iv. the items referred to by natural number terms (that is, the natural numbers) are members of the logico-inferential category object.

v. Many numerical identity statements (for example, the one mentioned in (i) are true.

vi. An identity statement can be true only if the object referred to by the singular terms on either side of that identity statement exists.

Therefore, from (v) and (vi),

vii. the objects to which natural number terms refer (that is, the natural numbers) exist.

viii. Many arithmetic identities are objective.

ix. The existent components of objective thoughts are independent of all rational activities.

Therefore, from (viii) and (ix),

x. the natural numbers are independent of all rational activities.

xi. Thoughts with mental objects as components are not objective.

Therefore, from (viii) and (xi),

xii. the natural numbers are not mental objects.

xiii. The left hand sides of numerical identity statements of the form given in (i) show that natural numbers are associated with concepts in a specific way.

xiv. No physical objects are associated with concepts in the way that natural numbers are.

Therefore, from (xiii) and (xiv),

xv. The natural numbers are not physical objects.

xvi. Objects that are neither mental nor physical are abstract.

Therefore, from (xi), (xv), and (xvi),

xvii. the natural numbers are abstract objects.

Therefore, from (vii), (x), and (xvii),

xviii. arithmetic object platonism is true.

Return to section 2 where this section is references.

6. Supplement: Realism, Anti-Nominalism, and Metaphysical Constructivism

a. Realism

Since the late twentieth century, an increasing number of philosophers of mathematics who endorse the Existence Thesis, or something very similar, have followed the practice of labeling their accounts of mathematics “realist” or “realism” rather than “platonist” or “platonism,” where, roughly, an account of mathematics is a variety of (mathematical) realism if and only if it entails three theses: some mathematical ontology exists, that mathematical ontology has objective features, and that mathematical ontology is, contains, or provides the semantic values of the logico-inferential components of mathematical theories. The influences that motivated individual philosophers to adopt this practice are diverse. In the broadest of terms, however, this practice is the result of the dominance of certain strands of analytic philosophy in the philosophy of mathematics.

In order to see how one important strand contributed to the practice of labeling accounts of mathematics “realist” rather than “platonist,” let us explore Quinean frameworks. These are frameworks that embed the doctrines of naturalism and confirmational holism in a little more detail. Two features of such frameworks warrant particular mention.

First, within Quinean frameworks, mathematical knowledge is on a par with empirical knowledge; both mathematical statements and statements about the spatio-temporal realm are confirmed and infirmed by empirical investigation. As such, within Quinean frameworks, neither type of statement is knowable a priori, at least in the traditional sense. Yet nearly all prominent Western thinkers have considered mathematical truths to be knowable a priori. Indeed, according to standard histories of Western thought, this way of thinking about mathematical knowledge dates back at least as far as Plato. So, to reject it is to reject something fundamental to Plato’s thoughts about mathematics. Consequently, accounts of mathematics offered within Quinean frameworks almost invariably reject something fundamental to Plato’s thoughts about mathematics. In light of this, and the historical connotations of the label “platonism,” it is not difficult to see why one might want to use an alternate label for such accounts that accept the Existence Thesis (or something very similar).

The second feature of Quinean frameworks that warrants particular mention in regard to the practice of using “realism” rather than “platonism” to label accounts of mathematics is that, within such frameworks, mathematical entities are typically treated and thought about in the same way as the theoretical entities of non-mathematical natural science. In some Quinean frameworks, mathematical entities are simply taken to be theoretical entities. This has led some to worry about other traditional theses concerning mathematics. For example, mathematical entities have traditionally been considered necessary existents, and mathematical truths have been considered to be necessary, while the constituents of the spatio-temporal realm—among them, theoretical entities such as electrons—have been considered to be contingent existents, and truths concerning them have been considered to be contingent. Mark Colyvan [2001] uses his discussion of the QPIA—in particular, the abovementioned similarities between mathematical and theoretical entities—to motivate skepticism about the necessity of mathematical truths and the necessary existence of mathematical entities. Michael Resnik [1997] goes one step further and argues that, within his Quinean framework, the distinction between the abstract and the concrete cannot be drawn in a meaningful way. Of course, if this distinction cannot be drawn in a meaningful way, one cannot legitimately espouse the Abstractness Thesis. Once again, it looks as though we have good reasons for not using the label “platonism” for the kinds of accounts of mathematics offered within Quinean frameworks that accept the Existence Thesis (or something very similar).

b. Anti-Nominalism

Most of the Quinean considerations relevant to the practice of labeling metaphysical accounts of mathematics “realist” rather than “platonist” center on problems with the Abstractness Thesis. In particular, those who purposefully characterize themselves as realists rather than platonists frequently want to deny some important feature or features in the cluster associated with abstract. Frequently, such individuals do not question the Independence Thesis. John Burgess’ qualms about metaphysical accounts of mathematics are broader than this. He takes the primary lesson of Quine’s naturalism to be that investigations into “the ultimate nature of reality” are misguided, for we cannot reach the “God’s eye perspective” that they assume. The only perspective that we (as finite beings situated in the spatio-temporal world, using the best methods available to us, that is, the methods of common sense supplemented by scientific investigation) can obtain is a fallible, limited one that has little to offer concerning the ultimate nature of reality.

Burgess takes it to be clear that both pre-theoretic common sense and science are ontologically committed to mathematical entities. He argues that those who deny this, that is, nominalists, do so because they misguidedly believe that we can obtain a God’s eye perspective and have knowledge concerning the ultimate nature of reality. In a series of manuscripts responding to nominalists—see, for example, [Burgess 1983, 2004] and [Burgess and Rosen 1997, 2005]—Burgess has defended anti-nominalism. Anti-nominalism is, simply, the rejection of nominalism. As such, anti-nominalists endorse ontological commitment to mathematical entities, but refuse to engage in speculation about the metaphysical nature of mathematical entities that goes beyond what can be supported by common sense and science. Burgess is explicit that neither common sense nor science provide support for endorsing the Abstractness Thesis when understood as a thesis about the ultimate nature of reality. Further, given that, at least on one construal, the Independence Thesis is just as much a thesis about the ultimate nature of reality as is the Abstractness Thesis, we may assume that Burgess and his fellow anti-nominalists will be unhappy about endorsing it. Anti-nominalism, then, is another account of mathematics that accepts the Existence Thesis (or something very similar), but which cannot be appropriately labeled “platonism.”

c. Metaphysical Constructivism

The final collection of metaphysical accounts of mathematics worth mentioning because of their relationship to, but distinctness from, platonism are those that accept the Existence Thesis—and, in some cases, the Abstractness Thesis—but reject the Independence Thesis. At least three classes of accounts fall into this category. The first accounts are those that take mathematical entities to be constructed mental entities. At some points in his corpus, Alfred Heyting suggests that he takes mathematical entities to have this nature—see, for example, [Heyting 1931]. The second accounts are those that take mathematical entities to be the products of mental or linguistic human activities. Some passages in Paul Ernest’s Social Constructivism ss a Philosophy of Mathematics [1998] suggest that he holds this view of mathematical entities. The third accounts are those that take mathematical entities to be social-institutional entities like the United States Supreme Court or Greenpeace. Rueben Hersh [1997] and Julian Cole [2008, 2009] endorse this type of social-institutional account of mathematics. Although all of these accounts are related to platonism in that they take mathematical entities to exist or they endorse ontological commitment to mathematical entities, none can be appropriately labeled “platonism.”

Return to section 3 where this section is referenced.

7. Supplement: The Epistemological Challenge to Platonism

Contemporary versions of the epistemological challenge ,sometimes under the label “the epistemological argument against platonism,” can typically be traced back to Paul Benacerraf’s paper “Mathematical Truth” [1973]. In fairness to Frege, however, it should be noted that human beings’ epistemic access to the kind of mathematical realm that platonists take to exist was a central concern in his work. Benacerraf’s paper has inspired much discussion. An overview of which appears in [Balaguer 1998, Chapter 2]. Interestingly, very little of this extensive literature has served to develop the challenge itself in any great detail. Probably the most detailed articulation of some version of the challenge itself can be found in two papers collected in [Field 1989]. The presentation of the challenge provided here is inspired by Hartry Field’s formulation, yet is a little more detailed than his formulation.

The epistemological challenge begins with the observation that an important motivation for platonism is the widely held belief that human beings have mathematical knowledge. One might maintain that it is precisely because we take human beings to have mathematical knowledge that we take mathematical theories to be true. In turn, their truth motivates platonists to take their apparent ontological commitments seriously. Consequently, while all metaphysical accounts of mathematics need to address the prima facie phenomenon of human mathematical knowledge, this task is particularly pressing for platonist accounts, for a failure to account for human beings’ ability to have mathematical knowledge would significantly diminish the attractiveness of any such account. Yet it is precisely this that (typical) proponents of the epistemological challenge doubt the platonists’ ability to account for human beings having mathematical knowledge.

a. The Motivating Picture Underwriting the Epistemological Challenge

In order to understand the doubts of proponents of the epistemological challenge, one must first understand the conception or picture of platonism that motivates them. Note that, in virtue of their endorsement of the Existence, Abstractness, and Independence Theses, platonists take the mathematical realm to be quite distinct from the spatio-temporal realm. The doubts underwriting the epistemological challenge derive their impetus from a particular picture of the metaphysical relationship between these distinct realms.  According to this picture, there is an impenetrable metaphysical gap between the mathematical and spatio-temporal realms. This gap is constituted by the lack of causal interaction between these two realms, which, in turn, is a consequence of mathematical entities being abstract—see [Burgess and Rosen 1997, §I.A.2.a] for further details. Moreover, according to this picture, the metaphysical gap between the mathematical and spatio-temporal realms ensures that features of the mathematical realm are independent of features of the spatio-temporal realm. That is, features of the spatio-temporal realm do not in any way influence or determine features of the mathematical realm and vice versa. At the same time, the gap between the mathematical and spatio-temporal realms is more than merely an interactive gap; it is also a gap relating to the types of properties characteristic of the constituents of these two realms. Platonists take mathematical entities to be not only acausal but also non-spatio-temporal, eternal, changeless, and (frequently) necessary existents. Typically, constituents of the spatio-temporal world lack all of these properties.

It is far from clear that the understanding of the metaphysical relationship between the mathematical and spatio-temporal realms outlined in the previous paragraph is shared by self-proclaimed platonists. Yet this conception of that relationship is the one that proponents of the epistemological challenge ascribe to platonists. For the purposes of our discussion of this challenge, let us put to one side all concerns about the legitimacy of this conception of platonism, which, from now on, we shall simply call the motivating picture. The remainder of this section assumes that the motivating picture provides an appropriate conception of platonism and it labels as “platonic” the constituents of realms that are metaphysically isolated from and wholly different from the spatio-temporal realm in the way that the mathematical realm is depicted to be by the motivating picture.

b. The Fundamental Question: The Core of the Epistemological Challenge

Let us make some observations relevant to the doubts that underwrite the epistemological challenge. First, according to the motivating picture, the mathematical realm is that to which pure mathematical beliefs and statements are responsible for their truth or falsity. Such beliefs are about this realm and so are true when, and only when, they are appropriately related to this realm. Second, according to all plausible contemporary accounts of human beings, human beliefs in general, and, hence, human mathematical beliefs in particular, are instantiated in human brains, which are constituents of the spatio-temporal realm. Third, it has been widely acknowledged since ancient times that beliefs or statements that are true purely by accident do not constitute knowledge. Thus, in order for a mathematical belief or statement to be an instance of mathematical knowledge, it must be more than simply true; it must be non-accidentally true.

Let us take a mathematical theory to be a non-trivial, systematic collection of mathematical beliefs. Informally, it is the collection of mathematical beliefs endorsed by that theory. In light of the above observations, in order for a mathematical theory to embed mathematical knowledge, there must be something systematic about the way in which the beliefs in that theory are non-accidentally true.

Thus, according to the motivating picture, in order for a mathematical theory to embed mathematical knowledge, a distinctive, non-accidental and systematic relationship must obtain between two distinct and metaphysically isolated realms. That relationship is that the mathematical realm must make true, in a non-accidental and systematic way, the mathematical beliefs endorsed by the theory in question, which are instantiated in the spatio-temporal realm.

In response to this observation, it is reasonable to ask platonists, “What explanation can be provided of this distinctive, non-accidental and systematic relationship obtaining between the mathematical realm and the spatio-temporal realm?” As Field explains, “there is nothing wrong with supposing that some facts about mathematical entities are just brute facts, but to accept that facts about the relationship between mathematical entities and human beings are brute and inexplicable is another matter entirely” [1989, p. 232]. The above question—which this section will call the fundamental question—is the heart of the epistemological challenge to platonism.

c. The fundamental Question: Some Further Details

Let us make some observations that motivate the fundamental question. First, all human theoretical knowledge requires a distinctive type of non-accidental, systematic relationship to obtain. Second, for at least the vast majority of spatio-temporal theories, the obtaining of this non-accidental, systematic relationship is underwritten by causal interaction between the subject matter of the theory in question and human brains. Third, there is no causal interaction between the constituents of platonic realms and human brains. Fourth, the lack of causal interaction between platonic realms and human brains makes it apparently mysterious that the constituents of such realms could be among the relata of a non-accidental, systematic relationship of the type required for human, theoretical knowledge.

So, the epistemological challenge is motivated by the acausality of mathematical entities. Yet Field’s formulation of the challenge includes considerations that go beyond the acausality of mathematical entities. Our discussion of the motivating picture made it clear that, in virtue of its abstract nature, a platonic mathematical realm is wholly different from the spatio-temporal realm. These differences ensure that not only causal explanations, but also other explanations grounded in features of the spatio-temporal realm, are unavailable to platonists in answering the fundamental question. This fact is non-trivial, for explanations grounded in features of the spatio-temporal realm other than causation do appear in natural science. For examples, see [Batterman 2001]. So, a platonist wanting to answer the fundamental question must highlight a mechanism that is not underwritten by any of the typical features of the spatio-temporal realm.

Now, precisely what type of explanation is being sought by those asking the fundamental question? Proponents of the epistemological challenge insist that the motivating picture makes it mysterious that a certain type of relationship could obtain. Those asking the fundamental question are simply looking for an answer that would dispel their strong sense of mystery with respect to the obtaining of this relationship. A plausible discussion of a mechanism that, like causation, is open to investigation, and thus has the potential for making the obtaining of this relationship less than mysterious, should satisfy them. Further, the discussion in question need not provide all of the details of the said explanation. Indeed, if one considers an analogous question with regard to spatio-temporal knowledge, one sees that the simple recognition of some type of causal interaction between the entities in question and human brains is sufficient to dispel the (hypothetical) sense of mystery in question in this case.

Next ask, “Is the fundamental question legitimate?” That is, should platonists feel the need to answer it? It is reasonable to maintain that they should. Explanations should be available for many types of relationships, including the distinctive, non-accidental and systematic relationship required in order for someone to have knowledge of a complex state of affairs. It is this justified belief that legitimizes the fundamental question. One instance of it is the belief that some type of explanation should be, in principle, available for the obtaining of the specific, non-accidental and systematic relationship required for human mathematical knowledge if this is knowledge of an existent mathematical realm. It is illegitimate to provide a metaphysical account of mathematics that rules out the possibility of such an explanation being available, because it would be contrary to this justified belief. The fundamental question is a challenge to platonists to show that they have not made this illegitimate move.

Return to section 3 where this section is referenced.

8. Supplement: The Referential Challenge to Platonism

In the last century or so, the philosophy of mathematics has been dominated by analytic philosophy. One of the primary insights guiding analytic philosophy is that language serves as a guide to the ontological structure of reality. One consequence of this insight is that analytic philosophers have a tendency to assimilate ontology to those items that are the semantic values of true beliefs or statements, that is, the items in virtue of which true beliefs or statements are true. This assimilation played an important role in both of the arguments for platonism developed in section 2. The relevant language-world relations are embedded in Frege’s logico-inferential analysis of the categories of object and concept and in Quine’s criterion of ontological commitment. This assimilation is at the heart of the referential challenge (to platonism).

a. Introducing the Referential Challenge

Before developing the referential challenge, let us think carefully about the following claim: “Pure mathematical beliefs and statements are about the mathematical realm, and so are true when, and only when, they are appropriately related to this realm.” What precisely is it for a belief or statement to be about something? And, what is the appropriate relationship that must obtain in order for whatever a belief or statement is about to make that belief or statement true? It is natural to suppose that the logico-inferential components of beliefs and statements have semantic values. Beliefs and statements are “about” these semantic values. Beliefs and statements are true when, and only when, these semantic values are related in the way that those beliefs and statements maintain that they are. The formal mathematical theory that theorizes about this appropriate relation is model theory. Moreover, on the basis of the above, it is reasonable to suppose that the semantic values of the logico-inferential components of beliefs and statements are, roughly, set or determined by means of causal interaction between human beings and those semantic values.

Applying these observations to the claim “pure mathematical beliefs and statements are about the mathematical realm, and so are true when, and only when, they are appropriately related to this realm,” we find that it maintains that constituents of a mathematical realm are the semantic values of the logico-inferential components of pure mathematical beliefs and statements. Further, such beliefs and statements are true when, and only when, the appropriate semantic values are related to one another in the way that the said beliefs and statements maintain that they are related—more formally, the way demanded by the model-theoretic notion of truth in a model.

So far, our observations have been easily applicable to the mathematical case. Yet they highlight a problem. How are the appropriate semantic values of the logico-inferential components of pure mathematical beliefs and statements set or determined? If platonists are correct about the metaphysics of the mathematical realm, then no constituent of that realm causally interacts with any human being. Yet it is precisely causal interaction between human beings and the semantic values of beliefs and statements about the spatio-temporal world that is responsible for setting or determining the semantic values of such beliefs and statements. The referential challenge is a challenge to platonists to explain how constituents of a platonic mathematical realm could be set or fixed as the semantic values of human beliefs and statements.

b. Reference and Permutations

Two specific types of observations have been particularly important in conveying the force of the referential challenge. The first is the recognition that a variety of mathematical domains contain non-trivial automorphisms, which means that there is a non-trivial, structure-preserving, one-to-one and onto mapping from the domain to itself. A consequence of such automorphisms is that it is possible to systematically reassign the semantic values of the logico-inferential components of a theory that has such a domain as its subject matter in a way that preserves the truth values of the beliefs or statements of that theory. For example, consider the theory of the group {Z,+}, that is, the group whose elements are the integers  …, -2, -1, 0, 1, 2, … and whose operation is addition. If one takes an integer n to have –n as its semantic value rather than n (that is, ‘2’ refers to -2, ‘-3’ refers to 3, and so forth), then the truth values of the statements or beliefs that constitute this theory would be unaltered.  For example, “2 + 3 = 5” would be true in virtue of -2 + -3 being equal to -5. A similar situation arises for complex analysis if one takes each term of the form ‘a+bi’ to have the complex number a-bi as its semantic value rather than the complex number a+bi.

To see how this sharpens the referential challenge, suppose, perhaps per impossible, that you and your acquaintance each know a person named “John Smith.” John Smith1 and John Smith2 are actually indistinguishable on the basis of the properties and relations that you discuss with your new acquaintance. That is, all of the consequences of all of the true statements that your new acquaintance makes about John Smith2 are also true of John Smith1, and all of the consequences of all of the true statements that you make about John Smith1 are also true of John Smith2. Under this supposition, her statements are still true in virtue of her using “John Smith” to refer to John Smith2, and your statements are still true in virtue of you using “John Smith” to refer to John Smith1. Using this as a guide, you might claim that ‘2 + 3 = 5’ should be true in virtue of ‘2’ referring to 2, ‘3’ referring to 3, and ‘5’ referring to 5 rather than in virtue of ‘2’ referring to the number -2, ‘3’ referring to the number -3, and ‘5’ referring to the number -5 as would be allowed by the automorphism mentioned above. One way to put this intuition is that 2, 3, and 5, are the intended semantic values of ‘2’, ‘3’, and ‘5’ and, intuitively, beliefs and statements should be true in virtue of the intended semantic values of their components being appropriately related to one another, not in virtue of other items (for example, -2, -3, and, -5) being so related. Yet, in the absence of any causal interaction between the integers and human beings, what explanation can be provided of ‘2’, ‘3’, and ‘5’ having their intended semantic values rather than some other collection of semantic values that preserves the truth values of arithmetic statements?

c. Reference and the Löwenheim-Skolem Theorem

The sharpening of the referential challenge discussed in the previous section is an informal, mathematical version of Hilary Putnam’s permutation argument. See, for example, [Putnam 1981]. A related model-theoretic sharpening of the referential challenge, also due to Putnam [1983], exploits an important result from mathematical logic: the Löwenheim-Skolem theorem. According to the Löwenheim-Skolem theorem, any first-order theory that has a model has a model whose domain is countable, where a model can be understood, roughly, as a specification of semantic values for the components of the theory. To understand the importance of this result, consider first-order complex analysis and its prima facie intended subject matter, that is, the domain of complex numbers. Prima facie, the intended semantic value of a complex number term of the form ‘a+bi’ is the complex number a+bi. Now, the domain of complex numbers is uncountable. So, according to the Löwenheim-Skolem theorem, it is possible to assign semantic values to terms of the form ‘a+bi’ in a way that preserves the truth values of the beliefs or statements of complex analysis, and which is such that the assigned semantic values are drawn from a countable domain whose ontological structure is quite unlike that of the domain of complex numbers. Indeed, not only the truth of first-order complex analysis, but the truth of all first-order mathematics can be sustained by assigning semantic values drawn from a countable domain to the logico-inferential components of first-order mathematical theories. Since most of mathematics is formulated (or formulable) in a first-order way, we are left with the question, “How, in the absence of causal interaction between human beings and the mathematical realm, can a platonist explain a mathematical term having its intended semantic value rather than an alternate value afforded by the Löwenheim-Skolem theorem?”

Strictly speaking, a platonist could bite a bullet here and simply maintain that there is only one platonic mathematical domain, a countable one, and that this domain is the actual, if not intended, subject matter of most mathematics. Yet this is not a bullet that most platonists want to bite, for they typically want the Existence Thesis to cover not only a countable mathematical domain, but all of the mathematical domains typically theorized about by mathematicians and, frequently, numerous other domains about which human mathematicians have not, as yet, developed theories. As soon as the scope of the Existence Thesis is so extended, the sharpening of the referential challenge underwritten by the Löwenheim-Skolem theorem has force.

Return to section 3 where this section is referenced.

9. References and Further Reading

a. Suggestions for Further Reading

  • Balaguer, Mark 1998. Platonism and Anti-Platonism in Mathematics, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • The first part of this book provides a relatively gentle introduction to full-blooded platonism. It also includes a nice discussion of the literature surrounding the epistemological challenge.
  • Balaguer, Mark 2008. Mathematical Platonism, in Proof and Other Dilemmas: Mathematics and Philosophy, ed. Bonnie Gold and Roger Simons, Washington, DC: Mathematics Association of America: 179–204.
    • This article provides a non-technical introduction to mathematical platonism. It is an excellent source of references relating to the topics addressed in this article.
  • Benacerraf, Paul 1973. Mathematical Truth, Journal of Philosophy 70: 661–79.
    • This paper contains a discussion of the dilemma that motivated contemporary interest in the epistemological challenge to platonism. It is relatively easy to read.
  • Burgess, John and Gideon Rosen 1997. A Subject With No Object: Strategies for Nominalistic Interpretation of Mathematics, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • The majority of this book is devoted to a technical discussion of a variety of strategies for nominalizing mathematics. Yet §1A and §3C contain valuable insights relating to platonism. These sections also provide an interesting discussion of anti-nominalism.
  • Colyvan, Mark 2001. The Indispensability of Mathematics, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • This book offers an excellent, systematic exploration of the Quine-Putnam Indispensability Argument and some of the most important challenges that have been leveled against it. It also discusses a variety of motivations for being a non-platonist realist rather than a platonist.
  • Field, Hartry 1980. Science Without Numbers, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
    • This book contains Field’s classic challenge to the Quine-Putnam Indispensability Argument. Much of it is rather technical.
  • Frege, Gottlob 1884. Die Grundlagen der Arithmetik: eine logisch-mathematische Untersuchung über den Begriff der Zahl, translated by John Langshaw Austin as The Foundations of Mathematics: A logico-mathematical enquiry into the concept of number, revised 2nd edition 1974, New York, NY: Basil Blackwell.
    • This manuscript is Frege’s original, non-technical, development of his platonist logicism.
  • Hale, Bob and Crispin Wright 2001. The Reason’s Proper Study: Essays towards a Neo-Fregean Philosophy of Mathematics, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • This book collects together many of the most important articles from Hale’s and Wright’s defense of neo-Fregean platonism. Its articles vary in difficulty.
  • MacBride, Fraser 2003. Speaking with Shadows: A Study of Neo-Logicism, British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 54: 103–163.
    • This article provides an excellent summary of Hale’s and Wright’s neo-Fregean logicism. It is relatively easy to read.
  • Putnam, Hilary 1971. Philosophy of Logic, New York, NY: Harper Torch Books.
    • This manuscript contains Putnam’s systematic development of the Quine-Putnam Indispensability Argument.
  • Resnik, Michael 1997. Mathematics as a Science of Patterns, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • This book contains Resnik’s development and defense of a non-platonist, realist structuralism. It contains an interesting discussion of some of the problems with drawing the abstract/concrete distinction.
  • Shapiro, Stewart 1997. Philosophy of Mathematics: Structure and Ontology, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • This book contains Shapiro’s development and defense of a platonist structuralism. It also offers answers to the epistemological and referential challenges.
  • Shapiro, Stewart 2005. The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Mathematics and Logic, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
    • This handbook contains excellent articles addressing a variety of topics in the philosophy of mathematics. Many of these articles touch on themes relevant to platonism.

b. Other References

  • Batterman, Robert 2001. The Devil in the Details: Asymptotic Reasoning in Explanation, Reduction, and Emergence, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
  • Burgess, John 1983. Why I Am Not a Nominalist, Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic 24: 41–53
  • Burgess, John 2004. Mathematics and Bleak House, Philosophia Mathematica 12: 18–36.
  • Burgess, John and Gideon Rosen 2005. Nominalism Reconsidered, in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Mathematics and Logic, ed. Stewart Shapiro, New York, NY: Oxford University Press: 515–35.
  • Cole, Julian 2008. Mathematical Domains: Social Constructs? in Proof and Other Dilemmas: Mathematics and Philosophy, ed. Bonnie Gold and Roger Simons, Washington, DC: Mathematics Association of America: 109–28.
  • Cole, Julian 2009. Creativity, Freedom, and Authority: A New Perspective on the Metaphysics of Mathematics, Australasian Journal of Philosophy 87: 589–608.
  • Dummett, Michael 1981. Frege: Philosophy of Language, 2nd edition, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Ernest, Paul 1998. Social Constructivism as a Philosophy of Mathematics, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
  • Field, Hartry 1989. Realism, Mathematics, and Modality, New York, NY: Basil Blackwell.
  • Frege, Gottlob 1879. Begriffsschift, eine der arithmetschen nachgebildete Formelsprache des reinen Denkens, Halle a. Saale: Verlag von Louis Nebert.
  • Frege, Gottlob 1893. Grundgesetze der Arithmetik, Band 1, Jena, Germany: Verlag von Hermann Pohle.
  • Frege, Gottlob 1903. Grundgesetze der Arithmetik, Band 2, Jena, Germany: Verlag von Hermann Pohle.
  • Hale, Bob 1987. Abstract Objects, New York, NY: Basil Blackwell.
  • Hersh, Rueben 1997. What Is Mathematics, Really? New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
  • Heyting, Alfred 1931. Die intuitionistische Grundlegung der Mathematik, Erkenntnis 2: 106–115, translated in Paul Benacerraf and Hilary Putnam, Philosophy of Mathematics: Selected Readings, 2nd edition, 1983: 52–61.
  • Lewis, David 1986. On the Plurality of Worlds, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
  • MacBride, Fraser 2005. The Julio Czsar Problem, Dialectica 59: 223–36.
  • MacBride, Fraser 2006. More problematic than ever: The Julius Caesar objection, in Identity and Modality: New Essays in Metaphysics, ed. Fraser MacBride, New York, NY: Oxford University Press: 174–203.
  • Putnam, Hilary 1981. Reason, Truth, and History, New York, NY: Cambridge University Press.
  • Putnam, Hilary 1983. Realism and Reason, New York, NY: Cambridge University Press.
  • Quine, Willard Van Orman 1948. On what there is, Review of Metaphysics 2: 21–38.
  • Quine, Willard Van Orman 1951. Two dogmas of empiricism, Philosophical Review 60: 20–43, reprinted in From a Logical Point of View, 2nd edition 1980, New York, NY: Cambridge University Press: 20–46.
  • Quine, Willard Van Orman 1963. Set Theory and Its Logic, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Quine, Willard Van Orman 1981. Theories and Things, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Resnik, Michael 1981. Mathematics as a science of patterns: Ontology and reference, Noûs 15: 529–50.
  • Resnik, Michael 2005. Quine and the Web of Belief, in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Mathematics and Logic, ed. Stewart Shapiro, New York, NY: Oxford University Press: 412–36.
  • Shapiro, Stewart 1991. Foundations Without Foundationalism: A Case for Second Order Logic, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
  • Shapiro, Stewart 1993. Modality and ontology, Mind 102: 455–481.
  • Tennant, Neil 1987. Anti-Realism and Logic, New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
  • Tennant, Neil 1997. On the Necessary Existence of Numbers, Noûs 31: 307–36.
  • Wright, Crispin 1983. Frege’s Conception of Numbers as Objects, volume 2 of Scots Philosophical Monograph, Aberdeen, Scotland: Aberdeen University Press.

Author Information

Julian C. Cole
Email: colejc@buffalostate.edu
Buffalo State College
U. S. A.

The Applicability of Mathematics

The applicability of mathematics can lie anywhere on a spectrum from the completely trivial to the utterly mysterious. At the one extreme, mathematics is used outside of mathematics in cases which range from everyday calculations like the attempt to balance one’s checkbook through the most demanding abstract modeling of subatomic particles. The techniques underlying these applications are perfectly clear to those who have mastered them, and there seems to be little for the philosopher to say about such cases. At the other extreme, scientists and philosophers have often mentioned the remarkable power that mathematics provides to the scientist, especially in the formulation of new scientific theories. Most famously, Wigner claimed that “The miracle of the appropriateness of the language of mathematics for the formulation of the laws of physics is a wonderful gift which we neither understand nor deserve.” And according to Kant, “In any special doctrine of nature there can be only as much proper science as there is mathematics therein.” Many  agree that the problem of understanding the significant tie between mathematics and modern science is an interesting and significant challenge for the philosopher of mathematics.

As philosophers, our first goal should be to clarify the different problems associated with the applicability of mathematics. This article suggests some potential solutions to these problems. Section 1 considers one version of the problem of applicability tied to what is often called “Frege’s Constraint,” which is the view that an adequate account of a mathematical domain must explain the applicability of this domain outside of mathematics. Section 2 considers the role of mathematics in the formulation and discovery of new theories. This leaves out several different potential contributions that mathematics might make to science such as unification, explanation and confirmation. These are discussed in section 3, where it is suggested that a piecemeal approach to understanding the applicability of mathematics is the most promising strategy for philosophers to pursue.

Table of Contents

  1. Reasoning
  2. Formulation and Discovery
  3. Unification, Explanation and Confirmation
  4. References and Further Reading

1. Reasoning

Gottlob Frege (1848-1925) remains one of the most influential philosophers of mathematics and is thought by many to be the first philosopher in the analytic tradition. Frege’s main goal was to argue for a logicist account of arithmetic. This is the view that all arithmetical concepts can be defined in wholly logical terms and that all arithmetical truths can be proved using only logical resources. While this characterization of logicism makes no link to the applicability of arithmetic, Frege maintained that the correct account of the natural numbers must make their role in counting transparent. It is hard to find an argument for this requirement in Frege’s writings, though, or to understand what meeting it really requires. After surveying some possible interpretations of Frege’s demand, this section considers structuralist interpretations of mathematics which reject Frege’s approach.

One of Frege’s opponents is the formalist who insists that mathematics is a game that we play with symbols according to arbitrarily stipulated rules. To the formalist, mathematics is not about anything, and strings of mathematical symbols are never sentences which express meaningful claims. Against the formalist, Frege noted that “it is application alone that elevates arithmetic beyond a game to the rank of a science. So applicability necessarily belongs to it.” A remark from earlier in this passage makes clear what sense of “applicability” Frege has in mind: “Why can one get applications of arithmetical equations? Only because they express thoughts”  (Wilholt 2006, p. 72). That is, some strings of mathematical symbols are sentences which express meaningful claims, and for this reason, these sentences can be premises in arguments whose conclusions pertain to non-mathematical domains. The formalist has no way to account for the role of mathematical sentences in arguments. It is only by treating mathematical sentences like other sentences of our language that we are able to account for the role of mathematics in scientific arguments, says Frege.

In this sense of “applicability,” it is fairly uncontroversial that mathematics is applicable; and we can grant that any viable philosophy of mathematics must supply a subject-matter for mathematical claims. But notice that Frege’s argument against formalism does not rule out a two-stage view of applicability. This view proposes that mathematical claims are about an exclusively mathematical domain and that these claims play a role in scientific arguments only because there are premises which link the mathematical domain to whatever non-mathematical domain the conclusion of the argument is about. By contrast, Frege’s one-stage approach insists that the subject-matter of mathematics relates directly to whatever the mathematics is applied to. Given this distinction, we need to examine how Frege could argue for his one-stage approach. Simply appealing to the role of mathematical claims in scientific arguments is not sufficient to rule out a two-stage approach.

Another view which Frege targets is John Stuart Mill’s empiricism about arithmetic. This is the view that the subject-matter of arithmetic is physical regularities such as the results of combining physical objects together to form larger aggregates. Frege insists that empiricism is not able to account for the wide scope of the applicability of mathematics:

The basis of arithmetic lies deeper, it seems, than that of any of the empirical sciences, and even than that of geometry. The truths of arithmetic govern all that is numerable. This is the widest domain of all; for to it belongs not only the actual, not only the intuitable, but everything thinkable. Should not the laws of number, then, be connected very intimately with the laws of thought? (Frege 1884, §14)

For example, we can count the figures or forms of the valid Aristotelian syllogisms. Assuming these figures are not physical objects, the empiricist is without an explanation of the applicability of using numbers to count these objects. Frege’s own proposal related the applicability of numbers in counting to the applicability of a concept: “The content of a statement of number is an assertion about a concept” (Frege 1884, §46). As concepts have all sorts of objects falling under them, including non-physical objects such as the figures of the syllogism, the wide scope of the applicability of arithmetic is accounted for.

Frege’s link between numbers, counting and concepts does not by itself yield a satisfactory characterization of what the numbers are. Later in Foundations, Frege presents Hume’s Principle as a potential definition of what the numbers are. This principle is that the number of Fs is identical to the number of Gs if and only if the objects falling under the concept F can be put in one-one correspondence with the objects falling under the concept G. Notice that Hume’s Principle would provide a direct explanation of the wide scope of the applicability of arithmetic in counting for it makes the identity of the numbers turn on issues related to what concepts these numbers are applied to. With Hume’s Principle, an agent could then identify each number using such a concept and go on to reason about them effectively.

Frege eventually rejected Hume’s Principle as an unsatisfactory definition, although his own preferred explicit definition recovers it as a theorem. Contemporary neo-Fregeans continue to insist against Frege that Hume’s Principle is a successful definition of the natural numbers after all. Even some philosophers who completely reject Frege’s approach to arithmetic nevertheless grant the need to account for the wide scope of applicability of arithmetic. For example, Michael Dummett has endorsed these aspects of Frege’s project: “Frege’s objective was to destroy the illusion that any miracle occurs [in applications]. The possibility of the applications was built into the theory from the outset; its foundations must be so constructed as to display the most general form of those applications, and then particular applications will not appear a miracle” (Dummett 1991, p. 293). It should be clear, though, that the wide scope of applicability of a mathematical domain is not by itself sufficient to rule out a two-stage account of applications. To see why, suppose that we have identified the subject-matter of arithmetic as a domain of objects that bears no direct connection to whatever it is that is counted, be it objects that fall under concepts or something else. It still remains possible that the second stage of the account will identify non-mathematical elements whose scope is wide enough to make sense of the scope of applicability of the numbers in counting.

There is a final route to justifying Frege’s one-stage approach which turns on questions of meaning and language learning. As Dummett puts it, “The historical genesis of the theory will furnish an indispensable clue to formulating that general principle governing all possible applications.… Only by following this methodological precept can applications of the theory be prevented from assuming the guise of the miraculous; only so can philosophers of mathematics, and indeed students of the subject, apprehend the real content of the theory” (Dummett 1991, pp. 300-301). That is, when we learn about the natural numbers, we thereby learn to count. If this is right, and the learning is tied directly to the “real content,” then a two-stage account is called into question. This idea has been carefully elaborated by Crispin Wright, a prominent neo-Fregean. He speaks of Frege’s Constraint: “A satisfactory foundation for a mathematical theory must somehow build its applications, actual and potential, into its core – into the content it ascribes to the statements of the theory – rather than merely ‘patch them on from the outside’ ” (Wright 2000, p. 324). One motivation for following Frege’s Constraint turns on learning: “Someone can – and our children typically do – first learn the concepts of elementary arithmetic by a grounding in their simple empirical applications and then, on the basis of the understanding thereby acquired, advance to an a priori recognition of simple arithmetical truths” (Wright 2000, p. 327). The recognition is a priori because it is not mediated by any additional knowledge which might be justified empirically. Wright concedes that this link between learning and applicability does not extend to all mathematical domains and so concludes that Frege’s Constraint need only be met in some cases (Wright 2000, p. 329).

As with the point about scope, though, the advocate of the two-stage position may insist that learning the concept of natural number need not involve any tie to counting. This could be consistent with the sort of a priori knowledge that Wright has in mind if the second stage of the two-stage account makes applications turn on a priori considerations. This is in fact the route pursued by some strands of the philosophy of mathematics known as structuralism. In his influential paper “What Numbers Could Not Be,” Paul Benacerraf describes two students, Ernie and Johnny, who learn about the natural numbers in different ways (Benacerraf 1965). Ernie comes to identify the natural numbers 1, 2, 3, … with the sets {Ø}, {Ø, {Ø}}, {Ø, {Ø}, {Ø, {Ø}}}, … while Johnny treats the same numbers as {Ø}, {{Ø}}, {{{Ø}}}, .… Both series involve the set that has no members,  the empty set Ø. To identify a set with finitely many members we can list the names of the members between the symbols “{“ and “}”. So, Ernie and Johnny agree that 1 is identical with the set whose only member is the empty set. But they disagree on the nature of 2. For Johnny, the only member of 2 is the set {Ø}, but for Ernie 2 has two members, namely Ø and {Ø}. Benacerraf’s main point in his article is that this disagreement does not block either student from doing mathematics. As there is no mathematical reason to prefer one policy of identification, Benacerraf concludes that the natural numbers are not identical to either series of sets. Instead, “in giving the properties (that is, necessary and sufficient) of numbers you merely characterize an abstract structure – and the distinction lies in the fact that the ‘elements’ of the structure have no properties other than those relating them to other ‘elements’ of the same structure” (Benacerraf 1965, p. 291). On this approach, the natural number 2 is nothing but an element in a larger structure and all of its genuine properties accrue to it simply in virtue of its relations to other elements in the structure.

There are several ways to work out this structuralist program, but for our purposes the most important aspect of structuralism is that it naturally leads to a rejection of Frege’s Constraint and an adoption of a two-stage account of applications. In the first stage, the mathematical domain is identified with a particular abstract structure. Then, in the second stage, applications such as counting are explained in terms of structurally specified mappings between the objects in some non-mathematical domain and the elements of the mathematical structure. For example, counting objects can be thought of as establishing a one-one correspondence between the objects to be counted and an initial segment of the structure of natural numbers. Other applications for other domains may involve different kinds of mappings. But as long as the scope of the applicability of these mappings is wide enough and we have the right kind of epistemic access to them, the arguments for the one-stage account can be countered.

This line of attack against a one-stage account of applications has been traced back to the mathematician Richard Dedekind (1831-1916). See (Tait 1997). Dedekind identified the natural numbers with a particular structure and accounted for their application in counting by invoking equipollent sets, that is, sets whose members can be paired up by a one-one correspondence. For Dedekind “To say that there are 45 million Germans is to say that there is a set of Germans which is equipollent to {1, … , 45000000} – and, again, this is quite independent of how the numbers are defined” (Tait 1997, p. 230). The properties of the natural numbers over and above their place in this abstract structure are irrelevant to the existence of this sort of mapping. Tait points out that additional requirements, such as Dummett’s, turn on special considerations which are hard to motivate: “The idea that numbers can be identified or, perhaps, further identified in terms of some particular application of them is … neither a very clear idea nor a desirable one” (Tait 1997, p. 232).

Similar conclusions have recently been reached by Charles Parsons in his Mathematical Thought and Its Objects (2008). Also noting Dedekind, Parsons insists that “a structuralist understanding of what the numbers are does not stand in the way of a reasonable account of their cardinal use” (Parsons 2008, p. 74), that is, their use in counting. This is made more precise by the introduction of a distinction between the internal and external relations of the natural numbers, as opposed to a series of other objects such as sets which might have the structure of the natural numbers. The internal relations of the numbers are exhausted by what follows from a system being simply infinite. This is defined as follows: “A simply infinite system is a system (i.e., set) N such that there is a distinguished element 0 of N, and a mapping S: N → N – {0}, which is one-one and onto, such that induction holds, that is: … (∀M){[0 ε M & (∀x) (x ε M → Sx ε M)] → N ⊂ M}” (Parsons, p. 45). Parsons then shows how any two simply infinite systems will agree on the results of counting based on the existence of a one-one correspondence (Parsons 2008, p. 75). This grounds the view that the results of counting turn on external relations of the numbers. For a structuralist approach to be vindicated, a similar result would have to hold for other kinds of mathematical domains as well. Another interesting structuralist strategy is pursued by Linnebo in his paper “The Individuation of the Natural Numbers” (Linnebo 2009). Linnebo focuses on systems of numerals and uses principles about numerals to recover claims about the natural numbers. Again, this results in a two-stage picture of applications where the natural numbers are specified independently of their role in counting.

2. Formulation and Discovery

Eugene Wigner (1902-1995) was a ground-breaking physicist who also engaged in some important philosophical reflections on the role of mathematics in physics. In his paper “The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences,” in (Wigner 1960), he emphasizes “unreasonable effectiveness,” but it is not always clear what aspects of applicability he is concerned with. In a crucial stage of his discussion he distinguishes the role of mathematics in reasoning of the sort discussed above from the use of mathematics to formulate successful scientific theories: “The laws of nature must already be formulated in the language of mathematics to be an object for the use of applied mathematics” (Wigner 1960, p. 6). This procedure is surprisingly successful for Wigner because the resulting laws are incredibly accurate and the development of mathematics is largely independent of the demands of science. As he describes it, “Most advanced mathematical concepts … were so devised that they are apt subjects on which the mathematician can demonstrate his ingenuity and sense of formal beauty” (Wigner 1960, p. 3). When these abstract mathematical concepts are used in the formulation of a scientific law, then, there is the hope that there is some kind of match between the mathematician’s aesthetic sense and the workings of the physical world. One example where this hope was vindicated is in the discovery of what Wigner calls “elementary quantum mechanics” (Wigner 1960, p. 9). Some of the laws of this theory were formulated after some physicists “proposed to replace by matrices the position and momentum variables of the equations of classical mechanics” (Wigner 1960, p. 9). This innovation proved very successful, even for physical applications beyond those that inspired the original mathematical reformulation. Wigner mentions “the calculation of the lowest energy level of helium … [which] agree with the experimental data within the accuracy of the observations, which is one part in ten millions” and concludes that “Surely in this case we ‘got something out’ of the equations that we did not put in” (Wigner 1960, p. 9).

Although extremely suggestive, Wigner’s discussion may be focused on two possible targets. First, he may be asking for an explanation of why certain physical claims are true. It is surprising that these claims are true partly because they involve highly abstract mathematical concepts. If scientists in the nineteenth century were considering the future development of physics, they probably would not have anticipated that quantum mechanics would have arisen as it did. Still, one can respond to this version of Wigner’s worries by noting that we cannot explain everything. Some physical claims can be explained, but we need to use other physical claims to do this. There is no mystery in this, and it is hard to see what special mystery there is that relates to the mathematical character of truths that we have no explanation of. A second, more plausible, candidate for Wigner’s concerns is the role of mathematics in the discovery of successful scientific theories. This is how Mark Steiner has clarified and extended Wigner’s original discussion in Steiner’s book The Applicability of Mathematics as a Philosophical Problem (1998). Steiner’s book is valuable partly for the division of problems of applicability into several categories. In the first two chapters of his book, Steiner distinguishes semantic, metaphysical and descriptive problems and argues that they have been largely resolved by Frege (Steiner 1998, p. 47). (See Steiner 2005 for a survey article on applicability that is complementary to the present article.)

Steiner also insists that there is a further problem associated with the role of mathematics in discovery. According to Steiner, physicists in the twentieth century have deployed a certain strategy for discovering new theories. This strategy depends on mathematical analogies between past theories and new proposals. The strategy is called “Pythagorean” if it depends on mathematical features of the mathematical objects in question, while it is labeled “formalist” if things turn on the syntax of mathematical language. The success of both strategies has negative implications for what Steiner calls “naturalism,” the view that the natural world is not in any way attuned to the workings of our mind. Then, “The weak conclusion is that scientists have recently abandoned naturalist thinking in their desperate attempt to discover what looked like the undiscoverable,” while “the apparent success of Pythagorean and formalist methods is sufficiently impressive to create a significant challenge to naturalism itself” (Steiner 1998, p. 75).

As with Wigner, a significant assumption that Steiner makes is that mathematics is developed using the aesthetic judgments of mathematicians. Steiner adds the claim that these judgments are “species-specific,” and so they do not track any objective features of the natural world if naturalism is true (Steiner 1998, p. 66). An advocate of some version of Frege’s one-stage account of applications would insist that their explanation of what the mathematical objects are will make direct reference to their role in science. This is why Dummett insists that meeting Frege’s Constraint will remove the appearance of a miracle from successful applications (see section 1). A structuralist who defends a two-stage account of applications also has a line of response to an aesthetic conception of mathematics. As the subject-matter of mathematics is made up of abstract structures, one can make sense of how the highly complicated structures found in nature might be studied via the more accessible abstract structures discussed by mathematicians. This is roughly the route taken by Steven French (French 2000). Either strategy must also supplement the aesthetic criteria noted by Wigner and Steiner with some more objective account of the development of mathematics. Beyond this, critics of Steiner have argued that his examples do not support the strong premises he needs for either his weak or strong conclusion. For instance, it is hard to tell what beliefs motivated physicists to substitute matrices for variables in Wigner’s example. See (Steiner 1998, pp. 95-98) for some discussion of this case. Simons suggests that physicists may have simply been desperate to try anything. As a result, the success of their attempts does not underwrite Steiner’s conclusions (Simons 2001). More generally, there are delicate historical issues in reconstructing a given scientific discovery or a pattern of discoveries of the sort Steiner describes. Some may argue that it is premature to draw philosophical conclusions from such discoveries precisely because we understand so little about how they were made. (Bangu 2006) provides additional discussion of Steiner’s argument.

There have been several other attempts to come to grips with Wigner’s worries about the contribution of mathematics to the formulation and discovery of successful scientific theories. Some agree with Wigner that mathematics has been effective in science, but question the degree to which this effectiveness has been unreasonable. For example, Ivor Grattan-Guinness presents a classification of seven ways in which a new scientific theory might relate to an old one, including connections of reduction, importation and what he calls “convolution” (Grattan-Guinness 2008, p. 9). Using this classification scheme, he argues that the analogies responsible for many scientific breakthroughs can be made sense of: “With a wide and ever-widening repertoire of mathematical theories and an impressive tableau of ubiquitous topics and notions, theory-building can be seen as reasonable to a large extent” (Grattan-Guinness 2008, p. 15). Another approach is found in Mark Wilson’s work. Though his paper “The Unreasonable Uncooperativeness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences” does not directly engage with Wigner’s arguments, Wilson considers the possibility that successful applications of mathematics in science are rare because they largely turn on a fortunate match between the mathematics available at a given stage of development and the features of the physical systems being studied. He takes seriously the proposal of the “mathematical opportunist” who believes that “the successes of applied mathematics require some alien element that cannot be regarded as invariably present in the physical world” (Wilson 2000, p. 299). Although Wilson eventually sides with the “honest optimist” such as Euler who developed mathematical techniques that dramatically extended the scope of applicability of available mathematics, he concedes that residual modeling challenges might give further support to the opportunist picture.  (Wilson 2006) deals with these issues at greater length. For additional discussion of problems related to formulation and discovery see (Azzouni 2000), (Colyvan 2001a) and (Urquhart 2008).

3. Unification, Explanation and Confirmation

So far we have reviewed philosophical issues connected with the contributions that mathematics makes to reasoning and discovery in science. But there are many other potential ways in which mathematics might help out scientists that philosophers have only recently begun to explore. Many of these possibilities pertain to what we might call the “abstractness” of mathematical concepts. This abstractness seems to permit mathematics to unify physical phenomena. Furthermore, it may be connected to the viability of mathematical explanations of such phenomena or even the degree of confirmation that our best physical theories have achieved.

In a preliminary sense, mathematics is abstract because it is studied using highly general and formal resources. Although we may introduce a student to a group by describing a string of symbols and its permutations, the student must eventually realize that the group itself is something more general that includes this set of permutations as an instance. The abstractness of mathematics has been used as one of the arguments for structuralism of the sort reviewed in section 1. But the defenders of a one-stage view of applications also emphasize the abstractness of mathematics when they ensure that their accounts of a mathematical domain deliver a wide scope of application.

When abstractness is thought of in this way it is obvious that mathematical descriptions of physical phenomena should contribute to unification in the sciences. Morrison, for example, has described many ways in which new mathematical approaches to a range of scientific theories have helped scientists combine these theories into a single theoretical framework (Morrison 2000). Famously, Newton was able to bring together descriptions of the orbits of the planets with the behavior of falling bodies on Earth using his three laws of motion and the universal law of gravitation. Later this theory of classical mechanics was presented in an even more abstract and general form using the mathematics of the calculus of variations. This theoretical unification can be distinguished from the methodological unification that mathematics can provide to scientists. Mark Colyvan draws attention to how the methods for solving a wide class of differential equations can be brought together by considering functions on complex numbers that extend the functions on real numbers (Colyvan 2001b, pp. 81-83). More generally, textbooks in applied mathematics provide the scientist with an extensive toolbox of sophisticated techniques for treating mathematical problems that arise in scientific modeling.

In the philosophy of science, many try to provide a theory of scientific explanation using some notion of unification, so it is not surprising that the power of mathematics to unify entails for some that mathematics can also explain physical phenomena. A simple instance of this is the explanation of why it is impossible to cross this arrangement of bridges exactly once:

Given that these bridges have the abstract arrangement of a certain kind of graph and given the theorem that there is no path of the appropriate sort through this graph, we can come to appreciate why the desired kind of crossing is impossible. This explanation exploits the abstractness of the mathematics because it fails to make reference to the irrelevant material constitution of the bridges. Similarly, in an example introduced by Alan Baker (Baker 2005), an appreciation of the features of prime numbers can be used to help to explain why the life-cycles of certain periodic cicadas are a prime number of years. While Baker does not usually present his case as an instance of a unifying explanation, we can see its ability to provide a unified description of the several species in question as a central source of its explanatory power. See also (Baker 2009) and (Lyon and Colyvan 2008).

Nevertheless, there are cases of apparent mathematical explanation which do not seem to turn on unification. Robert Batterman has recently aimed “to account for how mathematical idealizations can have a role in physical explanations” (Batterman 2010, p. 2) and argued that two-stage structuralist approaches face significant challenges in doing this. He focuses on cases where mathematical operations transform one kind of mathematical representation into another mathematical representation which is qualitatively different. These “asymptotic” techniques do not appear to allow for abstract unification precisely because the character of the two representations is so different. For example, we can consider the relationship between the wave theory of light and the theory that light is made up of rays. The ray representation results from the wave representation if we take a certain kind of limit, for, example, we take the wavelength to zero. Batterman insists that both representations are needed to explain features of physical phenomena such as the bow structure of the rainbow: “The asymptotic investigation of the wave equation leads to an understanding of the stability of those phenomena under perturbation of the shape of the raindrops and other features” (Batterman 2010, p. 21). Taking the appropriate limit allows us to throw out the right kind of irrelevant details which might distinguish one rainbow from another. What results is a correct description of an important physical phenomenon along with some explanatory insight into its features. This explanatory power is not easily grounded in the ability to unify because so many aspects of the mathematics fail to have correlates in the differently constituted rainbows.

Although the existence of mathematical explanations of physical phenomena remains a topic of intense debate, there are yet other potential contributions from mathematics to the success of science. Pincock has argued that the abstract character of mathematics can help scientists to develop representations which can be more easily confirmed by the evidence available (Pincock 2007). For example, scientists can propose an equation for the relationship between heat and temperature over time without taking a stand on the nature of heat or the ultimate connection between heat and temperature. This permits science to proceed in its process of testing and refinement of hypotheses without getting bogged down in interpretative controversies. If mathematics makes this sort of contribution, though, it raises further questions about when scientists are warranted in assigning some physical interpretation to their successful mathematical representations. Here, then, we can see a direct connection between the role of mathematics in science and the viability of scientific realism.

These points about unification, explanation, confirmation and their broader significance suggest the many ways in which debates about the applicability of mathematics may proceed in the coming years. More generally, the issues discussed in this article clearly turn on a detailed appreciation of actual cases where mathematics seems to be helping out the scientist. This suggests that the most fruitful way to proceed is to move between more general philosophical reflection on the applicability of mathematics and concrete investigations of scientific practice. Deploying this method may not address many of the mainstream preoccupations of philosophers of mathematics such as the platonism-nominalism debate or questions of indispensability, but it holds out the promise of delivering a more nuanced appreciation of the central place that mathematics has in contemporary science, and it offers a relatively unexplored avenue for philosophical exploration and innovation.

4. References and Further Reading

  • Azzouni, Jody (2000), “Applying Mathematics: An Attempt to Design a Philosophical Problem,” Monist 83: 209-227.
  • Baker, Alan (2005), “Are There Genuine Mathematical Explanations of Physical Phenomena?” Mind 114: 223-238.
  • Baker, Alan (2009), “Mathematical Explanation in Science,” British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 60: 611-633.
  • Bangu, Sorin (2006), “Steiner on the Applicability of Mathematics and Naturalism,” Philosophia Mathematica 14: 26-43.
  • Batterman, Robert W. (2010), “On the Explanatory Role of Mathematics in Empirical Science,” British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 61: 1-25.
  • Benacerraf, Paul (1965), “What Numbers Could Not Be,” reprinted in P. Benacerraf & H. Putnam, Philosophy of Mathematics: Selected Readings, Second Edition, Cambridge University Press, 1983, pp. 272-294.
  • Colyvan, Mark (2001a), “The Miracle of Applied Mathematics,” Synthese 127: 265-277.
  • Colyvan, Mark (2001b), The Indispensability of Mathematics, Oxford University Press.
  • Dummett, Michael (1991), Frege: Philosophy of Mathematics, Harvard University Press.
  • Frege, Gottlob (1884), The Foundations of Arithmetic, J. L. Austin (trans.), Northwestern University Press, 1980.
  • French, Steven (2000), “The Reasonable Effectiveness of Mathematics: Partial Structures and the Applicability of Group Theory to Physics,” Synthese 125: 103-120.
  • Grattan-Guinness, Ivor (2008), “Solving Wigner’s Mystery: The Reasonable (Though Perhaps Limited) Effectiveness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences,” The Mathematical Intelligencer 30: 7-17.
  • Kant, Immanuel (1786), The Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science, M. Friedman (ed. and trans.), Cambridge University Press, 2004.
  • Linnebo, Øystein (2009), “The Individuation of the Natural Numbers,” in O. Bueno & Ø. Linnebo (eds.), New Waves in the Philosophy of Mathematics, Palgrave, pp. 220-238.
  • Lyon, Aidan and Mark Colyvan (2008), “The Explanatory Power of Phase Spaces,” Philosophia Mathematica 16: 227-243.
  • Morrison, Margaret (2000), Unifying Scientific Theories: Physical Concepts and Mathematical Structures, Cambridge University Press.
  • Parsons, Charles (2008), Mathematical Thought and Its Objects, Cambridge University Press.
  • Pincock, Christopher (2007), “A Role for Mathematics in the Physical Sciences,” Nous 41: 253-275.
  • Steiner, Mark (1998), The Applicability of Mathematics as a Philosophical Problem, Harvard University Press.
  • Steiner, Mark (2005), “Mathematics – Application and Applicability,” in S. Shapiro (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy of Mathematics and Logic, Oxford University Press, pp. 625-650.
  • Tait, William (1997), “Frege versus Cantor and Dedekind: On the Concept of Number,” reprinted in W. Tait, The Provenance of Pure Reason: Essays in the Philosophy of Mathematics and Its History, Oxford University Press, 2005, pp. 212-251.
  • Urquhart, Alasdair (2008), “Mathematics and Physics: Strategies of Assimilation,” in P. Mancosu (ed.), The Philosophy of Mathematical Practice, Oxford University Press, pp. 417-440.
  • Wigner, Eugene P. (1960), “The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences,” Communications of Pure and Applied Mathematics 13: 1-14.
  • Wilholt, Torsten (2006), “Lost on the Way From Frege to Carnap: How the Philosophy of Science Forgot the Applicability Problem,” Grazer Philosophische Studien 73: 69-82.
  • Wilson, Mark (2000), “The Unreasonable Uncooperativeness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences,” Monist 83: 296-315.
  • Wilson, Mark (2006), Wandering Significance: An Essay on Conceptual Behavior, Oxford University Press.
  • Wright, Crispin (2000), “Neo-Fregean Foundations for Real Analysis: Some Reflections on Frege’s Constraint,” Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic 41: 317-334, reprinted in R. Cook (ed.), The Arche Papers on the Mathematics of Abstraction, Springer, 2007.

Author information

Christopher Pincock
Email: pincock1@osu.edu
Ohio State University
U. S. A.

Bernard Bolzano: Philosophy of Mathematical Knowledge

BolzanoIn Bernard Bolzano’s theory of mathematical knowledge, properties such as analyticity and logical consequence are defined on the basis of a substitutional procedure that comes with a conception of logical form that prefigured contemporary treatments such as those of Quine and Tarski. Three results are particularly interesting: the elaboration of a calculus of probability, the definition of (narrow and broad) analyticity, and the definition of what it is for a set of propositions to stand in a relation of deducibility (Ableitbarkeit) with another. The main problem with assessing Bolzano’s notions of analyticity and deducibility is that, although they offer a genuinely original treatment of certain kinds of semantic regularities, contrary to what one might expect they do not deliver an account of either epistemic or modal necessity. This failure suggests that Bolzano does not have a workable account of either deductive knowledge or demonstration. Yet, Bolzano’s views on deductive knowledge rest on a theory of grounding (Abfolge) and justification whose role in his theory is to provide the basis for a theory of mathematical demonstration and explanation whose historical interest is undeniable.

Table of Contents

  1. His Life and Publications
  2. The Need for a New Logic
  3. Analyticity and Deducibility
  4. Grounding
  5. Objective Proofs
  6. Conclusion
  7. References and Further Reading

1. His Life and Publications

Bernard Placidus Johann Nepomuk Bolzano was born on 5 October 1781 in Prague. He was the son of an Italian art merchant and of a German-speaking Czech mother. His early schooling was unexceptional: private tutors and education at the lyceum. In the second half of the 1790s, he studied philosophy and mathematics at the Charles-Ferdinand University. He began his theology studies in the Fall of 1800 and simultaneously wrote his first mathematical treatise. When he completed his studies in 1804, two university positions were open in Prague, one in mathematics, the other one in the “Sciences of the Catholic Religion.” He obtained both, but chose the second: Bolzano adhered to the Utilitarian principle and believed that one must always act, after considering all possibilities, in accordance with the greater good. He was hastily ordained, obtained his doctoral degree in philosophy and began work in his new university position in 1805. His professional career would be punctuated by sickness—he suffered from respiratory illness—and controversy. Bolzano’s liberal views on public matters and politics would serve him ill in a context dominated by conservatism in Austria. In 1819, he was absurdly accused of “heresy” and subjected to an investigation that would last five years after which he was forced to retire and banned from publication. From then on, he devoted himself entirely to his work.

Bolzano’s Considerations on Some Objects of Elementary Geometry (1804) received virtually no attention at the time they were published and the few commentators who have appraised his early work concur in saying that its interest is merely historical. (Russ 2004, Sebestik 1992; see also Waldegg 2001). Bolzano’s investigations in geometry did not anticipate modern axiomatic approaches to the discipline–he was attempting to prove Euclid’s parallel postulate–and did not belong to the trend that would culminate with the birth of non-Euclidean geometries, the existence of which Bolzano’s contemporary Johann Carl Friedrich Gauss (1777-1855) claimed to have discovered and whose first samples were found in the works of Nikolai Lobatchevski (1792-1856) and Janos Bolyai (1802-1860), whom Bolzano did not read. (See Sebestik 1992, 33-72 for a discussion of Bolzano’s contribution to geometry; see also Russ 2004, 13-23). As Sebestik explains (1992, 35 note), Bolzano never put into question the results to which he had come in (1804).

By contrast, Bolzano is renown for his anticipation of significant results in analysis. Three booklets that appeared in 1816-17 have drawn the attention of historians of mathematics, one of which, the Pure Analytic Proof, was reedited in 1894 and 1905. (Rusnock 2000, 56-86; 158-198) At the time of their publication however they attracted hardly any notice. Only one review is known (see Schubring 1993, 43-53). According to (Grattan-Guiness 1970), Cauchy would have plagiarized (Bolzano 1817a) in his Cours d’Analyse, but this hypothesis is disputed in (Freudenthal 1971) and (Sebestik 1992, 107ff). This might explain why Bolzano chose to resume the philosophical and methodological investigations he had initiated in the Contributions to a Better Founded Exposition of Mathematics (1810) a decade earlier. At the end of the 1830s, after he had worked out the logical basis for his system in the Theory of Science (1837), Bolzano returned once more to mathematics and spent the last years of his life working on the Theory of Quantities. The latter remained unpublished until after his death, and only excerpts appeared in print in the 19th century, most notably the Paradoxes of the Infinite (1851). The Theory of Function (1930) and the Pure Theory of Numbers (1931) were edited by the Czech mathematician Karel Rychlik and published in 1930 and 1931 respectively by a commission from the Royal Bohemian Academy of Science. All these works have now been translated into English (See Russ 2004).

2. The Need for a New Logic

Bolzano understood the main obstacle to the development of mathematics in his time to be the lack of proper logical resources. He believed syllogistic (that is, traditional Aristotelian logic) was utterly unfit for the purpose. He saw the task of the speculative part of mathematics that belongs at once to philosophy as consisting in providing a new logic following which a reform of all sciences should take place. As Bolzano conceived of it, philosophy of mathematics is one aspect of a more general concern for logic, methodology, the theory of knowledge, and, in general, the epistemological foundation of deductive sciences, “purely conceptual disciplines” as Bolzano calls them, that unfolds throughout his mathematical work and forms the foremost topic of his philosophy. The latter falls in two phases. The period of the Contributions, which extends throughout the 1810s, and the period of the Theory of Science, which was written in the course of the 1820s and published anonymously in 1837. In the Contributions, Bolzano’s undertaking remained largely programmatic and by no means definitive. By the time he was writing the Theory of Science he had revised most of his views, such as those of the multiple copula, analyticity and necessity. (See Rusnock 2000, 31-55, for discussion.) Nonetheless, the leitmotiv of Bolzano’s mature epistemology already comes through in 1810, namely his fundamental disagreement with the “Kantian Theory of Construction of Concepts through Intuitions” to which he devoted the Appendix of the Contributions. (See Rusnock 2000, 198-204 for an English translation; see also Russ 2004, 132-137). In this, Bolzano can be seen to have anticipated an important aspect of later criticisms of Kant, Russell’s for instance (1903  §§ 4, 5, 423, 433-4). As Bolzano saw it, an adequate account of demonstration excludes appeal to non-conceptual inferential steps, intuitions or any other proxy for logic.

In the Theory of Science, Bolzano’s epistemology of deductive disciplines is based on two innovations. On the one hand, properties such as analyticity or deducibility (Ableitbarkeit) are defined not for thoughts or sentences but for what Bolzano conceives to be the objective content of the former and the meaning of the latter and which he calls “propositions in themselves” (Sätze and sich) or “propositions.” On the other hand, properties such as analyticity and deducibility are “formal” in that they are features of sets of propositions defined by a fixed vocabulary; they come to the fore through the application of a substitution method that consists in arbitrarily “varying” determinate components in a proposition so as derive different types of semantic regularities.

3. Analyticity and Deducibility

Bolzano’s theory of analyticity is a favored topic in the literature. (Cf. Bar-Hillel 1950; Etchemendy 1988; Künne 2006; Lapointe 2000, 2008; Morscher 2003; Neeman 1970; Proust 1981, 1989; Textor 2000, 2001) This should be no surprise. For one thing, by contrast to the Kantian definition, Bolzano’s allows us to determine not only whether a grammatical construction of the form subject-predicate is analytic, as Kant has it, but whether any construction is analytic or not. This includes hypotheticals, disjunctions, conjunctions, and so forth, but also any proposition that presents a syntactic complexity that is foreign to traditional (that is, Aristotelian) logic. Analyticity is not tied to any “syntactic” conception of “logical form.” It is a relation pertaining to the truth of propositions and not merely to their form or structure. Let ‘Aij…(S)’ stand for “The proposition S is analytic with respect to the variable components i, j…”

Aij…(S) iff:

(i)   i, j, … can be varied so as to yield at least one objectual substitution instance of S

(ii) All substitution instances of S have the same truth-value as S

where a substitution instance is “objectual” if the concept that is designated by the subject has at least one object. On this account, propositions can be analytically true or analytically false.

Although the idea that analyticity should be defined on the basis of a purely semantic criterion is in itself a great anticipation, Bolzano’s conception of analyticity fails in other respects. For one, it does not provide an account of what it means for a proposition to be true by virtue of meaning alone and to be knowable as such.  “… is analytic with respect to …” is not a semantic predicate of the type one would expect, but is a variable holding operator. A statement ascribing analyticity to a given propositional form, say “X who is a man is mortal” if it is true, is true because every substitution instance of “X who is a man is mortal” that also has objectuality is true. Bolzano’s definition of analyticity offers a fairly clear description of substitutional quantification — to say that a propositional form is analytic is to say that all its substitution instances are true. Yet because he deals not primarily with sentences and words but with their meaning, that is, with ideas and propositions in themselves, and because there is at least one idea for every object, there is in principle a “name” for every object. For this reason, although Bolzano’s approach to quantification is substitutional, he is not liable to the reproach that his interpretation of the universal quantifier cannot account for every state of the world. The resources he has at his disposal are in principle as rich as necessary to provide a complete description of the domain the theory is about.

Bolzano’s epistemology rests on a theory of logical consequence that is twofold: an account of truth preservation that is epitomized in his notion of “deductibility” (Ableitbarkeit) on the one hand (See Siebel 1996, 2002, 2003; van Benthem 1985, 2003; Etchemendy 1990), and an account of “objective grounding” (Abfolge) on the other (see Tatzel 2002, 2003; see also (Thompson 1981; Corcoran 1975). The notion of deducibility presents a semantic account of truth-preservation that is neither trivial nor careless. The same holds for his views on probability. Likewise his attempt at a definition of grounding constitutes the basis of an account of a priori knowledge and mathematical explanations whose interest has been noticed by some authors, and in some cases even vindicated (Mancosu 1999).

As Bolzano presents it, although analyticity is defined for individual propositional forms, deducibility is a property defined for sets of those forms. Let “Dij…(T’ T’, T’’, … ; S, S’, S’’, …)” stand for “The set of propositions T’ T’, T’’ is deducible from the set of propositions S, S’, S’’ with respect to i, j,….” Bolzano defines deducibility in the following terms:

Dij…(T’ T’, T’’, … ; S, S’, S’’, …) iff

(i)         i, j, … can be varied so as to yield at least one true substitution instance of S, S’, S’’, … and T, T’, T’’, …

(ii)        whenever S, S’, S’’… is true, T, T’, T’’,… is also true.

Bolzano’s discussion of deducibility is exhaustive. It extends over thirty-six paragraphs, and he draws a series of theorems from his definition. The most significant theorems are the following:

  • ¬(Aij…(T, T’, T’’…; S, S’, S’’) → Aij…(S, S’, S’’…; T, T’, T’’…,) (asymmetry)
  • (Aij…(T, T’, T’’…; S, S’, S’’) & Aij…(R, R’, R’’…; T, T’, T’’…) → (Aij…(R, R’, R’’…; S, S’, S’’…) (transitivity)

In addition, assuming that the S, S’, S’’…, share at least one variable that make them all true at the same time, then:

  • Aij…( S, S’, S’’…; S, S’, S’’) (reflexivity)

As regard reflexivity, the assumption that the S, S’, S’’… must share at least one variable follows from the fact that every time S, S’, S’’… contain a falsehood S that does not share at least one variable idea i, j, with the conclusion T, T’, T’’,…, then there are no substitution that can make both the premises and the conclusion true at the same time, and the compatibility constraint is not fulfilled.

On Bolzano’s account, fully-fledged cases of deducibility include both formally valid arguments as well as materially valid ones, for instance:

Caius is rational

is deducible with respect to ‘Caius’, ‘man’ and ‘rational’ from

Caius is a man

Men are rational

and

Caius is rational

is deducible with respect to ‘Caius’ from

Caius is a man.

There is a sharp distinction to be drawn between arguments of the former kind and arguments of the latter. Assuming a satisfactory account of logical form, in order to know that the conclusion follows from the premises in arguments of the former kind one only needs to consider their structure or form; no other kind of knowledge is required. In the latter argument however in order to infer from the premise to the conclusion, one must know more than its form. One also needs to understand the signification of ‘man’ and ‘rational’ since in order to know that Caius is rational one also needs to know in addition to the fact that Caius is a man that all men are rational. There is good evidence that Bolzano was aware of some such distinction between arguments that preserve truth and arguments that do so in virtue of their “form.” Unfortunately, Bolzano’s definition of deducibility does not systematically uphold the distinction. Since deducibility applies across the board to all inferences that preserve truth from premises to conclusion with respect to a given set of ideas, it does not of itself guarantee that an argument be formally valid and the notion of deducibility turns out to be flawed: it makes it impossible to extend our knowledge in the way we would expect it. If we know, for instance, that all instances of modus ponens are logically valid, we can infer from two propositions whose truth we’ve recognized:

If Caius is a man, then he is mortal

Caius is a man

a new proposition:

Caius is mortal

whose truth we might not have previously known. Bolzano’s account of deducibility does not allow one to extend one’s knowledge in this way since in order to know for every substitution instance that truth is preserved from the premises to the conclusion one has to know that the premises are true and that the conclusion is true.

On Bolzano’s account, in order for a conclusion to be deducible from a given set of premises, there must be at least one substitution that makes both the premises and the conclusion true at once. He calls this the “compatibility” (Verträglichkeit) condition, a requirement that is not reflected in classical conceptions of consequence. As a result, Bolzano’s program converges with many contemporary attempts at a definition of non-classical notions of logical consequence. Given the compatibility condition, although a logical truth may follow from any (set of) true premises (with respect to certain components), nothing as opposed to everything is deducible from a contradiction. The compatibility condition invalidates the ex contradictio quod libet or explosion principle. The reason for this is that no substitution of  ‘p’ in “‘q’ is deducible from ‘p and non-p’’ can fulfil the compatibility constraint; no interpretation of ‘p’ in ‘p and non-p’ can yield a true variant and hence there are no ideas that can be varied so as to make both the premises and the conclusion true at once. This has at least two remarkable upshots. First, the compatibility constraint invalidates the law of contraposition. Whenever one of S, S’, S’’… is analytically true, when all their substitution instances are true, we cannot infer from:

Dij…(T’ T’, T’’, … ; S, S’, S’’, …)

to

Dij…(¬S, ¬S’, ¬S’’, …; ¬T, ¬T’, ¬T’’…)

since ‘¬S, ¬S’, ¬S’’’ entails a contradiction, that is, an analytically false proposition. For instance,

Caius is a physician who specializes in the eyes

is deducible from

Every ophthalmologist is an ophthalmologist

Caius is an ophthalmologist

with respect to ‘ophthalmologist’. However,

It is not the case that every ophthalmologist is an ophthalmologist

It is not the case that Caius is an ophthalmologist

are not deducible with respect to the same component from:

It is not the case that Caius is a physician who specializes in the eyes.

Second, the compatibility condition makes Bolzano’s logic nonmonotonic. Whenever the premise added contains contradictory information, the conclusion no longer follows. While compatibility does not allow him to deal with all cases of defeasible inference, it allows Bolzano to account for cases that imply typicality considerations. It is typical of crows that they be black. Hence from the fact that x is a crow we can infer that x is black. On Bolzano’s account adding a premise that describes a new case that contradicts previous observation, say that this crow is not black, the conclusion no longer follows since the inference does not fulfil the compatibility condition: no substitution can make both the premises and the conclusion true at the same time.

At many places Bolzano suggests that deducibility is a type of probabilist inference, namely the limit case in which the probability of a proposition T relative to a set of premises S, S’, S’’… = 1. Bolzano also calls inferences of this type  “perfect inference.” More generally, the value of a probability inference from S, S’, S’’, … to T with respect to a set of variable ideas i, j,… is determined by comparing the number of cases in which the substitution of i, j,… yields true instances of both S, S’, S’’… and T, to the number of cases in which S, S’, S’’,… are true (with respect to i, j,…). Let’s assume that Caius is to draw a ball from a container in which there are 90 black and 10 white and that the task is to determine the degree of probability of the conclusion “Caius draws a black ball.” On Bolzano’s account, in order to determine the probability of the conclusion one must first establish the number n of admissible substitution instances K1, K2, …, Kn of the premise “Caius draws a ball” with respect to ‘ball.’ The number n of acceptable substitution instances of the premise is in general a function of the following considerations: (i) the probability of each of K1, K2, …, Kn is the same; (ii) only one of K1, K2, …, Kn can be true at once; (iii) taken together, they exhaust all objectual substitution instances of the premise. In this case, since there are 100 balls in the container, there are only 100 admissible substitution instances of the premise, namely K1: “Caius draws ball number 1,” K2: “Caius draws ball number 2,”…, K100: “Caius draws ball number 100.” If the set of K1, K2, …, Kn = k and the number of cases in which “Caius draw a black ball” is deducible from “Caius draws a ball” is m, then the probability m of “Caius draws a black ball” is the fraction m/k = 90/100 = 9/10. In the case of deducibility the number of cases in which the substitution yields both true variants of the premises and the conclusion is identical to the number of true admissible variants of the premises, that is, m = 1. If there is no substitution that makes both the premises and the conclusion true at the same time, then the degree of probability of the conclusion is 0, that is, the conclusion is not deducible from the premises.

4. Grounding

Bolzano did not think that his account of truth preservation exhausted the topic of inference since it does not account for what is specific to knowledge we acquire in mathematics. Such knowledge he considered to be necessary and a priori, two qualities relations that are defined on the basis of the substitutional method do not have. Bolzano called “grounding” (Abfolge) the relation that defines structures in which propositions relate as grounds to their consequences. As Bolzano conceived of it, my knowing that ‘p’ grounds ‘q’ has explanatory virtue: grounding aims at epitomizing certain intuitions about scientific explanation and seeks to explain, roughly, what, according to Bolzano, the truly scientific mind ought to mean when, in the conduct of a scientific inquiry, she uses the phrase “…because…” in response the question “why …?” Since in addition the propositions that pertain to “grounding” orders such as arithmetic and geometry are invariably true and purely conceptual, then grasping the relations among propositions in the latter invariably warrants knowledge that does not rest on extra-conceptual resources, a move that allowed Bolzano to debunk the Kantian theory of pure intuition.

Bolzano’s notion of grounding is defined by a set of distinctive features. For one thing, grounding is a unique relation: for every true proposition that is not primitive, there is a unique tree-structure that relates it to the axioms from which it can be deduced. That there is such a unique objective order is an assumption on Bolzano’s part that is in many ways antiquated, but it cannot be ignored. Uniqueness follows from two distinctions Bolzano makes. On the one hand, Bolzano distinguishes between simple and complex propositions: a ground (consequence) may or may not be complex. A complex ground is composed of a number of different truths that are in turn composed of a number of different primitive concepts. On the other hand, Bolzano distinguishes between the complete ground or consequence of a proposition and the partial ground or consequence thereof. On this basis, he claims that the complete ground of a proposition is never more complex than is its complete consequence. That is, propositions involved in the complete ground of a proposition are not composed of more distinct primitive concepts than is the complete consequence. Given that Bolzano thinks that the grounding order is ultimately determined by a finite number of simple concepts, this restriction implies that the regression in the grounding order from a proposition to its ground is finite. Ultimately, the regression leads to true primitive propositions, that is, axioms whose defining characteristic is their absolute simplicity.

Note that the regression to primitive propositions is not affected by the fact that the same proposition may appear at different levels of the hierarchy. Although the grounding order is structured vertically and cannot have infinitely many distinct immediate antecedents, in order to conduct basic inductive mathematical demonstration the horizontal structure needs on its part to allow for recursions. Provided that the recurring propositions do not appear on the same branch of the tree, Bolzano is in a position to avoid loops that would make it impossible to guarantee that we ever arrive at the primitive propositions or that there be primitive propositions in the first place.

Bolzano draws a distinction between cases in which what we have is the immediate ground for the truth of a proposition and cases in which the ground is mediated (implicitly or explicitly) by other truths. When Bolzano speaks of grounding, what he has in mind is invariably immediate grounding, and he understands the notion of mediate grounding as a derivative notion. It is the transitive closure of the more primitive notion of immediate grounding. p is the mediate consequence of the propositions Ψ1, …, Ψn if and only if there is a chain of immediate consequences starting with Ψ1, …, Ψn and ending with p. p is the immediate consequence of Ψ1, …, Ψn if there are no intermediate logical step between Ψ1, …, Ψn and p.

Grounding is not reflexive. p cannot be its own ground, whether mediate or immediate. The non-reflexive character of grounding can be inferred from its asymmetry, another of Bolzano’s assumption. If grounding were reflexive, then the truth that p could be grounded on itself, but given that if p grounds q it is not the case that q grounds p, this would imply a contradiction since, by substitution p could at once ground itself and not ground itself. Irreflexivity allows Bolzano to deny the traditional tenet according to which some propositions such as axioms are grounded in themselves. Bolzano explains that this is a loose way of talking, that those who maintain this idea are unaware of the putative absurdity of saying that a proposition is its own consequence and that the main motivation behind this claim is the attempt to maintain, unnecessarily, the idea that every proposition has a ground across the board. According to Bolzano however, the ground for the truth of a primitive proposition does not lie in itself but in the concepts of which this proposition consists.

One important distinction to be made between deducibility and grounding, as Bolzano conceives of them, rests in the fact that while grounding is meant to support the idea that a priori knowledge is axiomatic, that there are (true) primitive, atomic propositions from which all other propositions in the system follow as consequences, deducibility does not have such implication. Whether a proposition q is deducible from another proposition p is not contingent on q’s being ultimately derivable from the propositions from which p is derivable. That “Caius is mortal” is deducible from “Caius is a man” can be established independently of the truth that Caius is a finite being. Likewise, the possibility that deducibility be a special case of grounding is unacceptable for Bolzano. Not all cases of deducibility are cases of grounding. For instance,

It is warmer in the summer than in the winter

is deducible from

Themometers, if they function properly, are higher in the summer than in the winter

but it is not an objective consequence of the latter in Bolzano’s sense. On the contrary, the reason why thermometers are higher in the summer is that it is warmer so that, in the previous example, the order of grounding is reversed. There are cases in which true propositions that stand in a relation of deducibility also stand in a relation of grounding, what Bolzano calls “formal grounding.” It is not difficult to see what could be the interest of the latter. Strictly speaking, in an inference that fits both the notion of grounding and that of deducibility, the conclusion follows both necessarily (by virtue of its being a relation of grounding) and as a matter of truth preservation (by virtue of its being an instance of deducibility) from the premises. Formal grounding however presents little interest: it is not an additional resource of Bolzano’s logic but a designation for types of inferences that present the specificity of suiting two definitions at once: I can only know that an inference fits the definition of formal grounding if I know that it fits both that of grounding and that of deducibility. Once I know that it fits both, to say that it is a case of formal grounding does not teach me much I did not already know.

It could be tempting to think that grounding is a kind of deducibility, namely the case in which the premises are systematically simpler than the conclusion. Bolzano suggests something similar when he claims that grounding might not, in the last instance, be more than an ordering of truths by virtue of which we can deduce from the smallest number of simple premises, the largest possible number of the remaining truths as conclusion. This would require us however to ignore important differences between deducibility and grounding. When I say that “The thermometer is higher in the summer” is deducible from “It is warmer in the summer,” I am making a claim about the fact that every time “It is warmer in X” yields a true substitution instance, “The thermometer is higher in X” yields one as well. When I say that “The thermometer is higher in the summer” is grounded in “It is warmer in the summer” I am making a claim about determinate conceptual relations within a given theory. I am saying that given what it means to be warmer and what it means to be a thermometer, it cannot be the case that it be warm and that the thermometer not be high. Of course the theory can be wrong, but assuming that it is true, the relation is necessary since it follows from the (true) axioms of the theory. In this respect, a priori knowledge can only be achieved in deductive disciplines when we grasp the necessary relations that subsist among the (true and purely conceptual) propositions they involve. If I know that a theorem follows from an axiom or a set of them, I know so with necessity.

5. Objective Proofs

Bolzano’s peculiar understanding of grounding is liable to a series of problems,  both exegetical and theoretical. Nonetheless, the account of mathematical demonstration, what he terms “Begründungen,” (objective proofs), that it underlies is of vast historical interest. Three notions form the basis of Bolzano’s account of mathematical and deductive knowledge in general: grounding (Abfolge), objective justification (objective Erkenntnisgrund) and objective proof (Begründung). The structure of the theory is the following: (i) grounding is a relation that subsists between true propositions independently of epistemic access to them. We may grasp objective grounding relations and (ii) the possibility of grasping the latter is also the condition for our having objective justifications for our beliefs, as opposed to merely “subjective” ones. Finally, (iii) objective proofs are meant to cause the agent to have objective justifications in this sense. With respect to (ii), Bolzano’s idea is explicitly Aristotelian: Bolzano believes that whenever an agent grasps p and grasps the grounding relation between p and q, she also knows the ground for the existence of q and therefore putatively why q is true, namely because p. If we follow (iii), the role of a (typically) linguistic or schematic representation of (i) is to cause the agent to have (ii). According to Bolzano, objective proofs succeed in providing agents with an objective justification for their relevant beliefs because they make the objective ground of the propositions that form the content of these beliefs epistemically accessible to the agent. As Bolzano sees it, the typical objective proof is devised so as to reliably cause the reader or hearer to have an objective justification for the truth of the proposition. The objective proof is merely ‘reliable’ since whether I do acquire objective knowledge upon surveying the proof in question depends in part on my background knowledge, in part on my overall ability to process the relevant inferences and the latter according to Bolzano’s theory of cognition is mostly a function of my having been previously acquainted with many inferences of different types. The more accustomed I am to drawing inferences, the more reliably the objective proof is likely to cause in me the relevant objective justification.

According to Bolzano, there are good reasons why we should place strong constraints on mathematical demonstration, and in everyday practice favor the objective proofs that provide us with objective mathematical knowledge. It would be wrong however to assume that on his account mathematical knowledge can only be achieved via objective proofs. Objective proofs are not the only type of demonstration in Bolzano’s theory of knowledge, nor indeed the only bona fide one. Bolzano opposes objective proofs, that is, proofs that provide an objective justification to what he calls Gewissmachungen (certifications). Certifications, according to Bolzano, are also types of demonstrations (there are many different species thereof) in the sense that they too are meant to cause agents to know a certain truth p on the basis of another one q. When an agent is caused to know that something is true on the basis of a certification, the agent has a subjective, as opposed to an objective, justification for his or her belief. Bolzano’s theory of certification and subjective justification is an indispensible element of his account of empirical knowledge. Certifications are ubiquitous in empirical sciences such as medicine. Medical diagnosis relies on certifications in Bolzano’s sense. Symptoms are typically visible effects, direct or indirect, of diseases that allow us to recognize them. When we rely on symptoms to identify a disease, we thus never know this disease through its objective ground. Likewise, subjective proofs also play an important role in Bolzano’s account of mathematical knowledge. As Bolzano sees it, in order to have an occurrent (and not a merely dispositional) cognitive attitude towards a given propositional content, an agent must somehow be causally affected. This may be brought about in many ways. Beliefs and ideas arise in our mind most of the time in a more or less sophisticated, chaotic and spontaneous way, on the basis of mental associations and/or causal interactions with the world. The availability of a linguistic object that represents the grounding relation is meant to reliably cause objective knowledge, that is, to bring one’s interlocutor to have occurent objective knowledge of a certain truth. This may however not be the best way to cause the given belief per se. It might be that in order to cause me to recognize the truth of the intermediate value theorem, my interlocutor needs resort to a more or less intuitive diagrammatic explanation, which is precisely what objective proofs exclude. Since as Bolzano conceives of it the purpose of demonstrations is primarily to cause the interlocutor to have a higher degree of confidence (Zuversicht) in one of his beliefs, and since Bolzano emphasizes the effectiveness of proofs over their providing objective justifications, objective proofs should not be seen as the only canonical or scientifically acceptable means to bring an agent to bestow confidence on a judgment. Besides, Bolzano warns us against the idea that one ought to use only logical or formal demonstrations that might end up boring the interlocutor to distraction and have a rather adverse epistemic effect. Although Bolzano claims that we ought to use objective proofs as often as possible, he also recognizes that we sometimes have to take shortcuts or simply use heuristic creativity to cause our interlocutor to bestow confidence on the truths of mathematics, especially when the interlocutor has only partial and scattered knowledge of the discipline.

Objective proof, in addition to its epistemic virtue, introduces pragmatic constraints on demonstration that are meant to steer actual practices in deductive science. The idea that mathematical demonstrations ought to reflect the grounding order entails two things. First, it requires that an agent does not deny that a proposition has an objective ground and is thus inferable from more primitive propositions every time this agent, perhaps owing to her medical condition or limited means of recognition, fails to recognize that the proposition has an objective ground. Consequently, it insures that the demonstration procedure is not short-circuited by criterion such as intuition, evidence or insight. The requirement that mathematical demonstrations be objective proofs forbids that the agent’s inability to derive a proposition from more primitive ones be compensated by a non grounding-related feature. In this relation, Mancosu speaks of the heuristic fruitfulness of Bolzano’s requirement on scientific exposition. (Mancosu 1999, 436) Although Bolzano considered that objective proofs should be favored in mathematical demonstration and despite the fact that he thought that only objective proofs have the advantage of letting us understand why a giving proposition is true, he did not think that in everyday practice mathematical demonstrations ought to be objective proofs. Bolzano thinks that there are situations in which it is legitimate to accept proofs that deliver only evidential knowledge. When it comes to setting out a mathematical theory the main objective should be to cause the agent to have more confidence in the truth of the proposition to be demonstrated than he would have otherwise or even merely to incite him to look for an objective justification by himself. Hence, given certain circumstantial epistemic constraints, Bolzano is even willing to concede that certain proofs can be reduced to a brief justification of one’s opinion. Furthermore, though this would deserve to be investigated further, it is worth mentioning that Bolzano is not averse to reverting to purely inductive means, for instance, when it comes to mathematical demonstration. This may seem odd, but Bolzano has good reasons to avoid requiring that all our mathematical proofs provide us with objective and explanatory knowledge. For one thing, asking that all mathematical proofs be objective proofs would not be a reasonable requirement and, in particular, it would not be one that is always epistemically realizable. Given the nature of grounding, it would often require us to engage in the production of linguistic objects that have immense proportions. Since they are merely probable, Bolzano does think that evidential proofs need to be supplemented by “decisive” ones. One could want to argue that the latter reduce to objective proofs. If, upon surveying an objective proof, I acquire an objective justification, I cannot doubt the truth of the conclusion, and it is therefore decisively true. But it is hard to imagine that Bolzano would have thought that the linguistic representation of an inference from deducibility would be any less decisive. Consider this inference:

Triangles have two dimensions

is deducible from

Figures have two dimensions

Triangles are figures.

Not only is the inference truth-preserving, but the conclusion is also a conceptual truth. It is composed only of concepts which, according to Bolzano, means that its negation would imply a contradiction and is therefore necessary. In mathematics and other conceptual disciplines, deducibility and grounding both have the epistemic particularity of yielding a belief that can be asserted with confidence. By contrast, according to Bolzano, though an agent need not always be mistaken whenever she asserts a proposition that stands to its premises in a mere relation of probability, she is at least liable to committing an error. Inferences whose premises are only probable can only yield a conclusion that has probability. As Bolzano sees it, confidence is a property of judgments that are indefeasible. The conclusion (perfectly) deduced from a set of a priori propositions cannot be defeated if only because, if I know its ground, I also know why it is true and necessarily so. Similarly, if p is true and if I know that q is deducible from p (and this holds a fortiori in the case in which p and q are conceptual truths), I have a warrant, namely the fact that I know that truth is preserved from premises to conclusion, and I cannot be mistaken about the truth of q.

6. Conclusion

The importance of Bolzano’s contribution to semantics can hardly be overestimated. The same holds for his contribution to the theoretical basis of mathematical practice. Far from ignoring epistemic and pragmatic constraint, Bolzano discusses them in detail, thus providing a comprehensive basis for a theory of mathematical knowledge that was aimed at supporting work in the discipline. As a mathematician, Bolzano was attuned to philosophical concerns that escaped the attention of most of his contemporaries and many of his successors. His theory is historically and philosophically interesting, and  it deserves to be investigated further.

7. References and Further Reading

  • Bar-Hillel, Yehoshua (1950) “Bolzano’s Definition of Analytic Propositions” Methodos,  32-55. [Republished in Theoria 16, 1950, pp. 91-117; reprinted in Aspects of language: Essays and Lectures on Philosophy of Language, Linguistic Philosophy and Methodology of Linguistics, Jerusalem, The Magnes Press 1970 pp. 3-28].
  • Benthem, Johan van (2003) “Is There Still Logic in Bolzano’s Key?” in Bernard Bolzanos Leistungen in Logik, Mathematik und Physik, Edgar Morscher (ed.) Sankt Augustin, Academia, 11-34.
  • Benthem, Johan van (1985) “The Variety of Consequence, According to Bolzano”, Studia Logica 44/4, 389-403.
  • Benthem, Johan van (1984) Lessons from Bolzano. Stanford, Center for the Study of Language and Information, Stanford University, 1984.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1969-…) Bernard Bolzano-Gesamtausgabe, dir. E. Winter, J. Berg, F. Kambartel, J. Louzil, B. van Rootselaar, Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt, Fromann-Holzboog,  2 A, 12.1, Introduction par Jan Berg.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1976) Ausgewählte Schriften, Winter, Eduard (ed.), Berlin, Union Verlag.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1851) Paradoxien des Unendlichen, (reprint) Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1964. [Dr Bernard Bolzano’s Paradoxien des Unendlichen herausgegeben aus dem schriftlichem Nachlasse des Verfassers von Dr Fr. Příhonský, Leipzig, Reclam. (Höfler et Hahn (Eds.), Leipzig, Meiner, 1920)]
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1948) Gemoetrishche Arbeiten [Geometrical Works], Spisy Bernada Bolzana, Prague, Royal Bohemian Academy of Science.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1837) Wissenschaftslehre, Sulzbach, Seidel.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1931) Reine Zahlenlehre [Pure Theory of Numbers], Spisy Bernada Bolzana, Prague, Royal Bohemian Academy of Science.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1930) Funktionenlehre [Theory of Function] Spisy Bernada Bolzana, Prague, Royal Bohemian Academy of Science;
  • Bolzano, Berbard (1817a) Rein Analytischer Beweis des Lehrsatzes,dass zwischen je zwey Werthe, die ein entgegengesetzes Resultat gewähren, wenigstens eine reelle Wurzel der Gleichung liege, Prague, Haase. 2nd edition, Leipzig, Engelmann, 1905; Facsimile, Berlin, Mayer & Mueller, 1894.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1817b) Die drey Probleme der Rectification, der Complanation und der Cubirung, ohne Betrachtung des unendlich Kleinen, Leipzig, Kummer.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1816) Der binomische Lehrsatz und als Folgerung aus ihm der polynomische, und die Reihen, die zur Berechnung der Logarithmen une Exponentialgrösse dienen, Prague, Enders.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1812) Etwas aus der Logik, Bolzano Gesamtausgabe, Gesamtausgabe, Stuttgart, Frohmann-Holzboog, vol. 2 B 5, p.140ff.
  • Bolzano, Bernard (1810) Beyträge zu einer begründeteren Darstellung der  Mathematik; Widtmann, Prague. (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft,1974).
  • Coffa, Alberto (1991) The semantic tradition fro Kant to Carnap, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
  • Dubucs, Jacques & Lapointe, Sandra (2006) “On Bolzano’s Alleged Explicativism,” Synthese 150/2, 229–46.
  • Etchemendy, John (2008) “Reflections on Consequence,” in (Patterson 2008), 263-299.
  • Etchemendy, John (1990) The Concept of Logical Consequence, Cambridge, Harvard University Press.
  • Etchemendy, John (1988) “Models, Semantics, and Logical Truth”, Linguistics and Philosophy, 11, 91-106.
  • Freudenthal, H (1971) (“Did Cauchy Plagiarize Bolzano?”, Archives for the History of Exact Sciences 375-92.
  • Grattan-Guiness, Ivan (1970) “Bolzano, Cauchy and the ‘New Analysis’ of the Early Nineteenth Century,” Archives for the History of Exact Sciences, 6, 372-400.
  • Künne Wolfgang (2006) “Analyticity and logical truth: from Bolzano to Quine”, in (Textor 2006), 184-249.
  • Lapointe, Sandra (2008), Qu’est-ce que l’analyse?, Paris, Vrin.
  • Lapointe, Sandra (2007) “Bolzano’s Semantics and His Critique of the Decompositional Conception of Analysis” in The Analytic Turn, Michael Beaney (Ed.), London, Routledge, pp.219–234.
  • Lapointe, Sandra (2000). Analyticité, Universalité et Quantification chez Bolzano. Les Études Philosophiques, 2000/4, 455–470.
  • Morscher, Edgar (2003) “La Définition Bolzanienne de l’Analyticité lLgique”, Philosophiques 30/1, 149-169.
  • Neeman, Ursula (1970), “Analytic and Synthetic Propositions in Kant and Bolzano” Ratio 12, 1-25.
  • Patterson, Douglas (ed.) (2008) News Essays on Tarski’s Philosophy, Oxford, Oxford.
  • Příhonský, František (1850) Neuer Anti-Kant: oder Prüfung der Kritik der reinen Vernunft nach den in Bolzanos Wissenschaftslehre niedergelegten Begriffen, Bautzen, Hiecke.
  • Proust, Joëlle (1989) Questions of Form. Logic and the Analytic Proposition from Kant to Carnap. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
  • Proust, Joëlle (1981) “Bolzano’s analytic revisited”, Monist, 214-230.
  • Rusnock, Paul (2000) Bolzano’s philosophy and the emergence of modern mathematics, Amsterdam, Rodopi.
  • Russ, Steve (2004) The Mathematical Works of Bernard Bolzano, Oxford, Oxford Univewrsity Press.
  • Russell, Bertrand (1903) The Principles of Mathematics, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
  • Sebestik, Jan (1992) Logique et mathématique chez Bernard Bolzano, Paris, Vrin.
  • Schubring, Gert (1993) “Bernard Bolzano. Not as Unknown to His Contemporaries as Is Commonly Believed?” Historia Mathematica, 20, 43-53.
  • Siebel, Mark (2003) “La notion bolzanienne de déductibilité” Philosophiques, 30/1, 171-189.
  • Siebel, Mark (2002) “Bolzano’s concept of consequence” Monist, 85, 580-599.
  • Siebel, Mark (1996) Der Begriff der Ableitbarkeit bei Bolzano, Sankt Augustin, Academia Verlag.
  • Tatzel, Armin (2003) “La théorie bolzanienne du fondement et de la consequence” Philosophiques 30/1, 191-217.
  • Tatzel, Armin (2002) “Bolzano’s theory of ground and consequence” Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic 43, 1-25.
  • Textor, Mark (ed.) (2006) The Austrian Contribution to Analytic Philosoph, New York, Routledge.
  • Textor,  Mark, (2001) “Logically analytic propositions “a posteriori”?” History of Philosophy Quarterly, 18, 91-113.
  • Textor, Mark (2000) “Bolzano et Husserl sur l’analyticité,” Les Études Philosophiques 2000/4 435–454.
  • Waldegg, Guillermina, (2001) “Ontological Convictions and Epistemological Obstacles in Bolzano’s Elementary Geometry”, Science and Education, 10/4 409-418.

Author Information

Sandra LaPointe
Email: sandra.lapointe@mac.com
Kansas State University
U. S. A.

The New Atheists

The New Atheists are authors of early twenty-first century books promoting atheism. These authors include Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, and Christopher Hitchens. The “New Atheist” label for these critics of religion and religious belief emerged out of journalistic commentary on the contents and impacts of their books. A standard observation is that New Atheist authors exhibit an unusually high level of confidence in their views.  Reviewers have noted that these authors tend to be motivated by a sense of moral concern and even outrage about the effects of religious beliefs on the global scene. It is difficult to identify anything philosophically unprecedented in their positions and arguments, but the New Atheists have provoked considerable controversy with their body of work.

In spite of their different approaches and occupations (only Dennett is a professional philosopher), the New Atheists tend to share a general set of assumptions and viewpoints. These positions constitute the background theoretical framework that is known as the New Atheism. The framework has a metaphysical component, an epistemological component, and an ethical component.  Regarding the metaphysical component, the New Atheist authors share the central belief that there is no supernatural or divine reality of any kind.  The epistemological component is their common claim that religious belief is irrational. The moral component is the assumption that there is a universal and objective secular moral standard. This moral component sets them apart from other prominent historical atheists such as Nietzsche and Sartre, and it plays a pivotal role in their arguments because it is used to conclude that religion is bad in various ways, although Dennett is more reserved than the other three.

The New Atheists make substantial use of the natural sciences in both their criticisms of theistic belief and in their proposed explanations of its origin and evolution. They draw on science for recommended alternatives to religion. They believe empirical science is the only (or at least the best) basis for genuine knowledge of the world, and they insist that a belief can be epistemically justified only if it is based on adequate evidence. Their conclusion is that science fails to show that there is a God and even supports the claim that such a being probably does not exist. What science will show about religious belief, they claim, is that this belief can be explained as a product of biological evolution. Moreover, they think that it is possible to live a satisfying non-religious life on the basis of secular morals and scientific discoveries.

Table of Contents

  1. Faith and Reason
  2. Arguments For and Against God’s Existence
  3. Evolution and Religious Belief
  4. The Moral Evaluation of Religion
  5. Secular Morality
  6. Alleged Divine Revelations
  7. Secular Fulfillment
  8. Criticism of the New Atheists
  9. References and Further Reading

1. Faith and Reason

Though it is difficult to find a careful and precise definition of “faith” in the writings of the New Atheists, it is possible to glean a general characterization of this cognitive attitude from various things they say about it. In The Selfish Gene, Richard Dawkins states that faith is blind trust without evidence and even against the evidence. He follows up in The God Delusion with the claim that faith is an evil because it does not require justification and does not tolerate argument. Whereas the former categorization suggests that Dawkins thinks that faith is necessarily non-rational or even irrational, the latter description seems to imply that faith is merely contingently at odds with rationality. Harris’s articulation of the nature of faith is closer to Dawkins’ earlier view. He says that religious faith is unjustified belief in matters of ultimate concern.  According to Harris, faith is the permission religious people give one another to believe things strongly without evidence. Hitchens says that religious faith is ultimately grounded in wishful thinking. For his part, Dennett implies that belief in God cannot be reasonable because the concept of God is too radically indeterminate for the sentence “God exists” to express a genuine proposition.  Given this, Dennett questions whether any of the people who claim to believe in God actually do believe God exists. He thinks it more likely that they merely profess belief in God or “believe in belief” in God (they believe belief in God is or would be a good thing). According to this view there can be no theistic belief that is also reasonable or rational. Critics point out that the New Atheist assumption that religious faith is irrational is at odds with a long philosophical history in the West that often characterizes faith as rational.  This Western Philosophical tradition can be said to begin with Augustine and continue through to present times.

The New Atheists subscribe to some version or other of scientism as their criterion for rational belief.  According to scientism, empirical science is the only source of our knowledge of the world (strong scientism) or, more moderately, the best source of rational belief about the way things are (weak scientism). Harris and Dawkins are quite explicit about this. Harris equates a genuinely rational approach to spiritual and ethical questions with a scientific approach to these sorts of questions. Dawkins insists that the presence or absence of a creative super-intelligence is a scientific question. The New Atheists also affirm evidentialism, the claim that a belief can be epistemically justified only if it is based on adequate evidence. The conjunction of scientism and evidentialism entails that a belief can be justified only if it is based on adequate scientific evidence. The New Atheists’ conclusion that belief in God is unjustified follows, then, from their addition of the claim that there is inadequate scientific evidence for God’s existence (and even adequate scientific evidence for God’s non-existence).  Dawkins argues that the “God Hypothesis” the claim that there exists a superhuman, supernatural intelligence who deliberately designed and created the universe, is “founded on local traditions of private revelation rather than evidence” (2006, pp. 31-32). Given these New Atheist epistemological assumptions (and their consequences for religious epistemology), it is not surprising that some criticism of their views has included questions about whether there is adequate scientific support for scientism and whether there is adequate evidence for evidentialism.

2. Arguments For and Against God’s Existence

Since atheism continues to be a highly controversial philosophical position, one would expect that the New Atheists would devote a fair amount of space to a careful (and, of course, critical) consideration of arguments for God’s existence  and that they would also spend a corresponding amount of time formulating a case for the non-existence of God.  However, none of them addresses either theistic or atheistic arguments to any great extent. Dawkins does devote a chapter apiece to each of these tasks, but he has been criticized for engaging in an overly cursory evaluation of theistic arguments and for ignoring the philosophical literature in natural theology.   The literature overlooked by Dawkins addresses issues relevant to his claim that there almost certainly is no God. Harris, who thinks that atheism is obviously true, does not dedicate much space to a discussion of arguments for or against theism.  He does sketch a brief version of the cosmological argument for God’s existence but asserts that the final conclusion does not follow because the argument does not rule out alternative possibilities for the universe’s existence. Harris also hints at reasons to deny God’s existence by pointing to unexplained evil and “unintelligent design” in the world. Hitchens includes chapters entitled “The Metaphysical Claims of Religion are False” and “Arguments from Design,” but his more journalistic treatment of the cases for and against God’s existence amounts primarily to the claim that the God hypothesis is unnecessary since science can now explain what theism was formerly thought to be required to explain, including phenomena such as the appearance of design in the universe. After considering the standard arguments for God’s existence and rehearsing standard objections to them, Dennett argues that the concept of God is insufficiently determinate for it to be possible to know what proposition is at issue in the debate over God’s existence.

Dawkins’ argument for the probable non-existence of God is the most explicit and thorough attempt at an atheistic argument amongst the four. However, he does not state this argument in a deductively valid form, so it is difficult to discern exactly what he has in mind. Dawkins labels his argument for God’s non-existence “the Ultimate Boeing 747 gambit,” because he thinks that God’s existence is at least as improbable as the chance that a hurricane, sweeping through a scrap yard, would have the luck to assemble a Boeing 747 (an image that he borrows from Fred Hoyle, who used it for a different purpose). At the heart of his argument is the claim that any God capable of designing a universe must be a supremely complex and improbable entity who needs an even bigger explanation than the one the existence of such a God is supposed to provide. Dawkins also says that the hypothesis that an intelligent designer created the universe is self-defeating. What he appears to mean by this charge is that this intelligent design hypothesis claims to provide an ultimate explanation for all existing improbable complexity and yet cannot provide an explanation of its own improbable complexity. Dawkins further states that the God hypothesis creates a vicious regress rather than terminating one. Similarly, Harris follows Dawkins’ in arguing that the notion of a creator God leads to an infinite regress because such a being would have to have been created. Some critics, like William Lane Craig, reply that, at best, Dawkins’ argument could show only that the God hypothesis does not explain the appearance of design in the universe (a claim that Craig denies) but it does not demonstrate that God probably doesn’t exist. Dawkins’ assumption that God would need an extenal cause flies in the face of the longstanding theological assumption that God is a perfect and so necessary being who is consequently self-existent and ontologically independent. At the very least, Dawkins owes the defender of this classical conception of God further clarification of the kind of complexity he attributes to God and further arguments for the claims that God possesses this kind of complexity and that God’s being complex in this way is incompatible with God’s being self-existent. In reply to Dawkins, Craig argues that though the contents of God’s mind may be complex, God’s mind itself is simple.

3. Evolution and Religious Belief

The New Atheists observe that if there is no supernatural reality, then religion and religious belief must have a purely natural explanation. They agree that these sociological and psychological phenomena are rooted in biology. Harris summarizes their view by saying that as a biological phenomenon, religion is the product of cognitive processes that have deep roots in our evolutionary past. Dawkins endorses the general hypothesis that religion and religious belief are byproducts of something else that has survival value. His specific hypothesis is that human beings have acquired religious beliefs because there is a selective advantage to child brains that possess the rule of thumb to believe, without question, whatever familiar adults tell them. Dawkins speculates that this cognitive disposition, which tends to help inexperienced children to avoid harm, also tends to make them susceptible to acquiring their elders’ irrational and harmful religious beliefs. Dawkins is less committed to this specific hypothesis than he is to the general hypothesis, and he is open to other specific hypotheses of the same kind. Dennett discusses a number of these specific hypotheses more thoroughly in his attempt to “break the spell” he identifies as the taboo against a thorough scientific investigation of religion as one natural phenomenon among many.

At the foundation of Dennett’s “proto-theory” about the origin of religion and religious belief is his appeal to the evolution in humans (and other animals) of a “hyperactive agent detection device” (HADD), which is the disposition to attribute agency – beliefs and desires and other mental states – to anything complicated that moves. Dennett adds that when an event is sufficiently puzzling, our “weakness for certain sorts of memorable combos” cooperates with our HADD to constitute “a kind of fiction-generating contraption” that hypothesizes the existence of invisible and even supernatural agents (2006, pp. 119-120). Dennett goes on to engage in a relatively extensive speculation about how religion and religious belief evolved from these purely natural beginnings. Though Hitchens mentions Dennett’s naturalistic approach to religion in his chapter on “religion’s corrupt beginnings,” he focuses primarily on the interplay between a pervasive gullibility he takes to be characteristic of human beings and the exploitation of this credulity that he attributes to the founders of religions and religious movements. The scientific investigation of religion of the sort Dennett recommends has prompted a larger interdisciplinary conversation that includes both theists and non-theists with academic specialties in science, philosophy, and theology (see Schloss and Murray 2009 for an important example of this sort of collaboration).

4. The Moral Evaluation of Religion

The New Atheists agree that, although religion may have been a byproduct of certain human qualities that proved important for survival, religion itself is not necessarily a beneficial social and cultural phenomenon on balance at present. Indeed, three of the New Atheists (Harris, Dawkins, and Hitchens) are quite explicit in their moral condemnation of religious people on the ground that religious beliefs and practices have had significant and predominately negative consequences. The examples they provide of such objectionable behaviors range from the uncontroversial (suicide bombings, the Inquisition, “religious” wars, witch hunts, homophobia, etc.) to the controversial (prohibition of “victimless crimes” such as drug use and prostitution, criminalization of abortion and euthanasia,  “child abuse” due to identification of children as members of their parents religious communities, and so forth). Harris is explicit about placing the blame for these evils on faith, defined as unfounded belief. He argues that faith in what religious believers take to be God’s will as revealed in God’s book inevitably leads to immoral behaviors of these sorts. In this way, the New Atheists link their epistemological critique of religious belief with their moral criticism of religion.

The New Atheists counter the claim that religion makes people good by listing numerous examples of the preceding sort in which religion allegedly makes people bad. They also anticipate the reply that the moral consequences of atheism are worse than those of theism. A typical case for this claim appeals to the atrocities perpetrated by people like Hitler and Stalin. The New Atheists reply that Hitler was not necessarily an atheist because he claimed to be a Christian and that these regimes were evil because they were influenced by religion or were like a religion and that, even if their leaders were atheists (as in the case of Stalin), their crimes against humanity were not caused by their atheism because they were not carried out in the name of atheism. The New Atheists seem to be  agreed that theistic belief has generally worse attitudinal and behavioral moral consequences than atheistic belief. Dennett is characteristically more hesitant to draw firm conclusions along these lines until further empirical investigation is undertaken..

5. Secular Morality

These moral objections to religion presuppose a moral standard. Since the New Atheists have denied the existence of any supernatural reality, this moral standard has to have a purely natural and secular basis. Many non-theists have located the natural basis for morality in human convention, a move that leads naturally to ethical relativism. But the New Atheists either explicitly reject ethical relativism, or affirm the existence of the “transcendent value” of justice, or assert that there is a consensus about what we consider right and wrong, or simply engage in a moral critique of religion that implicitly presupposes a universal moral standard.

The New Atheists’ appeal to a universal secular moral standard raises some interesting philosophical questions. First, what is the content of morality? Harris comes closest to providing an explicit answer to that question in stating that questions of right and wrong are really questions about the happiness and suffering of sentient creatures. Second, if the content of morality is not made accessible to human beings by means of a revelation of God’s will, then how do humans know what the one moral standard is? The New Atheists seem to be agreed that we have foundational moral knowledge. Harris calls the source of this basic moral knowledge “moral intuition.” Since the other New Atheists don’t argue for the moral principles to which they appeal, it seems reasonable to conclude that they would agree with Harris. Third, what is the ontological ground of the universal moral standard? Given the assumption that ethical relativism is false, the question arises concerning what the objective natural ground is that makes it the case that some people are virtuous and some are not and that some behaviors are morally right and some are not. Again, Harris’s view that our ethical intuitions have their roots in biology is representative. Dawkins provides “four good Darwinian reasons” that purport to explain why some animals (including, of course human beings) engage in moral behavior. And though Dennett’s focus is on the evolution of religion, he is likely to have a similar story about the evolution of morality. One problem with this biological answer to our philosophical question is that it could only explain what causes moral behavior; it can’t also account for what makes moral principles true. The fourth philosophical question raised by the New Atheists is one they address themselves: “Why should we be moral?” Harris’s answer is that being moral tends to contribute to one’s happiness. Dawkins’ reply to the critic who asks, “If there’s no God, why be good?” seems to amount to no more than the observation that there are moral atheists. But this could only show that belief in God is not needed to motivate people to be moral; it doesn’t explain what does (or should) motivate atheists to be moral.

6. Alleged Divine Revelations

If there is no divine being, then there are no divine revelations. If there are no divine revelations, then every sacred book is a merely human book. Harris, Dawkins, and Hitchens each construct a case for the claim that no alleged written divine revelation could have a divine origin. Their arguments for this conclusion focus on what they take to be the moral deficiencies and factual errors of these books. Harris quotes passages from the part of the Old Testament traditionally labeled the “Law” that he considers barbaric and then asserts (on the basis of his view that Jesus can be read to endorse the entirety of Old Testament law) that the New Testament does not improve on these injunctions. He says that any subsequent more moderate Christian migration away from these biblical legal requirements is a result of taking scripture less and less seriously. Dawkins agrees with Harris that the God of the Bible and the Qur’an is not a moderate. As a matter of fact, he says that “The God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all of fiction” (Dawkins 2006, p. 31). Though he says that “Jesus is a huge improvement over the cruel ogre of the Old Testament” (Dawkins 2006, p. 25), he argues that the doctrine of atonement, “which lies at the heart of New Testament theology, is almost as morally obnoxious as the story of Abraham setting out to barbecue Isaac” (Dawkins 2006, p. 251). Hitchens adds his own similar criticisms of both testaments in two chapters: “The Nightmare of the ‘Old’ Testament” and “The ‘New’ Testament Exceeds the Evil of the ‘Old’ One.” He also devotes a chapter to the Qur’an (as does Harris) and a section to the Book of Mormon. Dennett hints at a different objection to the Bible by remarking that anybody can quote the Bible to prove anything.

This collective case against the authenticity of any alleged written divine revelation raises interesting questions in philosophical theology about what kind of book could qualify as “God’s Word.” For instance, Harris considers it astonishing that a book as “ordinary” as the Bible is nonetheless thought to be a product of omniscience. He also says that, whereas the Bible contains no formal discussion of mathematics and some obvious mathematical errors, a book written by an omniscient being could contain a chapter on mathematics that would still be the richest source of mathematical insight humanity has ever known. This sort of claim invites further discussion about the sorts of purposes God would have and strategies God would employ in communicating with human beings in different times and places.

7. Secular Fulfillment

Each of the New Atheists recommends or at least alludes to a non-religious means of personal fulfillment and even collective well-being. Harris advocates a “spirituality” that involves meditation leading to happiness through an eradication of one’s sense of self. He thinks that scientific exploration into the nature of human consciousness will provide a progressively more adequate natural and rational basis for such a practice. For inspiration in a Godless world, Dawkins looks to the power of science to open the mind and satisfy the psyche. He celebrates the liberation of human beings from ignorance due to the growing and assumedly limitless capacity of science to explain the universe and everything in it. Hitchens hints at his own source of secular satisfaction by claiming that the natural is wondrous enough for anyone. He expresses his hope for a renewed Enlightenment focused on human beings, based on unrestricted scientific inquiry, and eventually productive of a new humane civilization. Dennett believes that a purely naturalistic spirituality is possible through a selfless attitude characterized by humble curiosity about the world’s complexities resulting in a realization of the relative unimportance of one’s personal preoccupations.

8. Criticism of the New Atheists

A number of essays and books have been written in response to the New Atheists (see the “References and Further Reading” section below for some titles). Some of these works are supportive of them and some of them are critical. Other works include both positive and negative evaluations of the New Atheism. Clearly, the range of philosophical issues raised by the New Atheists’ claims and arguments is broad. As might be expected, attention has been focused on their epistemological views, their metaphysical assumptions, and their axiological positions. Their presuppositions should prompt more discussion in the fields of philosophical theology, philosophy of science, philosophical hermeneutics, the relation between science and religion, and historiography. Conversations about the New Atheists’ stances and rationales have also taken place in the form of debates between Harris, Dawkins, Hitchens, and Dennett and defenders of religious belief and religion such as Dinesh D’Souza, who has published his own defense of Christianity in response to the New Atheists’ arguments. These debates are accessible in a number of places on the Internet. Finally, the challenges to religion posed by the New Atheists have also prompted a number of seminars and conferences. One of these is a conference presented by the Center for Philosophy of Religion at the University of Notre Dame, entitled, “My Ways Are Not Your Ways: The Character of the God of the Hebrew Bible” ( 2009). For an introduction to the sorts of issues this conference addresses, see Copan 2008.

9. References and Further Reading

  • Berlinski, David. The Devil’s Delusion: Atheism and its Scientific Pretensions (New York: Crown Forum, 2008).
    • A response to the New Atheists by a secular Jew that defends traditional religious thought.
  • Copan, Paul. “Is Yahweh a Moral Monster? The New Atheists and Old Testament Ethics,” Philosophia Christi 10:1, 2008, pp. 7-37.
    • A defense of the God and ethics of the Old Testament against the New Atheists’ criticisms of them.
  • Copan, Paul and William Lane Craig, eds. Contending with Christianity’s Critics (Nashville, Tenn.: Broadman and Holman, 2009).
    • A collection of essays by Christian apologists that addresses challenges from New Atheists and other contemporary critics of Christianity.
  • Craig, William Lane, ed. God is Great, God is Good: Why Believing in God is Reasonable and Responsible (Grand Rapids: InterVarsity Press, 2009).
    • A collection of essays by philosophers and theologians defending the rationality of theistic belief from the attacks of the New Atheists and others.
  • Dawkins, Richard. The Selfish Gene, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989).
    • An explanation and defense of biological evolution by natural selection that focuses on the gene.
  • Dawkins, Richard. The God Delusion (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2006).
    • A case for the irrationality and immoral consequences of religious belief that draws primarily on evolutionary biology.
  • Dennett, Daniel. Breaking the Spell: Religion as a Natural Phenomenon (New York: Penguin, 2006).
    • A case for studying the history and practice of religion by means of the natural sciences.
  • D’Souza, Dinesh. What’s So Great About Christianity (Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale House Publishers, 2007).
    • A defense of Christianity against the criticisms of the New Atheists.
  • Eagleton, Terry. Reason, Faith, and Revolution: Reflections on the God Debate (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009).
    • A critical reply to Dawkins and Hitchens (“Ditchkins”) by a Marxist literary critic.
  • Flew, Antony. There is a God: How the World’s Most Notorious Atheist Changed His Mind (New York: HarperOne, 2007).
    • A former atheistic philosopher’s account of his conversion to theism (which includes a section by co-author Roy Abraham Varghese that provides a critical appraisal of the New Atheism).
  • Harris, Sam. The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason (New York: Norton, 2004).
    • An intellectual and moral critique of faith-based religions that recommends their replacement by science-based spirituality.
  • Harris, Sam. Letter to a Christian Nation (New York: Vintage Books, 2008).
    • A revised edition of his 2006 response to Christian reactions to his 2004 book.
  • Hitchens, Christopher. God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything (New York: Twelve, 2007).
    • A journalistic case against religion and religious belief.
  • Keller, Timothy. The Reason for God: Belief in God in an Age of Skepticism (New York: Dutton, 2007).
    • A Christian minister’s reply to objections against Christianity of the sort raised by the New Atheists together with his positive case for Christianity.
  • Kurtz, Paul. Forbidden Fruit: The Ethics of Secularism (Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books, 2008).
    • A case for an atheistic secular humanistic ethics by a philosopher.
  • McGrath, Alister and Joanna Collicutt McGrath. The Dawkins Delusion? Atheist Fundamentalism and the Denial of the Divine (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2007).
    • A critical engagement with the arguments set out in Dawkins 2006.
  • Ray, Darrel W. The God Virus: How Religion Infects Our Lives and Culture (IPC Press, 2009).
    • A book by an organizational psychologist that purports to explain how religion has negative consequences for both individuals and societies.
  • Schloss, Jeffrey and Michael Murray, eds. The Believing Primate: Scientific, Philosophical, and Theological Reflections on the Origin of Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009).
    • An interdisciplinary discussion of issues raised by the sort of naturalistic account of religion promoted in Dennett 2006 and elsewhere.
  • Stenger, Victor. God: The Failed Hypothesis. How Science Shows That God Does Not Exist (Prometheus Books, 2008).
    • A scientific case for the non-existence of God by a physicist.
  • Stenger, Victor. The New Atheism: Taking a Stand for Science and Reason (Prometheus Books, 2009).
    • A defense of the New Atheism by a physicist.
  • Ward, Keith. Is Religion Dangerous? (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006).
    • A defense of religion against the New Atheists’ arguments by a philosopher-theologian.

Author Information

James E. Taylor
Email: taylor@westmont.edu
Westmont College
U. S. A.

Atheism

The term “atheist” describes a person who does not believe that God or a divine being exists.  Worldwide there may be as many as a billion atheists, although social stigma, political pressure, and intolerance make accurate polling difficult.

For the most part, atheists have presumed that the most reasonable conclusions are the ones that have the best evidential support.  And they have argued that the evidence in favor of God’s existence is too weak, or the arguments in favor of concluding there is no God are more compelling.  Traditionally the arguments for God’s existence have fallen into several families: ontological, teleological, and cosmological arguments, miracles, and prudential justifications.  For detailed discussion of those arguments and the major challenges to them that have motivated the atheist conclusion, the reader is encouraged to consult the other relevant sections of the encyclopedia.

Arguments for the non-existence of God are deductive or inductive.  Deductive arguments for the non-existence of God are either single or multiple property disproofs that allege that there are logical or conceptual problems with one or several properties that are essential to any being worthy of the title “God.”  Inductive arguments typically present empirical evidence that is employed to argue that God’s existence is improbable or unreasonable.  Briefly stated, the main arguments are:  God’s non-existence is analogous to the non-existence of Santa Claus.  The existence of widespread human and non-human suffering is incompatible with an all powerful, all knowing, all good being.  Discoveries about the origins and nature of the universe, and about the evolution of life on Earth make the God hypothesis an unlikely explanation.  Widespread non-belief and the lack of compelling evidence show that a God who seeks belief in humans does not exist.  Broad considerations from science that support naturalism, or the view that all and only physical entities and causes exist, have also led many to the atheism conclusion.

The presentation below provides an overview of concepts, arguments, and issues that are central to work on atheism.

Table of Contents

  1. What is Atheism?
  2. The Epistemology of Atheism
  3. Deductive Atheology
    1. Single Property Disproofs
    2. Multiple Property Disproofs
    3. Failure of Proof Disproof
  4. Inductive Atheology
    1. The Prospects for Inductive Proof
    2. The Santa Claus Argument
    3. Problem of Evil
    4. Cosmology
    5. Teleological Arguments
    6. Arguments from Nonbelief
    7. Atheistic Naturalism
  5. Cognitivism and Non-Cognitivism
  6. Future Prospects for Atheism
  7. References and Further Reading

1. What is Atheism?

Atheism is the view that there is no God.  Unless otherwise noted, this article will use the term “God” to describe the divine entity that is a central tenet of the major monotheistic religious traditions–Christianity, Islam, and Judaism.  At a minimum, this being is usually understood as having all power, all knowledge, and being infinitely good or morally perfect.  See the article Western Concepts of God for more details.  When necessary, we will use the term “gods” to describe all other lesser or different  characterizations of divine beings, that is, beings that lack some, one, or all of the omni- traits.

There have been many thinkers in history who have lacked a belief in God.  Some ancient Greek philosophers, such as Epicurus, sought natural explanations for natural phenomena. Epicurus was also to first to question the compatibility of God with suffering.  Forms of philosophical naturalism that would replace all supernatural explanations with natural ones also extend into ancient history.  During the Enlightenment, David Hume and Immanuel Kant give influential critiques of the traditional arguments for the existence of God in the 18th century.  After Darwin (1809-1882) makes the case for evolution and some modern advancements in science, a fully articulated philosophical worldview that denies the existence of God gains traction.  In the 19th and 20th centuries, influential critiques on God, belief in God, and Christianity by Nietzsche, Feuerbach, Marx, Freud, and Camus set the stage for modern atheism.

It has come to be widely accepted that to be an atheist is to affirm the non-existence of God.  Anthony Flew (1984) called this positive atheism, whereas to lack a belief that God or gods exist is to be a negative atheist. Parallels for this use of the term would be terms such as “amoral,” “atypical,” or “asymmetrical.”  So negative atheism would includes someone who has never reflected on the question of whether or not God exists and has no opinion about the matter and someone who had thought about the matter a great deal and has concluded either that she has insufficient evidence to decide the question, or that the question cannot be resolved in principle.  Agnosticism is traditionally characterized as neither believing that God exists nor believing that God does not exist.

Atheism can be narrow or wide in scope.  The narrow atheist does not believe in the existence of God (an omni- being).  A wide atheist does not believe that any gods exist, including but not limited to the traditional omni-God.  The wide positive atheist denies that God exists, and also denies that Zeus, Gefjun, Thor, Sobek, Bakunawa and others exist.  The narrow atheist does not believe that God exists, but need not take a stronger view about the existence or non-existence of other supernatural beings.  One could be a narrow atheist about God, but still believe in the existence of some other supernatural entities.  (This is one of the reasons that it is a mistake to identify atheism with materialism or naturalism.)

Separating these different senses of the term allows us to better understand the different sorts of justification that can be given for varieties of atheism with different scopes.  An argument may serve to justify one form of atheism and not another.  For Instance, alleged contradictions within a Christian conception of God by themselves do not serve as evidence for wide atheism, but presumably, reasons that are adequate to show that there is no omni-God would be sufficient to show that there is no Islamic God.

2. The Epistemology of Atheism

 

We can divide the justifications for atheism into several categories.  For the most part, atheists have taken an evidentialist approach to the question of God’s existence.  That is, atheists have taken the view that whether or not a person is justified in having an attitude of belief towards the proposition, “God exists,” is a function of that person’s evidence.  “Evidence” here is understood broadly to include a priori arguments, arguments to the best explanation, inductive and empirical reasons, as well as deductive and conceptual premises.  An asymmetry exists between theism and atheism in that atheists have not offered faith as a justification for non-belief.  That is, atheists have not presented non-evidentialist defenses for believing that there is no God.

Not all theists appeal only to faith, however.  Evidentialists theist and evidentialist atheists may have a number of general epistemological principles concerning evidence, arguments, and implication in common, but then disagree about what the evidence is, how it should be understood, and what it implies.  They may disagree, for instance, about whether the values of the physical constants and laws in nature constitute evidence for intentional fine tuning, but agree at least that whether God exists is a matter that can be explored empirically or with reason.

Many non-evidentialist theists may deny that the acceptability of particular religious claim depends upon evidence, reasons, or arguments as they have been classically understood.  Faith or prudential based beliefs in God, for example, will fall into this category.  The evidentialist atheist and the non-evidentialist theist, therefore, may have a number of more fundamental disagreements about the acceptability of believing, despite inadequate or contrary evidence, the epistemological status of prudential grounds for believing, or the nature of God belief.  Their disagreement may not be so much about the evidence, or even about God, but about the legitimate roles that evidence, reason, and faith should play in human belief structures.

It is not clear that arguments against atheism that appeal to faith have any prescriptive force the way appeals to evidence do.  The general evidentialist view is that when a person grasps that an argument is sound that imposes an epistemic obligation on her to accept the conclusion.  Insofar as having faith that a claim is true amounts to believing contrary to or despite a lack of evidence, one person’s faith that God exists does not have this sort of inter-subjective, epistemological implication.  Failing to believe what is clearly supported by the evidence is ordinarily irrational.  Failure to have faith that some claim is true is not similarly culpable.

Justifying atheism, then, can entail several different projects.  There are the evidential disputes over what information we have available to us, how it should be interpreted, and what it implies.  There are also broader meta-epistemological concerns about the roles of argument, reasoning, belief, and religiousness in human life.  The atheist can find herself not just arguing that the evidence indicates that there is no God, but defending science, the role of reason, and the necessity of basing beliefs on evidence more generally.

Friendly atheism; William Rowe has introduced an important distinction to modern discussions of atheism. If someone has arrived at what they take to be a reasonable and well-justified conclusion that there is no God, then what attitude should she take about another person’s persistence in believing in God, particularly when that other person appears to be thoughtful and at least prima facie reasonable?  It seems that the atheist could take one of several views.  The theist’s belief, as the atheist sees it, could be rational or irrational, justified or unjustified.  Must the atheist who believes that the evidence indicates that there is no God conclude that the theist’s believing in God is irrational or unjustified?  Rowe’s answer is no.  (Rowe 1979, 2006)

Rowe and most modern epistemologists have said that whether a conclusion C is justified for a person  S is a function of the information (correct or incorrect) that S possesses and the principles of inference that S employs in arriving at C.  But whether or not C is justified is not directly tied to its truth, or even to the truth of the evidence concerning C.  That is, a person can have a justified, but false belief.  She could arrive at a conclusion through an epistemically inculpable process and yet get it wrong.  Ptolemy, for example, the greatest astronomer of his day, who had mastered all of the available information and conducted exhaustive research into the question, was justified in concluding that the Sun orbits the Earth.  A medieval physician in the 1200s who guesses (correctly) that the bubonic plague was caused by the bacterium yersinia pestis would not have been reasonable or justified given his background information and given that the bacterium would not even be discovered for 600 years.

We can call the view that rational, justified beliefs can be false, as it applies to atheism, friendly or fallibilist atheism.  See the article on Fallibilism. The friendly atheist can grant that a theist may be justified or reasonable in believing in God, even though the atheist takes the theist’s conclusion to be false.  What could explain their divergence to the atheist?  The believer may not be in possession of all of the relevant information.  The believer may be basing her conclusion on a false premise or premises.  The believer may be implicitly or explicitly employing inference rules that themselves are not reliable or truth preserving, but the background information she has leads her, reasonably, to trust the inference rule.  The same points can be made for the friendly theist and the view that he may take about the reasonableness of the atheist’s conclusion.  It is also possible, of course, for both sides to be unfriendly and conclude that anyone who disagrees with what they take to be justified is being irrational.  Given developments in modern epistemology and Rowe’s argument, however, the unfriendly view is neither correct nor conducive to a constructive and informed analysis of the question of God.

Atheists have offered a wide range of justifications and accounts for non-belief.  A notable modern view is Antony Flew’s Presumption of Atheism (1984). Flew argues that the default position for any rational believer should be neutral with regard to the existence of God and to be neutral is to not have a belief regarding its existence.  And not having a belief with regard to God is to be a negative atheist on Flew’s account. “The onus of proof lies on the man who affirms, not on the man who denies. . . on the proposition, not on the opposition,” Flew argues (20).  Beyond that, coming to believe that such a thing does or does not exist will require justification, much as a jury presumes innocence concerning the accused and requires evidence in order to conclude that he is guilty.  Flew’s negative atheist will presume nothing at the outset, not even the logical coherence of the notion of God, but her presumption is defeasible, or revisable in the light of evidence.  We shall call this view atheism by default.

The atheism by default position contrasts with a more permissive attitude that is sometimes taken regarding religious belief.  The notions of religious tolerance and freedom are sometimes understood to indicate the epistemic permissibility of believing despite a lack of evidence in favor or even despite evidence to the contrary.  One is in violation of no epistemic duty by believing, even if one lacks conclusive evidence in favor or even if one has evidence that is on the whole against.  In contrast to Flew’s jury model, we can think of this view as treating religious beliefs as permissible until proven incorrect.  Some aspects of fideistic accounts or Plantinga’s reformed epistemology can be understood in this light.  This sort of epistemic policy about God or any other matter has been controversial, and a major point of contention between atheists and theists.  Atheists have argued that we typically do not take it to be epistemically inculpable or reasonable for a person to believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or some other supernatural being merely because they do not possess evidence to the contrary.  Nor would we consider it reasonable for a person to begin believing that they have cancer because they do not have proof to the contrary.  The atheist by default argues that it would be appropriate to not believe in such circumstances.  The epistemic policy here takes its inspiration from an influential piece by W.K. Clifford (1999) in which he argues that it is wrong, always, everywhere, and for anyone, to believe anything for which there is insufficient reason.

There are several other approaches to the justification of atheism that we will consider below.  There is a family of arguments, sometimes known as exercises in deductive atheology, for the conclusion that the existence of God is impossible.  Another large group of important and influential arguments can be gathered under the heading inductive atheology.  These probabilistic arguments invoke considerations about the natural world such as widespread suffering, nonbelief, or findings from biology or cosmology.  Another approach, atheistic noncognitivism, denies that God talk is even meaningful or has any propositional content that can be evaluated in terms of truth or falsity. Rather, religious speech acts are better viewed as a complicated sort of emoting or expression of spiritual passion.  Inductive and deductive approaches are cognitivistic in that they accept that claims about God have meaningful content and can be determined to be true or false.

3. Deductive Atheology

 

Many discussions about the nature and existence of God have either implicitly or explicitly accepted that the concept of God is logically coherent.  That is, for many believers and non-believers the assumption has been that such a being as God could possibly exist but they have disagreed about whether there actually is one.  Atheists within the deductive atheology tradition, however, have not even granted that God, as he is typically described, is possible.  The first question we should ask, argues the deductive atheist, is whether the description or the concept is logically consistent.  If it is not, then no such being could possibly exist.  The deductive atheist argues that some, one, or all of God’s essential properties are logically contradictory.  Since logical impossibilities are not and cannot be real, God does not and cannot exist.  Consider a putative description of an object as a four-sided triangle, a married bachelor, or prime number with more than 2 factors.  We can be certain that no such thing fitting that description exists because what they describe is demonstrably impossible.

If deductive atheological proofs are successful, the results are epistemically significant.  Many people have doubts that the view that there is no God can be rationally justified.  But if deductive disproofs show that there can exist no being with a certain property or properties and those properties figure essentially in the characterization of God, then we will have the strongest possible justification for concluding that there is no being fitting any of those characterizations.  If God is impossible, then God does not exist.

It may be possible at this point to re-engineer the description of God so that it avoids the difficulties, but as a consequence the theist faces several challenges according to the deductive atheologist.  First, if the traditional description of God is logically incoherent, then what is the relationship between a theist’s belief and some revised, more sophisticated account that allegedly does not suffer from those problems? Is that the God that she believed in all along?  Before the account of God was improved by consideration of the atheological arguments, what were the reasons that led her to believe in that conception of God?  Secondly, if the classical characterizations of God are shown to be logically impossible, then there is a legitimate question as whether any new description that avoids those problems describes a being that is worthy of the label.  It will not do, in the eyes of many theists and atheists, to retreat to the view that God is merely a somewhat powerful, partially-knowing, and partly-good being, for example.  Thirdly, the atheist will still want to know on the basis of what evidence or arguments should we conclude that a being as described by this modified account exists?  Fourthly, there is no question that there exist less than omni-beings in the world.  We possess less than infinite power, knowledge and goodness, as do many other creatures and objects in our experience.  What is the philosophical importance or metaphysical significance of arguing for the existence of those sorts of beings and advocating belief in them?  Fifthly, and most importantly, if it has been argued that God’s essential properties are impossible, then any move to another description seems to be a concession that positive atheism about God is justified.

Another possible response that the theist may take in response to deductive atheological arguments is to assert that God is something beyond proper description with any of the concepts or properties that we can or do employ as suggested in Kierkegaard or Tillich.  So complications from incompatibilities among properties of God indicate problems for our descriptions, not the impossibility of a divine being worthy of the label. Many atheists have not been satisfied with this response because the theist has now asserted the existence of and attempted to argue in favor of believing in a being that we cannot form a proper idea of, one that does not have  properties that we can acknowledge; it is a being that defies comprehension.  It is not clear how we could have reasons or justifications for believing in the existence of such a thing.  It is not clear how it could be an existing thing in any familiar sense of the term in that it lacks comprehensible properties.  Or put another way, as Patrick Grim notes, “If a believer’s notion of God remains so vague as to escape all impossibility arguments, it can be argued, it cannot be clear to even him what he believes—or whether what he takes for pious belief has any content at all,” (2007, p. 200).  It is not clear how it could be reasonable to believe in such a thing, and it is even more doubtful that it is epistemically unjustified or irresponsible to deny that such a thing is exists.  It is clear, however, that the deductive atheologist must acknowledge the growth and development of our concepts and descriptions of reality over time, and she must take a reasonable view about the relationship of those attempts and revisions in our ideas about what may turns out to be real.

a. Single Property Disproofs

 

Deductive disproofs have typically focused on logical inconsistencies to be found either within a single property or between multiple properties.  Philosophers have struggled to work out the details of what it would be to be omnipotent, for instance.  It has come to be widely accepted that a being cannot be omnipotent where omnipotence simply means to power to do anything including the logically impossible.  This definition of the term suffers from the stone paradox.  An omnipotent being would either be capable of creating a rock that he cannot lift, or he is incapable.  If he is incapable, then there is something he cannot do, and therefore he does not have the power to do anything.  If he can create such a rock, then again there is something that he cannot do, namely lift the rock he just created.  So paradoxically, having the ability to do anything would appear to entail being unable to do some things.  As a result, many theists and atheists have agreed that a being could not have that property.  A number of attempts to work out an account of omnipotence have ensued.  (Cowan 2003, Flint and Freddoso 1983, Hoffman and Rosenkrantz 1988 and 2006, Mavrodes 1977, Ramsey 1956, Sobel 2004, Savage 1967, and Wierenga 1989 for examples).  It has also been argued that omniscience is impossible, and that the most knowledge that can possibly be had is not enough to be fitting of God.  One of the central problems has been that God cannot have knowledge of indexical claims such as, “I am here now.”  It has also been argued that God cannot know future free choices, or God cannot know future contingent propositions, or that Cantor’s and Gödel proofs imply that the notion of a set of all truths cannot be made coherent.  (Everitt 2004, Grim 1985, 1988, 1984, Pucetti 1963, and Sobel 2004).  See the article on Omniscience and Divine Foreknowledge for more details.

The logical coherence of eternality, personhood, moral perfection, causal agency, and many others have been challenged in the deductive atheology literature.

b. Multiple Property Disproofs

Another form of deductive atheological argument attempts to show the logical incompatibility of two or more properties that God is thought to possess.  A long list of properties have been the subject of multiple property disproofs, transcendence and personhood, justice and mercy, immutability and omniscience, immutability and omnibenevolence, omnipresence and agency, perfection and love, eternality and omniscience, eternality and creator of the universe, omnipresence and consciousness.   (Blumenfeld 2003, Drange 1998b, Flew 1955, Grim 2007, Kretzmann 1966, and McCormick 2000 and 2003)

The combination of omnipotence and omniscience have received a great deal of attention.  To possess all knowledge, for instance, would include knowing all of the particular ways in which one will exercise one’s power, or all of the decisions that one will make, or all of the decisions that one has made in the past.  But knowing any of those entails that the known proposition is true.  So does God have the power to act in some fashion that he has not foreseen, or differently than he already has without compromising his omniscience?  It has also been argued that God cannot be both unsurpassably good and free.  (Rowe 2004).

c. Failure of Proof Disproof

When attempts to provide evidence or arguments in favor of the existence of something fail, a legitimate and important question is whether anything except the failure of those arguments can be inferred.  That is, does positive atheism follow from the failure of arguments for theism?  A number of authors have concluded that it does.  They taken the view that unless some case for the existence of God succeeds, we should believe that there is no God.

Many have taken an argument J.M. Findlay (1948) to be pivotal.  Findlay, like many others, argues that in order to be worthy of the label “God,” and in order to be worthy of a worshipful attitude of reverence, emulation, and abandoned admiration, the being that is the object of that attitude must be inescapable, necessary, and unsurpassably supreme.  (Martin 1990, Sobel 2004).  If a being like God were to exist, his existence would be necessary.  And his existence would be manifest as an a priori, conceptual truth.  That is to say that of all the approaches to God’s existence, the ontological argument is the strategy that we would expect to be successful were there a God, and if they do not succeed, then we can conclude that there is no God, Findlay argues. As most see it these attempts to prove God have not met with success, Findlay says, “The general philosophical verdict is that none of these ‘proofs’ is truly compelling.”

4. Inductive Atheology

a. The Prospects for Inductive Proof

 

The view that there is no God or gods has been criticized on the grounds that it is not possible to prove a negative.  No matter how exhaustive and careful our analysis, there could always be some proof, some piece of evidence, or some consideration that we have not considered.  God could be something that we have not conceived, or God exists in some form or fashion that has escaped our investigation.  Positive atheism draws a stronger conclusion than any of the problems with arguments for God’s existence alone could justify.  Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

Findlay and the deductive atheological arguments attempt to address these concerns, but a central question put to atheists has been about the possibility of giving inductive or probabilistic justifications for negative existential claims.  The response to the, “You cannot prove a negative” criticism has been that it invokes an artificially high epistemological standard of justification that creates a much broader set of problems not confined to atheism.

The general principle seems to be that one is not epistemically entitled to believe a proposition unless you have exhausted all of the possibilities and proven beyond any doubt that a claim is true.  Or put negatively, one is not justified in disbelieving unless you have proven with absolute certainty that the thing in question does not exist.  The problem is that we do not have a priori disproof that many things do not exist, yet it is reasonable and justified to believe that they do not:  the Dodo bird is extinct, unicorns are not real, there is no teapot orbiting the Earth on the opposite side of the Sun, there is no Santa Claus, ghosts are not real, a defendant is not guilty, a patient does not have a particular disease, so on.  There are a wide range of other circumstances under which we take it that believing that X does not exist is reasonable even though no logical impossibility is manifest. None of these achieve the level of deductive, a priori or conceptual proof.

The objection to inductive atheism undermines itself in that it generates a broad, pernicious skepticism against far more than religious or irreligious beliefs.  Mackie (1982) says, “It will not be sufficient to criticize each argument on its own by saying that it does not prove the intended conclusion, that is, does not put it beyond all doubt.  That follows at once from the admission that the argument is non-deductive, and it is absurd to try to confine our knowledge and belief to matters which are conclusively established by sound deductive arguments.  The demand for certainty will inevitably be disappointed, leaving skepticism in command of almost every issue”  (p. 7).  If the atheist is unjustified for lacking deductive proof, then it is argued, it would appear that so are the beliefs that planes fly, fish swim, or that there exists a mind-independent world.

The atheist can also wonder what the point of the objection is.  When we lack deductive disproof that X exists, should we be agnostic about it?  Is it permissible to believe that it does exist?  Clearly, that would not be appropriate.  Gravity may be the work of invisible, undetectable elves with sticky shoes.  We don’t have any certain disproof of the elves—physicists are still struggling with an explanation of gravity.  But surely someone who accepts the sticky-shoed elves view until they have deductive disproof is being unreasonable.  It is also clear that if you are a positive atheist about the gravity elves, you would not be unreasonable.  You would not be overstepping your epistemic entitlement by believing that no such things exist.  On the contrary, believing that they exist or even being agnostic about their existence on the basis of their mere possibility would not be justified.  So there appear to be a number of precedents and epistemic principles at work in our belief structures that provide room for inductive atheism.  However, these issues in the epistemology of atheism and recent work by Graham Oppy (2006) suggest that more attention must be paid to the principles that describe epistemic  permissibility, culpability, reasonableness, and justification with regard to the theist, atheist, and agnostic categories.

Below we will consider several groups of influential inductive atheological arguments .

b. The Santa Claus Argument

Martin (1990) offers this general principle to describe the criteria that render the belief, “X does not exist” justified:

A person is justified in believing that X does not exist if

(1)  all the available evidence used to support the view that X exists is shown to be inadequate; and

(2)  X is the sort of entity that, if X exists, then there is a presumption that would be evidence adequate to support the view that X exists; and

(3)  this presumption has not been defeated although serious efforts have been made to do so; and

(4)  the area where evidence would appear, if there were any, has been comprehensively examined; and

(5)  there are no acceptable beneficial reasons to believe that X exists.  (p. 283)

Many of the major works in philosophical atheism that address the full range of recent arguments for God’s existence (Gale 1991, Mackie 1982, Martin 1990, Sobel 2004, Everitt 2004, and Weisberger 1999) can be seen as providing evidence to satisfy the first,  fourth and fifth conditions.  A substantial body of articles with narrower scope (see References and Further Reading) can also be understood to play this role in justifying atheism.  A large group of discussions of Pascal’s Wager and related prudential justifications in the literature can also be seen as relevant to the satisfaction of the fifth condition.

One of the interesting and important questions in the epistemology of philosophy of religion has been whether the second and third conditions are satisfied concerning God.  If there were a God, how and in what ways would we expect him to show in the world?  Empirically?  Conceptually?  Would he be hidden?  Martin argues, and many others have accepted implicitly or explicitly, that God is the sort of thing that would manifest in some discernible fashion to our inquiries.   Martin concludes, therefore, that God satisfied all of the conditions, so, positive narrow atheism is justified.

c. Problem of Evil

The existence of widespread human and non-human animal suffering has been seen by many to be compelling evidence that a being with all power, all knowledge, and all goodness does not exist.  Many of those arguments have been deductive:  See the article on The Logical Problem of Evil. In the 21st century, several inductive arguments from evil for the non-existence of God have received a great deal of attention.  See The Evidential Problem of Evil.

d. Cosmology

Questions about the origins of the universe and cosmology have been the focus for many inductive atheism arguments.  We can distinguish four recent views about God and the cosmos:

Naturalism: On naturalistic view, the Big Bang occurred approximately 13.7 billion years ago, the Earth formed out of cosmic matter about 4.6 billion years ago, and life forms on Earth, unaided by any supernatural forces about 4 billion years ago.  Various physical (non-God) hypotheses are currently being explored about the cause or explanation of the Big Bang such as the Hartle-Hawking no-boundary condition model, brane cosmology models, string theoretic models, ekpyrotic models, cyclic models, chaotic inflation, and so on.

Big Bang Theism: We can call the view that God caused about the Big Bang 13.7 billion years ago Big Bang Theism.

Intelligent Design Theism: There are many variations, but most often the view is that God created the universe, perhaps with the Big Bang 13.7 billion years ago, and then beginning with the appearance of life 4 billion years ago.  God supernaturally guided the formation and development of life into the forms we see today.

Creationism: Finally, there is a group of people who for the most part denies the occurrence of the Big Bang and of evolution altogether; God created the universe, the Earth, and all of the life on Earth in its more or less present form 6,000-10,000 years ago.

atheism graphic

Taking a broad view, many atheists have concluded that neither Big Bang Theism, Intelligent Design Theism, nor Creationism is the most reasonable description of the history of the universe.  Before the theory of evolution and recent developments in modern astronomy, a view wherein God did not play a large role in the creation and unfolding of the cosmos would have been hard to justify.  Now, internal problems with those views and the evidence from cosmology and biology indicate that naturalism is the best explanation.  Justifications for Big Bang Theism have focused on modern versions of the Cosmological and Kalam arguments.  Since everything that comes into being must have a cause, including the universe, then God was the cause of the Big Bang. (Craig 1995)

The objections to these arguments have been numerous and vigorously argued.  Critics have challenged the inference to a supernatural cause to fill gaps in the natural account, as well as the inferences that the first cause must be a single, personal, all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good being.  It is not clear that any of the properties of God as classically conceived in orthodox monotheism can be inferred from what we know about the Big Bang without first accepting a number of theistic assumptions.  Infinite power and knowledge do not appear to be required to bring about a Big Bang—what if our Big Bang was the only act that a being could perform?  There appears to be consensus that infinite goodness or moral perfection cannot be inferred as a necessary part of the cause of the Big Bang—theists have focused their efforts in the problem of evil, discussions just attempting to prove that it is possible that God is infinitely good given the state of the world.  Big Bang Theism would need to show that no other sort of cause besides a morally perfect one could explain the universe we find ourselves in.  Critics have also doubted whether we can know that some supernatural force that caused the Big Bang is still in existence or is the same entity as identified and worshipped in any particular religious tradition.  Even if major concessions are granted in the cosmological argument, all that it would seem to suggest is that there was a first cause or causes, but widely accepted arguments from that first cause or causes to the fully articulated God of Christianity or Islam, for instance, have not been forthcoming.

In some cases, atheists have taken the argument a step further.  They have offered cosmological arguments for the nonexistence of God on the basis of considerations from physics, astronomy, and subatomic theory.  These arguments are quite technical, so they are given brief attention.  God, if he exists, knowing all and having all power, would only employ those means to his ends that are rational, effective, efficient, and optimal.  If God were the creator, then he was the cause of the Big Bang, but cosmological atheists have argued that the singularity that produced the Big Bang and events that unfold thereafter preclude a rational divine agent from achieving particular ends with the Big Bang as the means.  The Big Bang would not have been the route God would have chosen to this world as a result.  (Stenger 2007, Smith 1993, Everitt 2004.)

e. Teleological Arguments

In William Paley’s famous analysis, he argues by analogy that the presence of order in the universe, like the features we find in a watch, are indicative of the existence of a designer who is responsible for the artifact.  Many authors—David Hume (1935), Wesley Salmon (1978), Michael Martin (1990)—have argued that a better case can be made for the nonexistence of God from the evidence.

Salmon, giving a modern Bayesian version of an argument that begins with Hume, argues that the likelihood that the ordered universe was created by intelligence is very low.  In general, instances of biologically or mechanically caused generation without intelligence are far more common than instances of creation from intelligence.  Furthermore, the probability that something that is generated by a biological or mechanical cause will exhibit order is quite high.  Among those things that are designed, the probability that they exhibit order may be quite high, but that is not the same as asserting that among the things that exhibit order the probability that they were designed is high.  Among dogs, the incidence of fur may be high, but it is not true that among furred things the incidence of dogs is high.  Furthermore, intelligent design and careful planning very frequently produces disorder—war, industrial pollution, insecticides, and so on.

So we can conclude that the probability that an unspecified entity (like the universe), which came into being and exhibits order, was produced by intelligent design is very low and that the empirical evidence indicates that there was no designer.

See the article on Design Arguments for the Existence of God for more details about the history of the argument and standard objections that have motivated atheism.

f. Arguments from Nonbelief

Another recent group of inductive atheistic arguments has focused on widespread nonbelief itself as evidence that atheism is justified.  The common thread in these arguments is that something as significant in the universe as God could hardly be overlooked.  The ultimate creator of the universe and a being with infinite knowledge, power, and love would not escape our attention, particularly since humans have devoted such staggering amounts of energy to the question for so many centuries.   Perhaps more importantly, a being such as God, if he chose, could certainly make his existence manifest to us.  Creating a state of affairs where his existence would be obvious, justified, or reasonable to us, or at least more obvious to more of us than it is currently, would be a trivial matter for an all-powerful being. So since our efforts have not yielded what we would expect to find if there were a God, then the most plausible explanation is that there is no God.

One might argue that we should not assume that God’s existence would be evident to us.  There may be reasons, some of which we can describe, others that we do not understand, that God could have for remaining out of sight.   Revealing himself is not something he desires, remaining hidden enables people to freely love, trust and obey him, remaining hidden prevents humans from reacting from improper motives, like fear of punishment, remaining hidden preserves human freewill.

The non-belief atheist has not found these speculations convincing for several reasons.  In religious history, God’s revealing himself to Moses, Muhammad, Jesus’ disciples, and even Satan himself did not compromise their cognitive freedom in any significant way.  Furthermore, attempts to explain why a universe where God exists would look just as we would expect a universe with no God have seemed ad hoc.  Some of the logical positivists’ and non-cognitivists’ concerns surface here.  If the believer maintains that a universe inhabited by God will look exactly like one without, then we must wonder what sort of counter-evidence would be allowed, even in principle, against the theist’s claim.  If no state of affairs could be construed as evidence against God’s existence, then what does the claim, “God exists,” mean and what are its real implications?

Alternately, how can it be unreasonable to not believe in the existence of something that defies all of our attempts to corroborate or discover?

Theodore Drange (2006)  has developed an argument that if God were the sort of being that wanted humans to come to believe that he exists, then he could bring it about that far more of them would believe than currently do.  God would be able, he would want humans to believe, there is nothing that he would want more, and God would not be irrational.  So God would bring it about that people would believe.  In general, he could have brought it about that the evidence that people have is far more convincing than what they have.  He could have miraculously appeared to everyone in a fashion that was far more compelling than the miracles stories that we have.  It is not the case that all, nearly all, or even a majority of people believe, so there must not be a God of that sort.

J.L. Schellenberg (1993) has developed an argument based upon a number of considerations that lead us to think that if there were a loving God, then we would expect to find some manifestations of him in the world.  If God is all powerful, then there would be nothing restraining him from making his presence known.  And if he is omniscient, then surely he would know how to reveal himself.  Perhaps, most importantly, if God is good and if God possesses an unsurpassable love for us, then God would consider each human’s requests as important and seek to respond quickly.  He would wish to spare those that he loves needless trauma.  He would not want to give those that he loves false or misleading thoughts about his relationship to them.  He would want as much personal interaction with them as possible, but of course, these conditions are not satisfied.  So it is strongly indicated that there is no such God.

Schellenberg gives this telling parable:

“You’re still a small child, and an amnesiac, but this time you’re in the middle of a vast rain forest, dripping with dangers of various kinds.  You’ve been stuck there for days, trying to figure out who you are and where you came from.  You don’t remember having a mother who accompanied you into this jungle, but in your moments of deepest pain and misery you call for her anyway, ‘Mooooommmmmmm!’  Over and over again.  For days and days … the last time when a jaguar comes at you out of nowhere … but with no response.  What should you think in this situation?  In your dying moments, what should cross your mind?  Would the thought that you have a mother who cares about you and hears your cry and could come to you but chooses not to even make it onto the list?” (2006, p. 31)

Like Drange, Schellenberg argues that there are many people who are epistemically inculpable in believing that there is no God.  That is, many people have carefully considered the evidence available to them, and have actively sought out more in order to determine what is reasonable concerning God.  They have fulfilled all relevant epistemic duties they might have in their inquiry into the question and they have arrived at a justified belief that there is no God.  If there were a God, however, evidence sufficient to form a reasonable belief in his existence would be available. So the occurrence of widespread epistemically inculpable nonbelief itself shows that there is no God.

g. Atheistic Naturalism

The final family of inductive arguments we will consider involves drawing a positive atheistic conclusion from broad, naturalized grounds.  See the article on Naturalism for background about the position and relevant arguments.  Comments here will be confined to naturalism as it relates to atheism.

Methodological naturalism can be understood as the view that the best or the only way to acquire knowledge within science is by adopting the assumption that all physical phenomena have physical causes.  This presumption by itself does not commit one to the view that only physical entities and causes exist, or that all knowledge must be acquired through scientific methods.  Methodological naturalism, therefore, is typically not seen as being in direct conflict with theism or having any particular implications for the existence or non-existence of God.

Ontological naturalism, however, is usually seen as taking a stronger view about the existence of God.  Ontological naturalism is the additional view that all and only physical entities and causes exist.

Among its theistic critics, there has been a tendency to portray ontological naturalism as a dogmatic ideological commitment that is more the product of a recent intellectual fashion than science or reasoned argument.  But two developments have contributed to a broad argument in favor of ontological naturalism as the correct description of what sorts of things exist and are causally efficacious.  First, there is a substantial history of the exploration and rejection of a variety of non-physical causal hypotheses in the history of science.  Over the centuries, the possibility that some class of physical events could be caused by a supernatural source, a spiritual source, psychic energy, mental forces, or vital causes have been entertained and found wanting.  Second, evidence for the law of the conservation of energy has provided significant support to physical closure, or the view that the natural world is a complete closed system in which physical events have physical causes.  At the very least, atheists have argued, the ruins of so many supernatural explanations that have been found wanting in the history of science has created an enormous burden of proof that must be met before any claim about the existence of another worldly spiritual being can have credence.  Ontological naturalism should not be seen as a dogmatic commitment, its defenders have insisted, but rather as a defeasible hypothesis that is supported by centuries of inquiry into the supernatural.

As scientific explanations have expanded to include more details about the workings of natural objects and laws, there has been less and less room or need for invoking God as an explanation.  It is not clear that expansion of scientific knowledge disproves the existence of God in any formal sense any more than it has disproven the existence of fairies, the atheistic naturalist argues.  However, physical explanations have increasingly rendered God explanations extraneous and anomalous.  For example, when Laplace, the famous 18th century French mathematician and astronomer, presented his work on celestial mechanics to Napoleon, the Emperor asked him about the role of a divine creator in his system Laplace is reported to have said, “I have no need for that hypothesis.”

In many cases, science has shown that particular ancillary theses of traditional religious doctrine are mistaken.  Blind, petitionary prayer has been investigated and found to have no effect on the health of its recipients, although praying itself may have some positive effects on the person who prayers (Benson, 2006).  Geology, biology, and cosmology have discovered that the Earth formed approximately 3 billion years ago out of cosmic dust, and life evolved gradually over billions of years.  The Earth, humans, and other life forms were not created in their present form some 6,000-10,000 years ago and the atheistic naturalist will point to numerous  alleged miraculous events have been investigated and debunked.

Wide, positive atheism, the view that there are no gods whatsoever, might appear to be the most difficult atheistic thesis to defend, but ontological naturalists have responded that the case for no gods is parallel to the case for no elves, pixies, dwarves, fairies, goblins, or other creates.  A decisive proof against every possible supernatural being is not necessary for the conclusion that none of them are real to be justified.  The ontological naturalist atheist believes that once we have devoted sufficient investigation into enough particular cases and the general considerations about natural laws, magic, and supernatural entities, it becomes reasonable to conclude that the whole enterprise is an explanatory dead end for figuring out what sort of things there are in the world.

The disagreement between atheists and theists continues on two fronts.  Within the arena of science and the natural world, some believers have persisted in arguing that material explanations are inadequate to explain all of the particular events and phenomena that we observe.  Some philosophers and scientists have argued that for phenomena like consciousness, human morality, and some instances of biological complexity, explanations in terms of natural or evolutionary theses have not and will not be able to provide us with a complete picture.  Therefore, the inference to some supernatural force is warranted.  While some of these attempts have received social and political support, within the scientific community the arguments that causal closure is false and that God as a cause is a superior scientific hypothesis to naturalistic explanations have not received significant support.  Science can cite a history of replacing spiritual, supernatural, or divine explanations of phenomena with natural ones from bad weather as the wrath of angry gods to disease as demon possession.  The assumption for many is that there are no substantial reasons to doubt that those areas of the natural world that have not been adequately explained scientifically will be given enough time.  ( Madden and Hare 1968, Papineau, Manson, Nielsen 2001, and Stenger.)  Increasingly, with what they perceive as the failure of attempts to justify theism, atheists have moved towards naturalized accounts of religious belief that give causal and evolutionary explanations of the prevalence of belief.  (See Atrans, Boyer, Dennett 2006)

5. Cognitivism and Non-Cognitivism

 

In 20th century moral theory, a view about the nature of moral value claims arose that has an analogue in discussions of atheism.  Moral non-cognitivists have denied that moral utterances should be treated as ordinary propositions that are either true or false and subject to evidential analysis.  On their view, when someone makes a moral claim like, “Cheating is wrong,” what they are doing is more akin to saying something like, “I have negative feelings about cheating.  I want you to share those negative feelings.  Cheating.  Bad.”

A non-cognitivist atheist denies that religious utterances are propositions.  They are not the sort of speech act that have a truth value.  They are more like emoting, singing, poetry, or cheering.  They express personal desires, feelings of subjugation, admiration, humility, and love.  As such, they cannot and should not be dealt with by denials or arguments any more than I can argue with you over whether or not a poem moves you.  There is an appeal to this approach when we consider common religious utterances such as, “Jesus loves you.”  “Jesus died for your sins.”  “God be with you.”  What these mean, according to the non-cognitivist, is something like, “I have sympathy for your plight, we are all in a similar situation and in need of paternalistic comforting, you can have it if you perform certain kinds of behaviors and adopt a certain kind of personal posture with regard to your place in the world.  When I do these things I feel joyful, I want you to feel joyful too.”

So the non-cognitivist atheist does not claim that the sentence, “God exists” is false, as such.  Rather, when people make these sorts of claims, their behavior is best understood as a complicated publicizing of a particular sort of subjective sensations.  Strictly speaking, the claims do not mean anything in terms of assertions about what sorts of entities do or do not exist in the world independent of human cognitive and emotional states.  The non-cognitivist characterization of many religious speech acts and behaviors has seemed to some to be the most accurate description.  For the most part, atheists appear to be cognitivist atheists.  They assume that religious utterances do express propositions that are either true or false.  Positive atheists will argue that there are compelling reasons or evidence for concluding that in fact those claims are false.  (Drange 2006, Diamond and Lizenbury 1975, Nielsen 1985)

Few would disagree that many religious utterances are non-cognitive such as religious ceremonies, rituals, and liturgies.   Non-cognitivists have argued that many believers are confused when their speech acts and behavior slips from being non-cognitive to something resembling cognitive assertions about God.  The problem with the non-cognitivist view is that many religious utterances are clearly treated as cognitive by their speakers—they are meant to be treated as true or false claims, they are treated as making a difference, and they clearly have an impact on people’s lives and beliefs beyond the mere expression of a special category of emotions.  Insisting that those claims simply have no cognitive content despite the intentions and arguments to the contrary of the speaker is an ineffectual means of addressing them.  So non-cognitivism does not appear to completely address belief in God.

6. Future Prospects for Atheism

20th century developments in epistemology, philosophy of science, logic, and philosophy of language indicate that many of the presumptions that supported old fashioned natural theology and atheology are mistaken.  It appears that even our most abstract, a priori, and deductively certain methods for determining truth are subject to revision in the light of empirical discoveries and theoretical analyses of the principles that underlie those methods.  Certainty, reasoning, and theology, after Bayes’ work on probability, Wittgenstein’s fideism, Quine’s naturalism, and Kripke’s work on necessity are not what they used to be.  The prospects for a simple, confined argument for atheism (or theism) that achieves widespread support or that settles the question are dim.  That is because, in part, the prospects for any argument that decisively settles a philosophical question where a great deal seems to be at stake are dim.

The existence or non-existence of any non-observable entity in the world is not settled by any single argument or consideration.  Every premise is based upon other concepts and principles that themselves must be justified.  So ultimately, the adequacy of atheism as an explanatory hypothesis about what is real will depend upon the overall coherence, internal consistency, empirical confirmation, and explanatory success of a whole worldview within which atheism is only one small part.  The question of whether or not there is a God sprawls onto related issues and positions about biology, physics, metaphysics, explanation, philosophy of science, ethics, philosophy of language, and epistemology.  The reasonableness of atheism depends upon the overall adequacy of a whole conceptual and explanatory description of the world.

7. References and Further Reading

  • Atran, Scott, 2002,  In Gods We Trust:  The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion. New York:  Oxford University Press.
    • An evolutionary and anthropological account of religious beliefs and institutions.
  • Benson H, Dusek JA, Sherwood JB, Lam P, Bethea CF, Carpenter W, Levitsky S, Hill PC, Clem DW Jr, Jain MK, Drumel D,Kopecky SL, Mueller PS, Marek D, Rollins S, Hibberd PL. “Study of the Therapeutic Effects of Intercessory Prayer (STEP) in cardiac bypass patients: a multicenter randomized trial of uncertainty and certainty of receiving intercessory prayer.” American Heart Journal, April 2006 151(4):934-42.
  • Blumenfeld, David, 2003,  “On the Compossibility of the Divine Attributes,”  In The Impossibility of God. eds, Martin and Monnier. Amherst, N.Y.:  Prometheus Press.
    • The implications of perfection show that God’s power, knowledge, and goodness are not compatible, so the standard Judeo-Christian divine and perfect being is impossible.
  • Boyer, Pascal 2001, Religion Explained: The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought.  New York:  Basic Books.
    • An influential anthropological and evolutionary work.  Religion exists to sustain important aspects of social psychology.
  • Clifford, W.K., 1999, “The Ethics of Belief,”  in The Ethics of Belief and other Essays. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books.
    • Famously, Clifford argues that it is wrong always and anywhere to believe anything on the basis of insufficient evidence.  Important and influential argument in discussions of atheism and faith.
  • Cowan, J. L., 2003,  “The Paradox of Omnipotence,” In The Impossibility of God. eds, Martin and Monnier. Amherst, N.Y.:  Prometheus Press.
    • No being can have the power to do everything that is not self-contradictory.  That God has that sort of omnipotence is itself self-contradictory.
  • Craig, William L. and Quentin Smith 1995.  Theism, Atheism, and Big Bang Cosmology. N.Y.: Oxford University Press.
    • Craig and Smith have an exchange on the cosmological evidence in favor of theism, for atheism, and Hawking’s quantum cosmology.  The work is part of an important recent shift that takes the products of scientific investigation to be directly relevant to the question of God’s existence.
  • Darwin, Charles,  1871.  The Descent of Man, and the Selection in Relation to Sex. London:  John Murray.
    • Twelve years after The Origin of Species, Darwin makes a thorough and compelling case for the evolution of humans.  He also expands on numerous details of the theory.
  • Darwin, Charles, 1859.  The Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection. London:  John Murray.
    • Darwin’s first book where he explains his theory of natural selection.  No explicit mention of humans is made, but the theological implications are clear for the teleological argument.
  • Dennett, Daniel, 2006.  Breaking the Spell:  Religion as a Natural Phenomenon. New York:  Viking Penguin.
    • Important work among the so-called New Atheists.  Dennett argues that religion can and should be studying by science.  He outlines evolutionary explanations for religion’s cultural and psychological influence.
  • Diamond, Malcolm L. and Lizenbury, Thomas V. Jr. (eds)  The Logic of God, Indianapolis, Ind.:  Bobbs-Merrill, 1975.
    • A collection of articles addressing the logical coherence of the properties of God.
  • Drange, Theodore, 1998a.  Nonbelief and Evil. Amherst, N.Y.:  Prometheus Books.
    • Drange gives an argument from evil against the existence of the God of evangelical Christianity, and an argument that the God of evangelical Christianity could and would bring about widespread belief, therefore such a God does not exist.
  • Drange, Theodore, 1998b.  “Incompatible Properties Arguments:  A Survey.”  Philo 1: 2.  pp. 49-60.
    • A useful discussion of several property pairs that are not logically compatible in the same being such as:  perfect-creator, immutable-creator, immutable-omniscient, and transcendence-omnipresence.
  • Drange, Theodore,  2006.  “Is “God Exists” Cognitive?”  Philo 8:2.
    • Drange argues that non-cognitivism is not the best way to understand theistic claims.
  • Everitt, Nicholas, 2004.  The Non-Existence of God.  London:  Routledge.
    • Everitt considers and rejects significant recent arguments for the existence of God.  Offers insightful analyses of ontological, cosmological, teleological, miracle, and pragmatic arguments.  The argument from scale and deductive atheological arguments are of particular interest
  • Findlay, J.N.,  1948.  “Can God’s Existence be Disproved?”  Mind 54, pp.  176-83.
    • Influential early argument.  If there is a God, then he will be a necessary being and the ontological argument will succeed.  But the ontological argument and our efforts to make it work have not been successful.  So there is no God.
  • Flew, A. and MacIntyre, A. eds., 1955, New Essays in Philosophical Theology, London: S.C.M. Press.
    • Influential early collection of British philosophers where the influence of the Vienna Circle is evident in the “logical analysis” of religion.  The meaning, function, analysis, and falsification of theological claims and discourse are considered.
  • Flew, Antony. 1955. “Divine Omnipotence and Human Freedom.” in New Essays in Philosophical Theology, Anthony Flew and Alasdair MacIntyre (eds.).   New York: Macmilla
    • An early work in deductive atheology that considers the compatibility of God’s power and human freedom.
  • Flew, Antony, 1984.  “The Presumption of Atheism.”  in God, Freedom, and Immortality.  Buffalo, N.Y.: Prometheus Books, pp. 13-30.
    • A collection of Flew’s essays, some of which are antiquated.  The most important are “The Presumption of Atheism,” and “The Principle of Agnosticism.”
  • Flint and Freddoso, 1983. “Maximal Power.”  in The Existence and Nature of God, Alfred J. Freddoso, ed.  Notre Dame, Ind.:  University of Notre Dame Press.
    • Gives an account of omnipotence in terms of possible worlds logic and with the notion of two world sharing histories.  It attempts to avoid a number of paradoxes.
  • Gale, Richard, 1991.  On the Nature and Existence of God. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press.
    • Gale gives a careful, advanced analysis of several important deductive atheological arguments as well as the ontological and cosmological arguments, and concludes that none for theism are successful.  But he does not address inductive arguments and therefore says that he cannot answer the general question of God’s existence.
  • Grim, Patrick, 1985.  “Against Omniscience:  The Case from Essential Indexicals,”  Nous, 19. pp.  151-180.
    • God cannot be omniscient because it is not possible for him to have indexical knowledge such as what I know when I know that I am making a mess.
  • Grim, Patrick, 1988.  “Logic and Limits of Knowledge and Truth,” Nous 22.  pp.  341-67.
    • Uses Cantor and Gödel to argue that omniscience is impossible within any logic we have.
  • Grim, Patrick, 2007.  “Impossibility Arguments.”  in The Cambridge Companion to Atheism, Michael Martin (ed).  N.Y.:  Cambridge University Press.
    • Grim outlines several recent attempts to salvage a workable definition of omnipotence from Flint and Freddoso, Wierenga, and Hoffman and Rosenkrantz.  He argues that they do not succeed leaving God’s power either impossible or too meager to be worthy of God.  Indexical problems with omniscience and a Cantorian problem render it impossible too.
  • Gutting, Gary, 1982.  Religious Belief and Religious Skepticism. Notre Dame, Ind.:  University of Notre Dame Press.
    • Gutting criticizes Wittgensteinians such as Malcolm, Winch, Phillips, and Burrell before turning to Plantinga’s early notion of belief in God as basic to noetic structures.  Useful for addressing important 20th century linguistic and epistemological turns in theism discussions.
  • Harris, Sam, 2005.  The End of Faith. N.Y.:  Norton.
    • Another influential New Atheist work, although it does not contend with the best philosophical arguments for God.  Harris argues that faith is not an acceptable justification for religious belief, particularly given the dangerousness of religious agendas worldwide.  A popular, non-scholarly book that has had a broad impact on the discussion.
  • Hoffman, Joshua and Rosenkrantz, 1988.  “Omnipotence Redux,”  Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 43.  pp.  283-301.
    • Defends Hoffman and Rosenkrantz’s account of omnipotence against criticisms offered by Flint, Freddoso, and Wierenga.
  • Hoffman, Joshua and Rosenkrantz, 2006.  “Omnipotence,” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
    • A good overview of the various attempts to construct a philosophically viable account of omnipotence.
  • Howard-Snyder, Daniel and Moser, Paul, eds. 2001. Divine Hiddenness:  New Essays. Cambridge University Press.
    • A central collection of essays concerning the question of God’s hiddenness.  If there is a God, then why is his existence not more obvious?
  • Howard-Snyder, Daniel, 1996.  “The Argument from Divine Hiddenness.”  Canadian Journal of Philosophy 26. 433-53.
    • Howard-Snyder argues that there is a prima facie good reason for God to refrain from entering into a personal relationship with inculpable nonbelievers, so there are good reasons for God to permit inculpable nonbelief.  Therefore, inculpable nonbelief does not imply atheism.
  • Hume, David, 1935.  Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. Norman Kemp Smith, Oxford:  Clarendon Press.
    • Hume offers his famous dialogues between Philo, Demea, and Cleanthes in which he explores the empirical evidence for the existence of God.  No work in the philosophy of religion except perhaps Anselm or Aquinas has received more attention or had more influence.
  • Kitcher, Philip, 1982.  Abusing Science Cambridge, Mass.:  MIT Press.
    • A useful, but somewhat dated and non-scholarly, presentation of the theory of evolution and critique of creationist arguments against it.
  • Kretzmann, Norman, 1966.  “Omniscience and Immutability,” Journal of Philosophy 63.  pp.  409-21.
    • A perfect being is not subject to change.  A perfect being knows everything.  A being that knows everything always knows what time it is.  A being that always knows what time it is subject to change.  Therefore, a perfect being is subject to change.  Therefore, a perfect being is not a perfect being.  Therefore, there is no perfect being.
  • Mackie, J. L. 1982.  The Miracle of Theism.  New York:  Oxford University Press.
    • An influential and comprehensive work.  He rejects many classic and contemporary ontological, cosmological, moral, teleological, evil, and pragmatic arguments.
  • Madden, Edward and Peter Hare, eds., 1968. Evil and the Concept of God. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas.
    • Madden and Hare argue against a full range of theodicies suggesting that the problem of evil cannot be adequately answered by philosophical theology.
  • Manson, Neil A., ed., 2003, God and Design, London: Routledge.
    • The best recent academic collection of discussions of the design argument.
  • Martin, Michael, 1990.   Atheism:  A Philosophical Justification. Philadelphia:  Temple University Press, 1990.
    • A careful and comprehensive work that surveys and rejects a broad range of arguments for God’s existence.  One of the very best attempts to give a comprehensive argument for atheism.
  • Martin, Michael and Ricki Monnier, eds.  2003.  The Impossibility of God. Amherst, N.Y.:  Prometheus Press.
    • An important collection of deductive atheological arguments—the only one of its kind.  A significant body of articles arguing for the conclusion that God not only does not exist, but is impossible.
  • Martin, Michael and Ricki Monnier, eds.  2006.  The Improbability of God. Amherst, N.Y.:  Prometheus Press.
    • The companion to The Impossibility of God. An important collection of inductive atheological arguments distinct from the problem of evil.  God’s existence is unreasonable.
  • Matson, Wallace I., 1965.  The Existence of God. Ithaca, N.Y.:  Cornell University Press.
    • Matson critically scrutinizes the important arguments (of the day) for the existence of God.  He concludes that none of them is conclusive and that the problem of evil tips the balance against.
  • Mavrodes, George, 1977.  “Defining Omnipotence,”  Philosophical Studies, 32.  pp. 191-202.
    • Mavrodes defends limiting omnipotence to exclude logically impossible acts.  It is no limitation upon a being’s power to assert that it cannot perform an incoherent act.
  • McCormick, Matthew, 2000.  “Why God Cannot Think:  Kant, Omnipresence, and Consciousness,”  Philo 3:  1.  pp.  5-19.
    • McCormick argues, on Kantian grounds, that being in all places and all times precludes being conscious because omnipresence would make it impossible for God to make an essential conceptual distinction between the self and not-self.
  • McCormick, Matthew,  2003.  “The Paradox of Divine Agency,” in The Impossibility of God, Martin, Michael and Ricki Monnier, eds.  Amherst, N.Y.:  Prometheus Press.
    • God is traditionally conceived of as an agent, capable of setting goals, willing and performing actions.  God can never act, however, because no state of affairs that deviates from the dictates of his power, knowledge, and perfection can arise.  Therefore, God is impossible.
  • Morris, Thomas, ed. 1987.  The Concept of God, Oxford:  Oxford University Press.
    • A valuable set of discussions about the logical viability of different properties of God and their compatibility.
  • Nielsen, Kai, 1985. Philosophy and Atheism. New York: Prometheus.
    • A useful collection of essays from Nielsen that addresses various, particularly epistemological, aspects of atheism.
  • Nielsen, Kai, 2001. Naturalism and Religion. New York: Prometheus.
    • Defends naturalism as atheistic and adequate to answer a number of larger philosophical questions.  Considers some famous objections to naturalism including fideism and Wittgenstein.
  • Oppy, Graham (1995). Ontological Arguments and Belief in God, N.Y.:  Cambridge University Press.
    • Perhaps the best and most thorough analysis of the important versions of the ontological argument.
  • Oppy, Graham, 2006.  Arguing About Gods. N.Y.:  Cambridge University Press.
    • There are no successful arguments for the existence of orthodoxly conceived monotheistic gods.  This project includes some very good, up to date, analyses of rational belief and belief revision, ontological arguments, cosmological arguments, teleological arguments, Pascal’s wager, and evil.  He sees these all as fitting into a larger argument for agnosticism.
  • Papineau, David, 2007.  “Naturalism,” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
    • A good general discussion of philosophical naturalism.
  • Rowe, William, 1979.  “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” American Philosophical Quarterly 16.  pp.  335-41.
    • A watershed work giving an inductive argument from evil for the non-existence of God.  This article has been anthologized and responded as much or more than any other single work in atheism.
  • Rowe, William L., 1998.  “Atheism.” In E. Craig (Ed.), Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. London: Routledge.
    • A good but brief survey of philosophical atheism.
  • Rowe, William, 1998.  The Cosmological Argument. N.Y.:  Fordham University Press.
    • Rowe offers a thorough analysis of many important historically influential versions of the cosmological argument, especially Aquinas’, Duns Scotus’s, and Clarke’s.
  • Rowe, William,  2004.  Can God Be Free? Oxford:  Oxford University Press.
    • Rowe considers a range of classic and modern arguments attempting to reconcile God’s freedom in creating the world with God’s omnipotence, omniscience, and perfect goodness. Rowe argues against their compatibility with this principle:   If an omniscient being creates a world when there is a better world that it could have created instead, then it is possible that there exist a being better than it—a being whose degree of goodness is such that it could not create that world when there is a better world it could have created instead.
  • Salmon, Wesley, 1978.  “Religion and Science:  A New Look at Hume’s Dialogues,” Philosophical Studies 33 (1978):  143-176.
    • A novel Bayesian reconstruction of Hume’s treatment of design arguments.  In general, since it is exceedingly rare for things to be brought into being by intelligence, and it is common for orderly things to come into existence by non-intelligence, it is more probable that the orderly universe is not the product of intelligent design.
  • Schellenberg, J.L., 1993.  Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason.  Ithaca, N.Y.:  Cornell University Press.
    • Schellenberg argues that the absence of strong evidence for theism implies that atheism is true.
  • Schellenberg, J.L., 2006.  “Divine Hiddenness justifies atheism,”  Contemporary Debates in the Philosophy of Religion, ed. Peterson and VanArragon.  Oxford: Blackwell Publishing.  pp. 30-41.
    • Many people search in earnest for compelling evidence for God’s existence, but remain unconvinced and epistemically inculpable.  This state of divine hiddenness itself implies that there is no God, independent of any positive arguments for atheism.
  • Smart, J.C.C.  (2004) “Atheism and Agnosticism”  Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
    • An outdated and idiosyncratic survey of the topic.  Heavily influenced by positivism from the early 20th century.
  • Smart, J.J.C. and Haldane, John, 2003.  Atheism and Theism. Oxford: Blackwell.
    • An influential exchange between Smart (atheist) and Haldane (theist)
  • Smith, Quentin, 1993.  “Atheism, Theism, and Big Bang Cosmology,” in Theism, Atheism, and Big Bang Cosmology. eds. William Lane Craig and Quentin Smith.  Oxford:  Clarendon Press, pp. 195-217.
    • Smith gives a novel argument and considers several objections:  God did not create the big bang.  If he had, he would have ensured that it would unfold into a state containing living creatures.  But the big bang is inherently lawless and unpredictable and is not ensured to unfold this way.
  • Sobel, Jordan Howard, 2004.  Logic and Theism, Arguments for and Against Beliefs in God. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press.
    • A broad, conventionally structured work in that it covers ontological, cosmological, and teleological arguments, as well as the properties of God, evil, and Pascal.  Notable for its attempts to bring some sophisticated, technical logic tools to the reconstructions and analyses.
  • Stenger, Victor.  2007.  God:  The Failed Hypothesis:  How Science Shows that God Does Not Exist. Prometheus Books.
    • An accessible work that considers scientific evidence that might be construed as against the existence of God:  evolution, supernaturalism, cosmology, prayer, miracles, prophecy, morality, and suffering.   Not a scholarly philosophical work, but interesting survey of relevant empirical evidence.
  • Weisberger, A.M. 1999.  Suffering Belief:  Evil and the Anglo-American Defense of Theism. New York:  Peter Lang Publishing.
    • Weisberger argues that the problem of evil presents a disproof for the existence of the God of classical monotheism.
  • Wierenga, Edward, 1989.  The Nature of God:  An Inquiry Into Divine Attributes. Ithaca, N.Y.:  Cornell University Press.
    • Wierenga offers an important, thorough, and recent attempt to work out the details of the various properties of God and their compatibilities.  He responds to a number of recent counterexamples to different definitions of omnipotence, omniscience, freedom, timelessness, eternality, and so on.  Employs many innovations from developments in modern logic.

Author Information

Matt McCormick
Email: mccormick@csus.edu
California State University, Sacramento
U. S. A.

Simone de Beauvoir (1908—1986)

beauvoirSimone de Beauvoir was one of the most preeminent French existentialist philosophers and writers. Working alongside other famous existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, de Beauvoir produced a rich corpus of writings including works on ethics, feminism, fiction, autobiography, and politics.

Beauvoir’s method incorporated various political and ethical dimensions. In The Ethics of Ambiguity, she developed an existentialist ethics that condemned the “spirit of seriousness” in which people too readily identify with certain abstractions at the expense of individual freedom and responsibility.  In The Second Sex, she produced an articulate attack on the fact that throughout history women have been relegated to a sphere of “immanence,” and the passive acceptance of roles assigned to them by society.  In The Mandarins, she fictionalized the struggles of existents trapped in ambiguous social and personal relationships at the closing of World War II.  The emphasis on freedom, responsibility, and ambiguity permeate all of her works and give voice to core themes of existentialist philosophy.

Her philosophical approach is notably diverse. Her influences include French philosophy from Descartes to Bergson, the phenomenology of Edmund Husserl and Martin Heidegger, the historical materialism of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, and the idealism of Immanuel Kant and G. W. F Hegel. In addition to her philosophical pursuits, de Beauvoir was also an accomplished literary figure, and her novel, The Mandarins, received the prestigious Prix Goncourt award in 1954. Her most famous and influential philosophical work, The Second Sex (1949), heralded a feminist revolution and remains to this day a central text in the investigation of women’s oppression and liberation.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Ethics
    1. Pyrrhus et Cineas
    2. The Ethics of Ambiguity
  3. Feminism
    1. The Second Sex
  4. Literature
    1. Novels
    2. Short Stories
    3. Theater
  5. Cultural Studies
    1. Travel Observations
    2. The Coming of Age
    3. Autobiographical Works
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Selected Works by Beauvoir (in French and English)
    2. Selected Books on Beauvoir in English

1. Biography

Simone de Beauvoir was born on January 9, 1908 in Paris to Georges Bertrand de Beauvoir and Françoise (née) Brasseur. Her father, George, whose family had some aristocratic pretensions, had once desired to become an actor but studied law and worked as a civil servant, contenting himself instead with the profession of legal secretary. Despite his love of the theater and literature, as well as his atheism, he remained a staunchly conservative man whose aristocratic proclivities drew him to the extreme right. In December of 1906 he married Françoise Brasseur whose wealthy bourgeois family offered a significant dowry that was lost in the wake of World War I. Slightly awkward and socially inexperienced, Françoise was a deeply religious woman who was devoted to raising her children in the Catholic faith. Her religious, bourgeois orientation became a source of serious conflict between her and her oldest daughter, Simone. [The British refer to Simone de Beauvoir as “de Beauvoir” and the Americans, as “Beauvoir.”]

Born in the morning of January 9, 1908, Simone-Ernestine-Lucie-Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir was a precocious and intellectually curious child from the beginning. Her sister, Hélène (nicknamed “Poupette”) was born two years later in 1910 and Beauvoir immediately took to intensely instructing her little sister as a student. In addition to her own independent initiative, Beauvoir’s intellectual zeal was also nourished by her father who provided her with carefully edited selections from the great works of literature and who encouraged her to read and write from an early age. His interest in her intellectual development carried through until her adolescence when her future professional carrier, necessitated by the loss of her dowry, came to symbolize his own failure. Aware that he was unable to provide a dowry for his daughters, Georges’ relationship with his intellectually astute eldest became conflicted by both pride and disappointment at her prospects. Beauvoir, on the contrary, always wanted to be a writer and a teacher, rather than a mother and a wife and pursued her studies with vigor. Beauvoir began her education in the private Catholic school for girls, the Institut Adeline Désir where she remained until the age of 17. It was here that she met Elizabeth Mabille (Zaza), with whom she shared an intimate and profound friendship until Zaza’s untimely death in 1929. Although the doctor’s blamed Zaza’s death on meningitis, Beauvoir believed that her beloved friend had died from a broken heart in the midst of a struggle with her family over an arranged marriage. Zaza’s friendship and death haunted Beauvoir for the rest of her life and she often spoke of the intense impact they had on her life and her critique of the rigidity of bourgeois attitudes towards women.

Beauvoir had been a deeply religious child as a result of her education and her mother’s training; however, at the age of 14, she had a crisis of faith and decided definitively that there was no God. She remained an atheist until her death. Her rejection of religion was followed by her decision to pursue and teach philosophy. Only once had she considered marriage to her cousin, Jacques Champigneulle. She never again entertained the possibility of marriage, instead preferring to live the life of an intellectual.

Beauvoir passed the baccalauréat exams in mathematics and philosophy in 1925. She then studied mathematics at the Institut Catholique and literature and languages at the Institut Sainte-Marie, passing exams in 1926 for Certificates of Higher Studies in French literature and Latin, before beginning her study of philosophy in 1927. Studying philosophy at the Sorbonne, Beauvoir passed exams for Certificates in History of Philosophy, General Philosophy, Greek, and Logic in 1927, and in 1928, in Ethics, Sociology, and Psychology. She wrote a graduate diplôme on Leibniz for Léon Brunschvig and completed her practice teaching at the lycée Janson-de-Sailly with fellow students, Merleau-Ponty and Claude Lévi-Strauss – with both of whom she remained in philosophical dialogue.

In 1929, she took second place in the highly competitive philosophy agrégation exam, beating Paul Nizan and Jean Hyppolite and barely losing to Jean-Paul Sartre who took first (it was his second attempt at the exam). Unlike Beauvoir, all three men had attended the best preparatory (khâgne) classes for the agrégation and were official students at the École Normale Supérieure. Although she was not an official student, Beauvoir attended lectures and sat for the agrégation at the École Normale. At 21 years of age, Beauvoir was the youngest student ever to pass the agrégation in philosophy and thus became the youngest philosophy teacher in France.

It was during her time at the École Normale that she met Sartre. Sartre and his closed circle of friends (including René Maheu, who gave her her life-long nickname “Castor”, and Paul Nizan) were notoriously elitist at the École Normale. Beauvoir had longed to be a part of this intellectual circle and following her success in the written exams for the agrégation in 1929, Sartre requested to be introduced to her. Beauvoir thus joined Sartre and his “comrades” in study sessions to prepare for the grueling public oral examination component of the agrégation. For the first time, she found in Sartre an intellect worthy (and, as she asserted, in some ways superior) to her own-a characterization that has lead to many ungrounded assumptions concerning Beauvoir’s lack of philosophical originality. For the rest of their lives, they were to remain “essential” lovers, while allowing for “contingent” love affairs whenever each desired. Although never marrying (despite Sartre’s proposal in 1931), having children together, or even living in the same home, Sartre and Beauvoir remained intellectual and romantic partners until Sartre’s death in 1980.

The liberal intimate arrangement between her and Sartre was extremely progressive for the time and often unfairly tarnished Beauvoir’s reputation as a woman intellectual equal to her male counterparts. Adding to her unique situation with Sartre, Beauvoir had intimate liaisons with both women and men. Some of her more famous relationships included the journalist Jacques Bost, the American author Nelson Algren, and Claude Lanzmann, the maker of the Holocaust documentary, Shoah.

In 1931, Beauvoir was appointed to teach in a lycée at Marseilles whereas Sartre’s appointment landed him in Le Havre. In 1932, Beauvoir moved to the Lycée Jeanne d’Arc in Rouen where she taught advanced literature and philosophy classes. In Rouen she was officially reprimanded for her overt criticisms of woman’s situation and her pacifism. In 1940, the Nazis occupied Paris and in 1941, Beauvoir was dismissed from her teaching post by the Nazi government. As a result of the effects of World War II on Europe, Beauvoir began exploring the problem of the intellectual’s social and political engagement with his or her time.

Following a parental complaint made against her for corrupting one of her female students, she was dismissed from teaching again in 1943. She was never to return to teaching. Although she loved the classroom environment, Beauvoir had always wanted to be an author from her earliest childhood. Her collection of short stories on women, Quand prime le spirituel (When Things of the Spirit Come First) was rejected for publication and not published until many years later (1979). However, her fictionalized account of the triangular relationship between herself, Sartre and her student, Olga Kosakievicz, L’Invitée (She Came to Stay), was published in 1943. This novel, written from 1935 to 1937 (and read by Sartre in manuscript form as he began writing Being and Nothingness) successfully gained her public recognition.

The Occupation inaugurated what Beauvoir has called the “moral period” of her literary life. From 1941 to 1943 she wrote her novel, Le Sang des Autres (The Blood of Others), which was heralded as one of the most important existential novels of the French Resistance. In 1943 she wrote her first philosophical essay, an ethical treatise entitled Pyrrhus et Cinéas. Finally, this period includes the writing of her novel, Tous Les Hommes sont Mortels (All Men are Mortal), written from 1943-46 and her only play, Les Bouches Inutiles (Who Shall Die?), written in 1944.

Although only cursorily involved in the Resistance, Beauvoir’s political commitments underwent a progressive development in the 1930’s and 1940’s. Together with Sartre, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Raymond Aron and other intellectuals, she helped found the politically non-affiliated, leftist journal, Les Temps Modernes in 1945, for which she both edited and contributed articles, including in 1945, “Moral Idealism and Political Realism,” “Existentialism and Popular Wisdom,” and in 1946, “Eye for an Eye.” Also in 1946, Beauvoir wrote an article explaining her method of doing philosophy in literature in “Literature and Metaphysics.” The creation of this journal and her leftist orientation (which was heavily influenced by her reading of Marx and the political ideal represented by Russia), colored her uneasy relationship to Communism. The journal itself and the question of the intellectual’s political commitments would become a major theme of her novel, The Mandarins (1954).

Beauvoir published another ethical treatise, Pour une Morale de l’Ambiguïté (The Ethics of Ambiguity) in 1947. Although she was never fully satisfied with this work, it remains one of the best examples of an existentialist ethics. In 1955, she published, “Must We Burn Sade?” which again approaches the question of ethics from the perspective of the demands of and obligations to the other.

Following advance extracts which appeared in Les Temps Modernes in 1948, Beauvoir published her revolutionary, two-volume investigation into woman’s oppression, Le Deuxième Sexe (The Second Sex) in 1949. Although previous to writing this work she had never considered herself to be a “feminist,” The Second Sex solidified her as a feminist figure for the remainder of her life. By far her most controversial work, this book was embraced by feminists and intellectuals, as well as mercilessly attacked by both the right and the left. The 70’s, famous for being a time of feminist movements, was embraced by Beauvoir who participated in demonstrations, continued to write and lecture on the situation of women, and signed petitions advocating various rights for women. In 1970, Beauvoir helped launch the French Women’s Liberation Movement in signing the Manifesto of the 343 for abortion rights and in 1973, she instituted a feminist section in Les Temps Modernes.

Following the numerous literary successes and the high profile of her and Sartre’s lives, her career was marked by a fame rarely experienced by philosophers during their lifetimes. This fame resulted both from her own work as well as from her relationship to and association with Sartre. For the rest of her life, she lived under the close scrutiny of the public eye. She was often unfairly considered to be a mere disciple of Sartrean philosophy (in part, due to her own proclamations) despite the fact that many of her ideas were original and went in directions radically different than Sartre’s works.

During the 1940’s, she and Sartre, who had at one time relished in the café culture and social life of Paris, found themselves retreating into the safety of their close circle of friends, affectionately named the “Family.” However, her fame did not stop her from continuing her life-long passion of traveling to foreign lands which resulted in two of her works, L’Amérique au Jour le Jour (America Day by Day) first published in 1948 and La Longue Marche (The Long March) published in 1957. The former was written following her lecture tour of the United States in 1947, and the latter following her visit with Sartre to communist China in 1955.

Her later work included the writing of more works of fiction, philosophical essays and interviews. It was notably marked not only by her political action in feminist issues, but also by the publication of her autobiography in four volumes and her political engagement directly attacking the French war in Algeria and the tortures of Algerians by French officers. In 1970, she published an impressive study of the oppression of aged members of society, La Vieillesse (The Coming of Age). This work mirrors the same approach she had taken in The Second Sex only with a different object of investigation.

Beauvoir saw the passing of her lifelong companion in 1980, which is recounted in her 1981 book, La Cérémonie des Adieux (Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre). Following the death of Sartre, Beauvoir officially adopted her companion, Sylvie le Bon, who became her literary executor. Beauvoir died of a pulmonary edema on April 14, 1986.

2. Ethics

a. Pyrrhus et Cineas

For most of her life, Beauvoir was concerned with the ethical responsibility that the individual has to him or herself, other individuals and to oppressed groups. Her early work, Pyrrhus et Cinéas (1944) approaches the question of ethical responsibility from an existentialist framework long before Sartre was to attempt the same endeavor. This essay was well-received as it spoke to a war-torn France that was struggling to find a way out of the darkness of War World II. It begins as a conversation between Pyrrhus, the ancient king of Epirus, and his chief advisor, Cineas, on the question of action. Each time Pyrrhus makes an assertion as to what land he will conquer, Cineas asks him what will he do afterwards? Finally, Pyrrhus exclaims that he will rest following the achievement of all of his plans, to which Cineas retorts, “Why not rest right away”? The essay is thus framed as an investigation into the motives of action and the existential concern with why we should act at all.

This work was written by a young Beauvoir in close dialogue with the Sartre of Being and Nothingness (1943). The framework of an individual freedom engaged in an objective world is close to Sartre’s conception of the conflict between being-for-itself (l’être-pour-soi) and being-in-itself (l’être-en-soi). Differing from Sartre, Beauvoir’s analysis of the free subject immediately implies an ethical consideration of other free subjects in the world. The external world can often manifest itself as a crushing, objective reality whereas the other can reveal to us our fundamental freedom. Lacking a God to guarantee morality, it is up to the individual existent to create a bond with others through ethical action. This bond requires a fundamentally active orientation to the world through projects that express our own freedom as well as encourage the freedom of our fellow human beings. Because to be human is essentially to rupture the given world through our spontaneous transcendence, to be passive is to live, in Sartrean terminology, in bad faith.

Although emphasizing key Sartrean motifs of transcendence, freedom and the situation in this early work, Beauvoir takes her enquiry in a different direction. Like Sartre, she believes that that human subjectivity is essentially a nothingness which ruptures being through spontaneous projects. This movement of rupturing the given through the introduction of spontaneous activity is called transcendence. Beauvoir, like Sartre, believes that the human being is constantly engaged in projects which transcend the factical situation (cultural, historical, personal, etc.) into which the existent is thrown. Yet, even though much of her nomenclature and ideas obviously emerge within a philosophical discourse with Sartre, her goal in writing Pyrrhus et Cinéas is somewhat different than his. Most notably, in Pyrrhus et Cinéas, she constructs an ethics, which is a project postponed by Sartre in Being and Nothingness. In addition, rather than seeing the other (who in his or her gaze turns me into an object) as a threat to my freedom as Sartre would have it, Beauvoir sees the other as the necessary axis of my freedom-without whom, in other words, I could not be free. With the goal of elucidating an existentialist ethics then, Beauvoir is concerned with questions of oppression that are largely absent in Sartre’s early work.

Pyrrhus et Cinéas is a richly philosophical text which incorporates themes not only from Sartre, but also from Hegel, Heidegger, Spinoza, Voltaire, Nietzsche, and Kierkegaard. However, Beauvoir is as critical of these philosophers as she is admiring. For example, she criticizes Hegel for his unethical faith in progress which sublates the individual in the relentless pursuit of the Absolute. She criticizes Heidegger for his emphasis on being-towards-death as undermining the necessity of setting up projects, which are themselves ends and are not necessarily projections towards death.

Beauvoir emphasizes that one’s transcendence is realized through the human project which sets up its own end as valuable, rather than relying on external validation or meaning. The end, therefore, is not something cut off from activity, standing as a static and absolute value outside of the existent who chooses it. Rather, the goal of action is established as an end through the very freedom which posits it as a worthwhile enterprise. Beauvoir maintains the existentialist belief in absolute freedom of choice and the consequent responsibility that such freedom entails, by emphasizing that one’s projects must spring from individual spontaneity and not from an external institution, authority, or person. As such, she is sharply critical of the Hegelian absolute, the Christian conception of God and abstract entities such as Humanity, Country and Science which demand the individual’s renunciation of freedom into a static Cause. All world-views which demand the sacrifice and repudiation of freedom diminish the reality, thickness, and existential importance of the individual existent. This is not to say that we should abandon all projects of unification and scientific advancement in favor of a disinterested solipsism, only that such endeavors must necessarily honor the individual existents of which they are composed. Additionally, instead of being forced into causes of various kinds, existents must actively and self-consciously choose to participate in them.

Because Beauvoir is so concerned in this essay with freedom and the necessity to self-consciously choose who one is at every moment, she takes up relationships of slavery, mastery, tyranny, and devotion which remain choices despite the inequalities that often result from these connections with others. Despite the inequity of power in such relationships, she maintains that we can never do anything for or against others, i.e., we can never act in the place of others because each individual can only be responsible for him or herself. However, we are still morally obligated to keep from harming others. Echoing a common theme in existentialist philosophy, even to be silent or to refuse to engage in helping the other, is still making a choice. Freedom, in other words, cannot be escaped.

Yet, she also develops the idea that in abstaining from encouraging the freedom of others, we are acting against the ethical call of the other. Without others, our actions are destined to fall back upon themselves as useless and absurd. However, with others who are also free, our actions are taken up and carried beyond themselves into the future-transcending the limits of the present and of our finite selves. Our very actions are calls to other freedoms who may choose to respond to or ignore us. Because we are finite and limited and there are no absolutes to which our actions can or should conform, we must carry out our projects in risk and uncertainty. But it is just this fragility that Beauvoir believes opens us up to a genuine possibility for ethics.

b. The Ethics of Ambiguity

In many ways, The Ethics of Ambiguity (1947) continues themes first developed in Pyrrhus et Cinéas. Beauvoir continues to believe in the contingency of existence in that there is no necessity that we exist and thus there is no predetermined human essence or standard of value. Of particular importance, Beauvoir expounds upon the idea that human freedom requires the freedom of others for it to be actualized. Although Beauvoir was never fully satisfied with The Ethics of Ambiguity, it remains a testament to her long-standing concern with freedom, oppression, and responsibility, as well as to the depth of her philosophical understanding of the history of philosophy and of her own unique contributions to it.

She begins this work by asserting the tragic condition of the human situation which experiences its freedom as a spontaneous internal drive that is crushed by the external weight of the world. Human existence, she argues, is always an ambiguous admixture of the internal freedom to transcend the given conditions of the world and the weight of the world which imposes itself on us in a manner outside of our control and not of our own choosing. In order for us to live ethically then, we must assume this ambiguity rather than try to flee it.

In Sartrean terms, she sets up a problem in which each existent wants to deny their paradoxical essence as nothingness by desiring to be in the strict, objective sense; a project that is doomed to failure and bad faith. In many ways, Beauvoir’s task is to describe the existentialist conversion alluded to by Sartre in Being and Nothingness, but postponed until the much later, incomplete attempt in his Cahiers Pour une Morale. For Beauvoir, an existentialist conversion allows us to live authentically at the crossroads of freedom and facticity. This requires that we engage our freedom in projects which emerge from a spontaneous choice. In addition, the ends and goals of our actions must never be set up as absolutes, separate from we who choose them. In this sense, Beauvoir sets limits to freedom. To be free is not to have free license to do whatever one wants. Rather, to be free entails the conscious assumption of this freedom through projects which are chosen at each moment. The meaning of actions is thus granted not from some external source of values (say in God, the church, the state, our family, etc.), but in the existent’s spontaneous act of choosing them. Each individual must positively assume his or her project (whether it be to write a novel, graduate from university, preside over a courtroom, etc.) and not try to escape freedom by escaping into the goal as into a static object. Thus, we act ethically only insofar as we accept the weight of our choices and the consequences and responsibilities of our fundamental, ontological freedom. As Beauvoir tells us, “to will oneself moral and to will oneself free are one and the same decision.”

The genuine human being thus does not recognize any foreign absolute not consciously and actively chosen by the person him or herself. This idea is perhaps best seen in Beauvoir’s critique of Hegel which runs throughout this text. Although Hegel is not the only philosopher with whom she is in dialogue (she addresses Kant, Marx, Descartes, and Sartre, as well) he represents the philosophical crystallization of the desire for human beings to escape their freedom by submerging it into an external absolute. Thus Hegel, for Beauvoir, sets up an “Absolute Subject” whose realization only comes at the end of history, thereby justifying the sacrifice of countless individuals in the relentless pursuit of its own perfection. As such, Hegel’s Absolute represents an abstraction which is taken as the truth of existence which annihilates instead of preserves the individual human lives which compose it. Only a philosophy which values the freedom of each individual existent can alone be ethical. Philosophies such as those of Hegel, Kant, and Marx which privilege the universal are built upon the necessary diminution of the particular and as such, cannot be authentically ethical systems. Beauvoir claims against these philosophers of the absolute, that existentialism embraces the plurality of the concrete, particular human beings enmeshed in their own unique situations and engaged in their own projects.

However, Beauvoir is also emphatic that even though existentialist ethics upholds the sanctity of individuals, an individual is always situated within a community and as such, separate existents are necessarily bound to each other. She argues that every enterprise is expressed in a world populated by and thus affecting other human beings. She defends this position by returning to an idea touched upon in Pyrrhus et Cinéas and more fully developed in the Ethics, which is that individual projects fall in upon themselves if there are not others with whom our projects intersect and who consequently carry our actions beyond us in space and time.

In order to illustrate the complexity of situated freedom, Beauvoir provides us with an important element of growth, development and freedom in The Ethics of Ambiguity. Most philosophers begin their discussions with a fully-grown, rational human being, as if only the adult concerns philosophical inquiry. However, Beauvoir incorporates an analysis of childhood in which she argues that the will, or freedom, is developed over time. Thus, the child is not considered moral because he or she does not have a connection to a past or future and action can only be understood as unfolding over time. In addition, the situation of the child gives us a glimpse into what Beauvoir calls the attitude of seriousness in which values are given, not chosen. In fact, it is because each person was once a child that the serious attitude is the most prevalent form of bad faith.

Describing the various ways in which existents flee their freedom and responsibility, Beauvoir catalogues a number of different inauthentic attitudes, which in various forms are all indicative of a flight from freedom. As the child is neither moral nor immoral, the first actual category of bad faith consists of the “sub-man” who, through boredom and laziness, restrains the original movement of spontaneity in the denial of his or her freedom. This is a dangerous attitude in which to live because even as the sub-man rejects freedom, he or she becomes a useful pawn to be recruited by the “serious man” to enact brutal, immoral and violent action. The serious man is the most common attitude of flight as he or she embodies the desire that all existents share to found their freedom in an objective, external standard. The serious man upholds absolute and unconditioned values to which he or she subordinates his or her freedom. The object into which the serious attitude attempts to merge itself is not important-it can be the Military for the general, Fame for the actress, Power for the politician-what is important is that the self is lost into it. But as Beauvoir has already told us, all action loses meaning if it is not willed from freedom, setting up freedom as its goal. Thus the serious man is the ultimate example of bad faith because rather than seeking to embrace freedom, he or she seeks to lose into an external idol. All existents are tempted to set up values of seriousness (say, for example, by claiming that one is a “republican” or a “liberal” as if these monikers were substantial “things” that defined us in any essential sense) so as to give meaning to their lives. But the attitude of seriousness gives rise to tyranny and oppression when the “Cause” is pronounced more important than those who comprise it.

Other attitudes of bad faith include the “nihilist” which is an attitude resulting from disappointed seriousness turned back on itself. When the general understands that the military is a false idol that does not justify his existence, he may become a nihilist and deny that the world has any meaning at all. The nihilist desires to be nothing which is not unlike the reality of human freedom for Beauvoir. However, the nihilist is not an authentic choice because he or she does not assert nothingness in the sense of freedom, but in the sense of denial. Although mentioning other interesting attitudes of bad faith (such as the “demoniacal man” and the “passionate man”) the last attitude of importance is the attitude of the “adventurer.” The adventurer is interesting because it is so close to an authentically moral attitude. Disdaining the values of seriousness and nihilism, the adventurer throws him or herself into life and chooses action for its own sake. But the adventurer cares only for his or her own freedom and projects, and thus embodies a selfish and potentially tyrannical attitude. The adventurer demonstrates a tendency to align him or herself with whoever will bestow power, pleasure and glory. And often those who bestow such gifts, do not have the welfare of humanity as their main concern.

One of Beauvoir’s greatest achievements in The Ethics of Ambiguity is found in her analyses of situation and mystification. For the early Sartre, one’s situation (or facticity) is merely that which is to be transcended in the spontaneous surge of freedom. The situation is certainly a limit, but it is a limit-to-be-surpassed. Beauvoir, however, recognizes that some situations are such that they cannot be simply transcended but serve as strict and almost unsurpassable inhibitors to action. For example, she tells us that there are oppressed peoples such as slaves and many women who exist in a childlike world in which values, customs, gods, and laws are given to them without being freely chosen. Their situation is defined not by the possibility of transcendence, but by the enforcement of external institutions and power structures. Because of the power exerted upon them, their limitations cannot, in many circumstances, be transcended because they are not even known. Their situation, in other words, appears to be the natural order of the world. Thus the slave and the woman are mystified into believing that their lot is assigned to them by nature. As Beauvoir explains, because we cannot revolt against nature, the oppressor convinces the oppressed that their situation is what it is because they are naturally inferior or slavish. In this way, the oppressor mystifies the oppressed by keeping them ignorant of their freedom, thereby preventing them from revolting. Beauvoir rightly points out that one simply cannot claim that those who are mystified or oppressed are living in bad faith. We can only judge the actions of those individuals as emerging from their situation.

Only the authentically moral attitude understands that the freedom of the self requires the freedom of others. To act alone or without concern for others is not to be free. As Beauvoir explains, “No project can be defined except by its interference with other projects.” Thus if my project intersects with others who are enslaved-either literally or through mystification-I too am not truly free. What is more, if I do not actively seek to help those who are not free, I am implicated in their oppression.

As this book was written after World War II, it is not so surprising that Beauvoir would be concerned with questions of oppression and liberation and the ethical responsibility that each of us has to each other. Clearly she finds the attitude of seriousness to be the leading culprit in nationalistic movements such as Nazism which manipulate people into believing in a Cause as an absolute and unquestionable command, demanding the sacrifice of countless individuals. Beauvoir pleads with us to remember that we can never prefer a Cause to a human being and that the end does not necessarily justify the means. In this sense, Beauvoir is able to promote an existential ethics which asserts the reality of individual projects and sacrifice while maintaining that such projects and sacrifices have meaning only in a community comprised of individuals with a past, present, and future.

3. Feminism

a. The Second Sex

Most philosophers agree that Beauvoir’s greatest contribution to philosophy is her revolutionary magnum opus, The Second Sex. Published in two volumes in 1949 (condensed into one text divided into two “books” in English), this work immediately found both an eager audience and harsh critics. The Second Sex was so controversial that the Vatican put it (along with her novel, The Mandarins) on the Index of prohibited books. At the time The Second Sex was written, very little serious philosophy on women from a feminist perspective had been done. With the exception of a handful of books, systematic treatments of the oppression of women both historically and in the modern age were almost unheard of. Striking for the breadth of research and the profundity of its central insights, The Second Sex remains to this day one of the foundational texts in philosophy, feminism, and women’s studies.

The main thesis of The Second Sex revolves around the idea that woman has been held in a relationship of long-standing oppression to man through her relegation to being man’s “Other.” In agreement with Hegelian and Sartrean philosophy, Beauvoir finds that the self needs otherness in order to define itself as a subject; the category of the otherness, therefore, is necessary in the constitution of the self as a self. However, the movement of self-understanding through alterity is supposed to be reciprocal in that the self is often just as much objectified by its other as the self objectifies it. What Beauvoir discovers in her multifaceted investigation into woman’s situation, is that woman is consistently defined as the Other by man who takes on the role of the Self. As Beauvoir explains in her Introduction, woman “is the incidental, the inessential, as opposed to the essential. He is the Subject, he is the Absolute-she is the Other.” In addition, Beauvoir maintains that human existence is an ambiguous interplay between transcendence and immanence, yet men have been privileged with expressing transcendence through projects, whereas women have been forced into the repetitive and uncreative life of immanence. Beauvoir thus proposes to investigate how this radically unequal relationship emerged as well as what structures, attitudes and presuppositions continue to maintain its social power.

The work is divided into two major themes. The first book investigates the “Facts and Myths” about women from multiple perspectives including the biological-scientific, psychoanalytic, materialistic, historical, literary and anthropological. In each of these treatments, Beauvoir is careful to claim that none of them is sufficient to explain woman’s definition as man’s Other or her consequent oppression. However, each of them contributes to woman’s overall situation as the Other sex. For example, in her discussion of biology and history, she notes the women experience certain phenomena such as pregnancy, lactation, and menstruation that are foreign to men’s experience and thus contribute to a marked difference in women’s situation. However, these physiological occurrences in no way directly cause woman to be man’s subordinate because biology and history are not mere “facts” of an unbiased observer, but are always incorporated into and interpreted from a situation. In addition, she acknowledges that psychoanalysis and historical materialism contribute tremendous insights into the sexual, familial and material life of woman, but fail to account for the whole picture. In the case of psychoanalysis, it denies the reality of choice and in the case of historical materialism, it neglects to take into account the existential importance of the phenomena it reduces to material conditions.

The most philosophically rich discussion of Book I comes in Beauvoir’s analysis of myths. There she tackles the way in which the preceding analyses (biological, historical, psychoanalytic, etc.) contribute to the formulation of the myth of the “Eternal Feminine.” This paradigmatic myth, which incorporates multiple myths of woman under it (such as the myth of the mother, the virgin, the motherland, nature, etc.) attempts to trap woman into an impossible ideal by denying the individuality and situation of all different kinds of women. In fact, the ideal set by the Eternal Feminine sets up an impossible expectation because the various manifestations of the myth of femininity appear as contradictory and doubled. For example, history shows us that for as many representations of the mother as the respected guardian of life, there are as many depictions of her as the hated harbinger of death. The contradiction that man feels at having been born and having to die gets projected onto the mother who takes the blame for both. Thus woman as mother is both hated and loved and individual mothers are hopelessly caught in the contradiction. This doubled and contradictory operation appears in all feminine myths, thus forcing women to unfairly take the burden and blame for existence.

Book II begins with Beauvoir’s most famous assertion, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” By this, Beauvoir means to destroy the essentialism which claims that women are born “feminine” (according to whatever the culture and time define it to be) but are rather constructed to be such through social indoctrination. Using a wide array of accounts and observations, the first section of Book II traces the education of woman from her childhood, through her adolescence and finally to her experiences of lesbianism and sexual initiation (if she has any). At each stage, Beauvoir illustrates how women are forced to relinquish their claims to transcendence and authentic subjectivity by a progressively more stringent acceptance of the “passive” and “alienated” role to man’s “active” and “subjective” demands. Woman’s passivity and alienation are then explored in what Beauvoir entitles her “Situation” and her “Justifications.” Beauvoir studies the roles of wife, mother, and prostitute to show how women, instead of transcending through work and creativity, are forced into monotonous existences of having children, tending house and being the sexual receptacles of the male libido.

Because she maintains the existentialist belief in the absolute ontological freedom of each existent regardless of sex, Beauvoir never claims that man has succeeded in destroying woman’s freedom or in actually turning her into an “object” in relation to his subjectivity. She remains a transcendent freedom despite her objectification, alienation and oppression.

Although we certainly can not claim that woman’s role as the Other is her fault, we also cannot say that she is always entirely innocent in her subjection. As taken up in the discussion of The Ethics of Ambiguity, Beauvoir believes that there are many possible attitudes of bad faith where the existent flees his or her responsibility into prefabricated values and beliefs. Many women living in a patriarchal culture are guilty of the same action and thus are in some ways complicitous in their own subjugation because of the seeming benefits it can bring as well as the respite from responsibility it promises. Beauvoir discusses three particular inauthentic attitudes in which women hide their freedom in: “The Narcissist,” “The Woman in Love,” and “The Mystic.” In all three of these attitudes, women deny the original thrust of their freedom by submerging it into the object; in the case of the first, the object is herself, the second, her beloved and the third, the absolute or God.

Beauvoir concludes her work by asserting various concrete demands necessary for woman’s emancipation and the reclamation of her selfhood. First and foremost, she demands that woman be allowed to transcend through her own free projects with all the danger, risk, and uncertainty that entails. As such, modern woman “prides herself on thinking, taking action, working, creating, on the same terms as men; instead of seeking to disparage them, she declares herself their equal.” In order to ensure woman’s equality, Beauvoir advocates such changes in social structures such as universal childcare, equal education, contraception, and legal abortion for women-and perhaps most importantly, woman’s economic freedom and independence from man. In order to achieve this kind of independence, Beauvoir believes that women will benefit from non-alienating, non-exploitative productive labor to some degree. In other words, Beauvoir believes that women will benefit tremendously from work. As far as marriage is concerned, the nuclear family is damaging to both partners, especially the woman. Marriage, like any other authentic choice, must be chosen actively and at all times or else it is a flight from freedom into a static institution.

Beauvoir’s emphasis on the fact that women need access to the same kinds of activities and projects as men places her to some extent in the tradition of liberal, or second-wave feminism. She demands that women be treated as equal to men and laws, customs and education must be altered to encourage this. However, The Second Sex always maintains its fundamental existentialist belief that each individual, regardless of sex, class or age, should be encouraged to define him or herself and to take on the individual responsibility that comes with freedom. This requires not just focusing on universal institutions, but on the situated individual existent struggling within the ambiguity of existence.

4. Literature

a. Novels

In her autobiographies, Beauvoir often makes the claim that although her passion for philosophy was lifelong, her heart was always set on becoming an author of great literature. What she succeeded in doing was writing some of the best existentialist literature of the 20th century. Much as Camus and Sartre discovered, existentialism’s concern for the individual thrown into an absurd world and forced to act, lends itself well to the artistic medium of fiction. All of Beauvoir’s novels incorporate existential themes, problems, and questions in her attempt to describe the human situation in times of personal turmoil, political upheaval, and social unrest.

Her first novel, L’Invitée (She Came to Stay) was published in 1943. Opening with a quote from Hegel about the desire of self-consciousness to seek the death of the other, the book is a complex psychological study of the battles waged for selfhood. Set during the buildup to World War II, it charts the complexity of war in individual relationships. The protagonist, Françoise is forced to undergo the realization that she is not the center of the world and that her relationship to her lover, Pierre is not guaranteed but must, like all relationships, be constantly chosen and won. This work brought her recognition and lead to the writing of one of her most critically acclaimed novels, Le Sang des Autres (The Blood of Others) in 1945. This work begins to take into account the social responsibility that one’s times demand. Set during the German Occupation of France, it follows the lives of the Patriot leader, Jean Blomart and his agony over sending his lover to her death. This work was heralded as one of the leading existential novels of the Resistance and stands as a testimony to the often tragic contradiction between the responsibility we have to ourselves, to those we love, and to our people and humanity as a whole.

In 1946, Beauvoir published Tous les Hommes sont Mortels (All Men are Mortal) which revolves around the question of mortality and immortality. When an aspiring actress discovers that a mysterious and morose man is immortal, she becomes obsessed with her own immortality which she believes will be carried forth by him into eternity after her death. Although this work was not as well-received by critics and the public, it is especially provocative with the phenomena of time and mortality and the desire all human beings share to achieve immortality in any form we can, and how this leads to a denial of lived experience in the here and now.

Les Mandarins (The Mandarins), Beauvoir’s most famous and critically acclaimed novel was published in 1954 and soon thereafter won the prestigious French award for literature, the Prix Goncourt. This work is a profound study of the responsibilities that the intellectual has to his or her society. It explores the virtues and pitfalls of philosophy, journalism, theater, and literature as these media try to speak to their age and to implement social change. The Mandarins brings in a number of Beauvoir’s own personal concerns as it tarries with the issues of Communism and Socialism, the fears of American imperialism and the nuclear bomb, and the relationship of the individual intellectual to other individuals and to society. It also raises the questions of personal and political allegiance and how the two often conflict with tragic results. Finally, Beauvoir’s novel, Les Belles Images (1966), explores the constellation of relationships, hypocrisy and social mores in Parisian society.

b. Short Stories

Beauvoir wrote two collections of short stories. The first, Quand Prime le Spirituel (When Things of the Spirit Come First) wasn’t published until 1979 even though it was her first work of fiction submitted (and rejected) for publication (in 1937). As the 1930’s were less amenable to both women writers and stories on women, it is not so peculiar that this collection was rejected only to be rediscovered and esteemed over forty years later. This work offers fascinating insight into Beauvoir’s concerns with women and their unique attitudes and situations long before the writing of The Second Sex. Divided into five chapters, each titled by the name of the main female character, it exposes the hypocrisy of the French upper classes who hide their self-interests behind a veil of intellectual or religious absolutes. The stories take up the issues of the crushing demands of religious piety and individual renunciation, the tendency to aggrandize our lives to others and the crisis of identity when we are forced to confront our deceptions, and the difficulty of being a woman submitted to bourgeois and religious education and expectations. Beauvoir’s second collection of short stories, La Femme Rompue (The Woman Destroyed), was published in 1967 and was considerably well-received. This too offers separate studies of three women, each of whom is living in bad faith in one form or another. As each encounters a crisis in her familial relationships, she engages in a flight from her responsibility and freedom. This collection expands upon themes found in her ethics and feminism of the often denied complicity in one’s own undoing.

c. Theater

Beauvoir only wrote one play, Les Bouches Inutiles (Who Shall Die?) which was performed in 1945-the same year of the founding of Les Temps Modernes. Clearly enmeshed in the issues of World War II Europe, the dilemma of this play focuses on who is worth sacrificing for the benefit of the collective. This piece was influenced by the history of 14th century Italian towns that, when under siege and facing mass starvation, threw out the old, sick, weak, women and children to fend for themselves so that there might be enough for the strong men to hold out a little longer. The play is set in just such circumstances which were hauntingly resonant to Nazi occupied France. True to Beauvoir’s ethical commitments which assert the freedom and sanctity of the individual only within the freedom and respect of his or her community, the town decides to rise up together and either defeat the enemy or to die together. Although the play contains a number of important and well-developed existential, ethical and feminist themes, it was not as successful as her other literary expressions. Although she never again wrote for the theater, many of the characters of her novels (for example in She Came to Stay, All Men are Mortal, and The Mandarins) are playwrights and actors, showing her confidence in the theatrical arts to convey crucial existential and socio-political dilemmas.

5. Cultural Studies

a. Travel Observations

Beauvoir was always passionate about traveling and embarked upon many adventures both alone and with Sartre and others. Two trips had a tremendous impact upon her and were the impetus for two major books. The first, L’Amérique au Jour le Jour (America Day by Day) was published in 1948, the year after her lecture tour of the United States in 1947. During this visit, she spent time with Richard and Ellen Wright, met Nelson Algren, and visited numerous American cities such as New York, Chicago, Hollywood, Las Vegas, New Orleans and San Antonio. During her stay, she was commissioned by the New York Times to write an article entitled, “An Existentialist Looks at Americans,” appearing on May 25, 1947. It offers a penetrating critique of the United States as a country so full of promise but also one that is a slave to novelty, material culture, and a pathological fixation on the present at the expense of the past. Such themes are repeated in greater detail in America Day by Day, which also tackles the issue of America’s strained race relations, imperialism, anti-intellectualism, and class tensions.

The second major work to come out of Beauvoir’s travels resulted from her two-month trip to China with Sartre in 1955. Published in 1957, La Longue Marche (The Long March) is a generally positive account of the vast Communist country. Although disturbed by the censorship and careful choreographing of their visit by the Communists, she found China to be working towards a betterment in the life of its people. The themes of labor and the plight of the worker are common throughout this work, as is the situation of women and the family. Despite the breadth of its investigation and the desire on Beauvoir’s behalf to study a completely foreign culture, it was both a critical and a personal embarrassment. She later admitted that it was done more to make money than to offer a serious cultural analysis of China and its people. Regardless of these somewhat justified criticisms, it stands as interesting exploration of the tension between capitalism and Communism, the self and its other, and what it means to be free in different cultural contexts.

b. The Coming of Age

In 1967, Beauvoir began a monumental study of the same genre and caliber as The Second Sex. La Vieillesse (The Coming of Age, 1970) met with instant critical success. The Second Sex had been received with considerable hostility from many groups who did not want to be confronted with an unpleasant critique of their sexist and oppressive attitudes towards women; The Coming of Age however, was generally welcomed although it too critiques society’s prejudices towards another oppressed group: the elderly. This masterful work takes the fear of age as a cultural phenomenon and seeks to give voice to a silenced and detested class of human beings. Lashing out against the injustices suffered by the old, Beauvoir successfully complicates a problem all too oversimplified. For example, she notes that, depending on one’s work or class, old age can come earlier or later. Those who are materially more advantaged can afford good medicine, food and exercise, and thus live much longer and age less quickly, than a miner who is old at 50. In addition, she notices the philosophically complex connection between age and poverty and age and dehumanization.

As she had done in with The Second Sex, Beauvoir approaches the subject matter of The Coming of Age from a variety of perspectives including the biological, anthropological, historical, and sociological. In addition, she explores the question of age from the perspective of the living, elderly human being in relation to his or her body, time and the external world. Just as with The Second Sex, this later work is divided into two books, the first which deals with “Old Age as Seen from Without” and the second with, “Being-in-the-World.” Beauvoir explains the motivation for this division in her Introduction where she writes, “Every human situation can be viewed from without-seen from the point of view of an outsider-or from within, in so far as the subject assumes and at the same time transcends it.” Continuing to uphold her belief in the fundamental ambiguity of existence which always sits atop the contradiction of immanence and transcendence, objectivity and subjectivity, Beauvoir treats the subject of age both as an object of cultural-historical knowledge and as the first-hand, lived experience of aged individuals.

What she concludes from her investigation into the experience, fear and stigma of old age is that even though the process of aging and the decline into death is an inescapable, existential phenomenon for those human beings who live long enough to experience it, there is no necessity to our loathing the aged members of society. There is a certain acceptance of the fear of age felt by most people because it ironically stands as more of the opposite to life than does death. However, this does not demand that the aged merely resign themselves to waiting for death or for younger members of society to treat them as the invisible class. Rather, Beauvoir argues in true existentialist fashion that old age must still be a time of creative and meaningful projects and relationships with others. This means that above all else, old age must not be a time of boredom, but a time of continuous political and social action. This requires a change of orientation among the aged themselves and within society as a whole which must transform its idea that a person is only valuable insofar as they are profitable. Instead, both individuals and society must recognize that a person’s value lies in his or her humanity which is unaffected by age.

c. Autobiographical Works

In her autobiography, Beauvoir tells us that in wanting to write about herself she had to first explain what it meant to be a woman and that this realization was the genesis of The Second Sex. However, Beauvoir also successfully embarked upon the recounting of her life in four volumes of detailed and philosophically rich autobiography. In addition to painting a vibrant picture of her own life, Beauvoir also gives us access into other influential figures of the 20th century ranging from Camus, Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, to Richard Wright, Jean Cocteau, Jean Genet, Antonin Artaud and Fidel Castro among many others. Even though her autobiography covers both non-philosophical and philosophical ground, it is important not to downplay the role that autobiography has in Beauvoir’s theoretical development. Indeed, many other existentialists, such as Nietzsche, Sartre, and Kierkegaard, embrace the autobiographical as a key component to the philosophical. Beauvoir always maintained the importance of the individual’s situation and experience in the face of contingency and the ambiguity of existence. Through the recounting of her life, we are given a unique and personal picture of Beauvoir’s struggles as a philosopher, social reformer, writer and woman during a time of great cultural and artistic achievement and political upheaval.

The first volume of her autobiography, Mémoirs d’une Jeune Fille Rangée (Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, 1958), traces Beauvoir’s childhood, her relationship with her parents, her profound friendship with Zaza and her schooling up through her years at the Sorbonne. In this volume, Beauvoir shows the development of her intellectual and independent personality and the influences which lead to her decisions to become a philosopher and a writer. It also presents a picture of a woman who was critical of her class and its expectations of women from an early age. The second volume of her autobiography, La Force de l’Âge (The Prime of Life, 1960) is often considered to be the richest of all the volumes. Like Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, it was commercially and critically well received. Taking up the years from 1929-1944, Beauvoir portrays her transition from student to adult and the discovery of personal responsibility in war and peace. In many points, she explores the motivations for many of her works, such as The Second Sex and The Mandarins. The third installment of her autobiography, La Force des Choses (The Force of Circumstance, 1963; published in two separate volumes) takes up the time frame following the conclusion of World War II in1944 to the year 1962. In these volumes, Beauvoir becomes increasingly more aware of the political responsibility of the intellectual to his or her country and times. In the volume between 1944-1952 (After the War) Beauvoir describes the intellectual blossoming of post-war Paris, rich with anecdotes on writers, filmmakers and artists. The volume focusing on the decade between 1952-1962 (Hard Times), shows a much more subdued and somewhat cynical Beauvoir who is coming to terms with fame, age and the political atrocities waged by France in its war with Algeria (taken up in her work with Gisèle Halimi and the case of Djamila Boupacha). Because of its brutal honesty on the themes of aging, death and war, this volume of her autobiography was less well-received than the previous two. The final installment in the chronicling of her life charts the years from 1962-1972. Tout Compte Fait, (All Said and Done, 1972) shows an older and wiser philosopher and feminist who looks back over her life, her relationships, and her accomplishments and recognizes that it was all for the best. Here Beauvoir shows her commitments to feminism and social change in a clarity only hinted at in earlier volumes and she continues to struggle with the virtues and pitfalls of capitalism and Communism. Additionally, she returns to past works such as The Second Sex, to reevaluate her motivations and her conclusions about literature, philosophy, and the act of remembering. She again returns to the themes of death and dying and their existential significance as she begins to experience the passing of those she loves.

Although not exactly considered to be “autobiography,” it is worth mentioning two more facets of Beauvoir’s self-revelatory literature. The first consists of her works on the lives and deaths of loved ones. In this area, we find her sensitive and personal recounting of her mother’s death in Une Mort très Douce (A Very Easy Death, 1964). This book is often considered to be one of Beauvoir’s best in its day-by-day portrayal of the ambiguity of love and the experience of loss. In 1981, following the death of Sartre the previous year, she published La Cérémonie des Adieux (Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre) which recounts the progression of an aged and infirm Sartre to his death. This work was somewhat controversial as many readers missed its qualities as a tribute to the late, great philosopher and instead considered it to be an inappropriate exposé on his illness.

The second facet of Beauvoir’s life that can be considered autobiographical are the publication by Beauvoir of Sartre’s letters to her in Lettres au Castor et à Quelques Autres (Letters to Castor and Others, 1983) and of her own correspondence with Sartre in Letters to Sartre published after her death in 1990. Finally, A Transatlantic Love Affair, compiled by Sylvie le Bon de Beauvoir in 1997 and published in 1998, presents Beauvoir’s letters (originally written in English) to Nelson Algren. Each of these works provides us with another perspective into the life of one of the most powerful philosophers of the 20th century and one of the most influential female intellectuals on the history of Western thinking.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Selected Works by Beauvoir (in French and English)

  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Adieux: A Farewell to Sartre. Translated by Patrick O’Brian. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1986. English translation of La cérémonie des adieux (Paris: Gallimard, 1981).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. All Men are Mortal. Translated by Leonard M. Friedman. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1992. English translation of Tous les Hommes sont Mortels (Paris: Gallimard, 1946).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. All Said and Done. Translated by Patrick O’Brian. New York: Paragon House, 1993. English translation of Tout compte fait (Paris: Gallimard, 1972).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. America Day by Day. Translated by Carol Cosman. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990. English translation of L’Amérique au jour le jour (Paris: Gallimard, 1954).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Sons & Co. Ltd., 1968. English translation of Les belles images (Paris: Gallimard, 1966).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Blood of Others. Translated by Roger Senhouse and Yvonne Moyse. New York: Pantheon Books, 1948. English translation of Le sang des autres (Paris: Gallimard, 1945).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Coming of Age. Translated by Patrick O’Brian. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1996. English translation of La vieillesse (Paris: Gallimard, 1970).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. “In Defense of Djamila Boupacha.” Le Monde, 3 June, 1960. Appendix B in Djamila Boupacha: The Story of the Torture of a Young Algerian Girl which Shocked Liberal French Opinion; Introduction to Djamila Boupacha. Edited by Simone de Beauvoir and Gisèle Halimi. Translated by Peter Green. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1962. English translations of Djamila Boupacha (Paris: Gallimard, 1962).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Ethics of Ambiguity. Translated by Bernard Frechtman. New York: Citadel Press, 1996. English translation of Pour une morale de l’ambiguïté (Paris: Gallimard, 1947). Beauvoir, Simone de Beauvoir, Simone de. Force of Circumstance, Vol. I: After the War, 1944-1952; Vol. 2: Hard Times, 1952-1962. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Paragon House, 1992. English translation of La force des choses (Paris: Gallimard, 1963).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Letters to Sartre. Translated and Edited by Quintin Hoare. London: Vintage, 1992. English translation of Lettres à Sartre (Paris: Gallimard, 1990).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Long March. Translated by Austryn Wainhouse. New York: The World Publishing, 1958. English translation of La longue marche (Paris: Gallimard, 1957).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Mandarins. Translated by Leonard M. Friedman. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1991. English translation of Les mandarins (Paris: Gallimard, 1954).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter. Translated by James Kirkup. Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1963. English translation of Mémoires d’une jeune fille rangée (Paris: Gallimard, 1958).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Prime of Life. Translated by Peter Green. New York: Lancer Books, 1966. English translation of La force de l’âge (Paris: Gallimard, 1960).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Pyrrhus et Cinéas. Paris: Gallimard, 1944.
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Second Sex. Translated by H. M. Parshley. New York: Vintage Books, 1989. English translation of Le deuxième sexe (Paris: Gallimard, 1949).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Must We Burn Sade? Translated by Annette Michelson, The Marquis de Sade. New York: Grove Press, 1966. English translation of Faut-il brûler Sade? (Paris: Gallimard, 1955).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. She Came to Stay. Translated by Roger Senhouse and Yvonne Moyse. New York: W. W. Norton & Co.,1954. English translation of L’Invitée (Paris: Gallimard, 1943).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. A Transatlantic Love Affair: Letters to Nelson Algren. Compiled and annotated by Sylvie le Bon de Beauvoir. New York: The New Press, 1998.
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. A Very Easy Death. Translated by Patrick O’Brian. New York: Pantheon Books, 1965. English translation of Une mort très douce (Paris: Gallimard, 1964).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. When Things of the Spirit Come First. Translated by Patrick O’Brian. New York: Pantheon Books, 1982. English translation of Quand prime le spirituel (Paris: Gallimard, 1979).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. Who Shall Die? Translated by Claude Francis and Fernande Gontier. Florissant: River Press, 1983. English translation of Les bouches inutiles (Paris: Gallimard, 1945).
  • Beauvoir, Simone de. The Woman Destroyed. Translated by Patrick O’Brian. New York: Pantheon Books, 1969. English translation of La femme rompue (Paris: Gallimard, 1967).

b. Selected Books on Beauvoir in English

  • Arp, Kristana. The Bonds of Freedom. Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 2001.
  • Bair, Deirdre. Simone de Beauvoir: A Biography. New York: Summit Books, 1990.
  • Bauer, Nancy. Simone de Beauvoir, Philosophy and Feminism. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001.
  • Bergoffen, Debra. The Philosophy of Simone de Beauvoir: Gendered Phenomenologies, Erotic Generosities. Albany: SUNY Press, 1997.
  • Fallaize, Elizabeth. The Novels of Simone de Beauvoir. London: Routledge, 1988.
  • Fullbrook, Kate and Edward. Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre: The Remaking of a Twentieth-Century Legend. New York: Basic Books: 1994.
  • Le Doeuff, Michèle. Hipparchia’s Choice: An Essay Concerning Women, Philosophy, Etc. Translated by Trista Selous. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1991.
  • Lundgren-Gothlin, Eva. Sex and Existence: Simone de Beauvoir’s ‘The Second Sex.’ Translated by Linda Schenck. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1996.
  • Moi, Toril. Feminist Theory and Simone de Beauvoir. Oxford: Blackwell, 1990.
  • Moi, Toril. Simone de Beauvoir: The Making of an Intellectual Woman. Oxford: Blackwell, 1994.
  • Okely, Judith. Simone de Beauvoir. New York: Pantheon Books, 1986.
  • Scholz, Sally J. On de Beauvoir. Belmont: Wadsworth, 2000.
  • Schwarzer, Alice. After the Second Sex: Conversations with Simone de Beauvoir. Translated by Marianne Howarth. New York: Pantheon Books, 1984.
  • Simons, Margaret. Beauvoir and the Second Sex: Feminism, Race and the Origins of Existentialism. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 1999.
  • Simons, Margaret. ed. Feminist Interpretations of Simone de Beauvoir. University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995.
  • Vintges, Karen. Philosophy as Passion: The Thinking of Simone de Beauvoir. Translated by Anne Lavelle. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996.

Author Information

Shannon Mussett
Email: shannon.mussett@uvu.edu
Utah Valley University
U. S. A.

Animals and Ethics

What place should non-human animals have in an acceptable moral system? These animals exist on the borderline of our moral concepts; the result is that we sometimes find ourselves according them a strong moral status, while at other times denying them any kind of moral status at all. For example, public outrage is strong when knowledge of “puppy mills” is made available; the thought here is that dogs deserve much more consideration than the operators of such places give them. However, when it is pointed out that the conditions in a factory farm are as bad as, if not much worse than, the conditions in a puppy mill, the usual response is that those affected are “just animals” after all, and do not merit our concern.  Philosophical thinking on the moral standing of animals is diverse and can be generally grouped into three general categories: Indirect theories, direct but unequal theories, and moral equality theories.

Indirect theories deny animals moral status or equal consideration with humans due to a lack of consciousness, reason, or autonomy.  Ultimately denying moral  status to animals, these theories may still require not harming animals, but only because doing so causes harm to a human being’s morality.  Arguments in this category have been formulated by philosophers such as Immanuel Kant, René Descartes, Thomas Aquinas, Peter Carruthers, and various religious theories.

Direct but unequal theories accord some moral consideration to animals, but deny them a fuller moral status due to their inability to respect another agent’s rights or display moral reciprocity within a community of equal agents. Arguments in this category consider the sentience of the animal as sufficient reason not to cause direct harm to animals.  However, where the interests of animals and humans conflict, the special properties of being human such as rationality, autonomy, and self-consciousness accord higher consideration to the interests of human beings.

Moral equality theories extend equal consideration and moral status to animals by refuting the supposed moral relevance of the aforementioned special properties of human beings.  Arguing by analogy, moral equality theories often extend the concept of rights to animals on the grounds that they have similar physiological and mental capacities as infants or disabled human beings.  Arguments in this category have been formulated by philosophers such as Peter Singer and Tom Regan.

Table of Contents

  1. Indirect Theories
    1. Worldview/Religious Theories
    2. Kantian Theories
    3. Cartesian Theories
    4. Contractualist Theories
    5. Implications for the Treatment of Animals
    6. Two Common Arguments Against Indirect Theories
      1. The Argument From Marginal Cases
      2. Problems with Indirect Duties to Animals
  2. Direct but Unequal Theories
    1. Why Animals have Direct Moral Status
    2. Why Animals are not Equal to Human Beings
      1. Only Human Beings Have Rights
      2. Only Human Beings are Rational, Autonomous, and Self-Conscious
      3. Only Human Beings Can Act Morally
      4. Only Human Beings are Part of the Moral Community
  3. Moral Equality Theories
    1. Singer and the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests
      1. The Argument from Marginal Cases (Again)
      2. The Sophisticated Inegalitarian Argument
      3. Practical Implications
    2. Regan and Animal Rights
  4. References and Further Reading
    1. Anthologies
    2. Monographs
    3. Articles

1. Indirect Theories

On indirect theories, animals do not warrant our moral concern on their own, but may warrant concern only in so far as they are appropriately related to human beings. The various kinds of indirect theories to be discussed are Worldview/Religious Theories, Kantian Theories, Cartesian Theories, and Contractualist Theories. The implications these sorts of theories have for the proper treatment of animals will be explored after that. Finally, two common methods of arguing against indirect theories will be discussed.

a. Worldview/Religious Theories

Some philosophers deny that animals warrant direct moral concern due to religious or philosophical theories of the nature of the world and the proper place of its inhabitants. One of the earliest and clearest expressions of this kind of view comes to us from Aristotle (384-322 B.C.E.). According to Aristotle, there is a natural hierarchy of living beings. The different levels are determined by the abilities present in the beings due to their natures. While plants, animals, and human beings are all capable of taking in nutrition and growing, only animals and human beings are capable of conscious experience. This means that plants, being inferior to animals and human beings, have the function of serving the needs of animals and human beings. Likewise, human beings are superior to animals because human beings have the capacity for using reason to guide their conduct, while animals lack this ability and must instead rely on instinct. It follows, therefore, that the function of animals is to serve the needs of human beings. This, according to Aristotle, is “natural and expedient” (Regan and Singer, 1989: 4-5).

Following Aristotle, the Christian philosopher St. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) argues that since only beings that are rational are capable of determining their actions, they are the only beings towards which we should extend concern “for their own sakes” (Regan and Singer, 1989: 6-12). Aquinas believes that if a being cannot direct its own actions then others must do so; these sorts of beings are merely instruments. Instruments exist for the sake of people that use them, not for their own sake. Since animals cannot direct their own actions, they are merely instruments and exist for the sake of the human beings that direct their actions. Aquinas believes that his view follows from the fact that God is the last end of the universe, and that it is only by using the human intellect that one can gain knowledge and understanding of God. Since only human beings are capable of achieving this final end, all other beings exist for the sake of human beings and their achievement of this final end of the universe.

Remnants of these sorts of views remain in justifications for discounting the interests of animals on the basis of the food chain. On this line of thought, if one kind of being regularly eats another kind of being, then the first is said to be higher on the food chain. If one being is higher than another on the food chain, then it is natural for that being to use the other in the furtherance of its interests. Since this sort of behavior is natural, it does not require any further moral justification.

b. Kantian Theories

Closely related to Worldview/Religious theories are theories such as Immanuel Kant’s (1724-1804). Kant developed a highly influential moral theory according to which autonomy is a necessary property to be the kind of being whose interests are to count direclty in the moral assessment of actions (Kant, 1983, 1956). According to Kant, morally permissible actions are those actions that could be willed by all rational individuals in the circumstances. The important part of his conception for the moral status of animals is his reliance on the notion of willing. While both animals and human beings have desires that can compel them to action, only human beings are capable of standing back from their desires and choosing which course of action to take. This ability is manifested by our wills. Since animals lack this ability, they lack a will, and therefore are not autonomous. According to Kant, the only thing with any intrinsic value is a good will. Since animals have no wills at all, they cannot have good wills; they therefore do not have any intrinsic value.

Kant’s theory goes beyond the Worldview/Religious theories by relying on more general philosophical arguments about the nature of morality. Rather than simply relying on the fact that it is “natural” for rational and autonomous beings to use non-rational beings as they see fit, Kant instead provides an argument for the relevance of rationality and autonomy. A theory is a Kantian theory, then, if it provides an account of the properties that human beings have and animals lack that warrants our according human beings a very strong moral status while denying animals any kind of moral status at all. Kant’s own theory focused on the value of autonomy; other Kantian theories focus on such properties as being a moral agent, being able to exist in a reciprocal relation with other human beings, being able to speak, or being self-aware.

c. Cartesian Theories

Another reason to deny that animals deserve direct concern arises from the belief that animals are not conscious, and therefore have no interests or well-being to take into consideration when considering the effects of our actions. Someone that holds this position might agree that if animals were conscious then we would be required to consider their interests to be directly relevant to the assessment of actions that affect them. However, since they lack a welfare, there is nothing to take directly into account when acting.

One of the clearest and most forceful denials of animal consciousness is developed by Rene Descartes (1596-1650), who argues that animals are automata that might act as if they are conscious, but really are not so (Regan and Singer, 1989: 13-19). Writing during the time when a mechanistic view of the natural world was replacing the Aristotelian conception, Descartes believed that all of animal behavior could be explained in purely mechanistic terms, and that no reference to conscious episodes was required for such an explanation. Relying on the principle of parsimony in scientific explanation (commonly referred to as Occam’s Razor) Descartes preferred to explain animal behavior by relying on the simplest possible explanation of their behavior. Since it is possible to explain animal behavior without reference to inner episodes of awareness, doing so is simpler than relying on the assumption that animals are conscious, and is therefore the preferred explanation.

Descartes anticipates the response that his reasoning, if applicable to animal behavior, should apply equally well to human behavior. The mechanistic explanation of behavior does not apply to human beings, according to Descartes, for two reasons. First, human beings are capable of complex and novel behavior. This behavior is not the result of simple responses to stimuli, but is instead the result of our reasoning about the world as we perceive it. Second, human beings are capable of the kind of speech that expresses thoughts. Descartes was aware that some animals make sounds that might be thought to constitute speech, such as a parrot’s “request” for food, but argued that these utterances are mere mechanically induced behaviors. Only human beings can engage in the kind of speech that is spontaneous and expresses thoughts.

Descartes’ position on these matters was largely influenced by his philosophy of mind and ontology. According to Descartes, there are two mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive kinds of entities or properties: material or physical entities on the one hand, and mental entities on the other. Although all people are closely associated with physical bodies, they are not identical with their bodies. Rather, they are identical with their souls, or the immaterial, mental substance that constitutes their consciousness. Descartes believed that both the complexity of human behavior and human speech requires the positing of such an immaterial substance in order to be explained. However, animal behavior does not require this kind of assumption; besides, Descartes argued, “it is more probable that worms and flies and caterpillars move mechanically than that they all have immortal souls” (Regan and Singer, 1989: 18).

More recently, arguments against animal consciousness have been resurfacing. One method of arguing against the claim that animals are conscious is to point to the flaws of arguments purporting to claim that animals are conscious. For example, Peter Harrison has recently argued that the Argument from Analogy, one of the most common arguments for the claim that animals are conscious, is hopelessly flawed (Harrison, 1991). The Argument from Analogy relies on the similarities between animals and human beings in order to support the claim that animals are conscious. The similarities usually cited by proponents of this argument are similarities in behavior, similarities in physical structures, and similarities in relative positions on the evolutionary scale. In other words, both human beings and animals respond in the same way when confronted with “pain stimuli”; both animals and human beings have brains, nerves, neurons, endorphins, and other structures; and both human beings and animals are relatively close to each other on the evolutionary scale. Since they are similar to each other in these ways, we have good reason to believe that animals are conscious, just as are human beings.

Harrison attacks these points one by one. He points out that so-called pain-behavior is neither necessary nor sufficient for the experience of pain. It is not necessary because the best policy in some instances might be to not show that you are in pain. It is not sufficient since amoebas engage in pain behavior, but we do not believe that they can feel pain. Likewise, we could easily program robots to engage in pain-behavior, but we would not conclude that they feel pain. The similarity of animal and human physical structures is inconclusive because we have no idea how, or even if, the physical structure of human beings gives rise to experiences in the first place. Evolutionary considerations are not conclusive either, because it is only pain behavior, and not the experience of pain itself, that would be advantageous in the struggle for survival. Harrison concludes that since the strongest argument for the claim that animals are conscious fails, we should not believe that they are conscious.

Peter Carruthers has suggested that there is another reason to doubt that animals are conscious Carruthers, 1989, 1992). Carruthers begins by noting that not all human experiences are conscious experiences. For example, I may be thinking of an upcoming conference while driving and not ever consciously “see” the truck in the road that I swerve to avoid. Likewise, patients that suffer from “blindsight” in part of their visual field have no conscious experience of seeing anything in that part of the field. However, there must be some kind of experience in both of these cases since I did swerve to avoid the truck, and must have “seen” it, and because blindsight patients can catch objects that are thrown at them in the blindsighted area with a relatively high frequency. Carruthers then notes that the difference between conscious and non-conscious experiences is that conscious experiences are available to higher-order thoughts while non-conscious experiences are not. (A higher-order thought is a thought that can take as its object another thought.) He thus concludes that in order to have conscious experiences one must be able to have higher-order thoughts. However, we have no reason to believe that animals have higher-order thoughts, and thus no reason to believe that they are conscious.

d. Contractualist Theories

Contractualist Theories of morality construe morality to be the set of rules that rational individuals would choose under certain specified conditions to govern their behavior in society. These theories have had a long and varied history; however, the relationship between contractualism and animals was not really explored until after John Rawls published his A Theory of Justice. In that work, Rawls argues for a conception of justice as fairness. Arguing against Utilitarian theories of justice, Rawls believes that the best conception of a just society is one in which the rules governing that society are rules that would be chosen by individuals from behind a veil of ignorance. The veil of ignorance is a hypothetical situation in which individuals do not know any particular details about themselves, such as their sex, age, race, intelligence, abilities, etc. However, these individuals do know general facts about human society, such as facts about psychology, economics, human motivation, etc. Rawls has his imagined contractors be largely self-interested; each person’s goal is to select the rules that will benefit them the most. Since they do not know who exactly they are, they will not choose rules that benefit any one individual, or segment of society, over another (since they may find themselves to be in the harmed group). Instead, they will choose rules that protect, first and foremost, rational, autonomous individuals.

Although Rawls argues for this conception as a conception of justice, others have tried to extend it to cover all of morality. For example, in The Animals Issue, Peter Carruthers argues for a conception of morality that is based largely on Rawls’s work. Carruthers notes that if we do so extend Rawls’s conception, animals will have no direct moral standing. Since the contractors are self-interested, but do not know who they are, they will accept rules that protect rational individuals. However, the contractors know enough about themselves to know that they are not animals. They will not adopt rules that give special protection to animals, therefore, since this would not further their self-interest. The result is that rational human beings will be directly protected, while animals will not.

e. Implications for the Treatment of Animals

If indirect theories are correct, then we are not required to take the interests of animals to be directly relevant to the assessment of our actions when we are deciding how to act. This does not mean, however, that we are not required to consider how our actions will affect animals at all. Just because something is not directly morally considerable does not imply that we can do whatever we want to it. For example, there are two straightforward ways in which restrictions regarding the proper treatment of animals can come into existence. Consider the duties we have towards private property. I cannot destroy your car if I desire to do so because it is your property, and by harming it I will thereby harm you. Also, I cannot go to the town square and destroy an old tree for fun since this may upset many people that care for the tree.

Likewise, duties with regard to animals can exist for these reasons. I cannot harm your pets because they belong to you, and by harming them I will thereby harm you. I also cannot harm animals in public simply for fun since doing so will upset many people, and I have a duty to not cause people undue distress. These are two straightforward ways in which indirect theories will generate duties with regard to animals.

There are two other ways that even stronger restrictions regarding the proper treatment of animals might be generated from indirect theories. First, both Immanuel Kant and Peter Carruthers argue that there can be more extensive indirect duties to animals. These duties extend not simply to the duty to refrain from harming the property of others and the duty to not offend animal lovers. Rather, we also have a duty to refrain from being cruel to them. Kant argues:

Our duties towards animals are merely indirect duties towards humanity. Animal nature has analogies to human nature, and by doing our duties to animals in respect of manifestations of human nature, we indirectly do our duty to humanity…. We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals (Regan and Singer, 1989: 23-24).

Likewise, Carruthers writes:

Such acts [as torturing a cat for fun] are wrong because they are cruel. They betray an indifference to suffering that may manifest itself…with that person’s dealings with other rational agents. So although the action may not infringe any rights…it remains wrong independently of its effect on any animal lover (Carruthers, 1992: 153-54).

So although we need not consider how our actions affect animals themselves, we do need to consider how our treatment of animals will affect our treatment of other human beings. If being cruel to an animal will make us more likely to be cruel to other human beings, we ought not be cruel to animals; if being grateful to animal will help us in being grateful to human beings then we ought to be grateful to animals.

Second, there may be an argument for vegetarianism that does not rely on considerations of the welfare of animals at all. Consider that for every pound of protein that we get from an animal source, we must feed the animals, on average, twenty-three pounds of vegetable protein. Many people on the planet today are dying of easily treatable diseases largely due to a diet that is below starvation levels. If it is possible to demonstrate that we have a duty to help alleviate the suffering of these human beings, then one possible way of achieving this duty is by refraining from eating meat. The vegetable protein that is used to feed the animals that wealthy countries eat could instead be used to feed the human beings that live in such deplorable conditions.

Of course, not all indirect theorists accept these results. However, the point to be stressed here is that even granting that animals have no direct moral status, we may have (possibly demanding) duties regarding their treatment.

f. Two Common Arguments Against Indirect Theories

Two common arguments against indirect theories have seemed compelling to many people. The first argument is The Argument from Marginal Cases; the second is an argument against the Kantian account of indirect duties to animals.

i. The Argument From Marginal Cases

The Argument from Marginal Cases is an argument that attempts to demonstrate that if animals do not have direct moral status, then neither do such human beings as infants, the senile, the severely cognitively disabled, and other such “marginal cases” of humanity. Since we believe that these sorts of human beings do have direct moral status, there must be something wrong with any theory that claims they do not. More formally, the argument is structured as follows:

  1. If we are justified in denying direct moral status to animals then we are justified in denying direct moral status to the marginal cases.
  2. We are not justified in denying direct moral status to the marginal cases.
  3. Therefore we are not justified denying direct moral status to animals.

The defense of premise (1) usually goes something like this. If being rational (or autonomous, or able to speak) is what permits us to deny direct moral status to animals, then we can likewise deny that status to any human that is not rational (or autonomous, able to speak, etc.). This line of reasoning works for almost every property that has been thought to warrant our denying direct moral status to animals. Since the marginal cases are beings whose abilities are equal to, if not less than, the abilities of animals, any reason to keep animals out of the class of beings with direct moral status will keep the marginal cases out as well.

There is one property that is immune to this line of argument, namely, the property of being human. Some who adhere to Worldview/Religious Views might reject this argument and maintain instead that it is simply “natural” for human beings to be above animals on any moral scale. However, if someone does so they must give up the claim that human beings are above animals due to the fact that human beings are more intelligent or rational than animals. It must be claimed instead that being human is, in itself, a morally relevant property. Few in recent times are willing to make that kind of a claim.

Another way to escape this line of argument is to deny the second premise (Cf. Frey, 1980; Francis and Norman, 1978). This may be done in a series of steps. First, it may be noted that there are very few human beings that are truly marginal. For example, infants, although not currently rational, have the potential to become rational. Perhaps they should not be counted as marginal for that reason. Likewise, the senile may have a direct moral status due to the desires they had when they were younger and rational. Once the actual number of marginal cases is appreciated, it is then claimed that it is not counter-intuitive to conclude that the remaining individuals do not have a direct moral status after all. Once again, however, few are willing to accept that conclusion. The fact that a severely cognitively disabled infant can feel pain seems to most to be a reason to refrain from harming the infant.

ii. Problems with Indirect Duties to Animals

Another argument against indirect theories begins with the intuition that there are some things that simply cannot be done to animals. For example, I am not permitted to torture my own cat for fun, even if no one else finds out about it. This intuition is one that any acceptable moral theory must be able to accommodate. The argument against indirect theories is that they cannot accommodate this intuition in a satisfying way.

Both Kant and Carruthers agree that my torturing my own cat for fun would be wrong. However, they believe it is wrong not because of the harm to the cat, but rather because of the effect this act will have on me. Many people have found this to be a very unsatisfying account of the duty. Robert Nozick labels the bad effects of such an act moral spillover, and asks:

Why should there be such a spillover? If it is, in itself, perfectly all right to do anything at all to animals for any reason whatsoever, then provided a person realizes the clear line between animals and persons and keeps it in mind as he acts, why should killing animals brutalize him and make him more likely to harm or kill persons (Nozick, 1974: 36)?

In other words, unless it is wrong in itself to harm the animal, it is hard to see why such an act would lead people to do other acts that are likewise wrong. If the indirect theorist does not have a better explanation for why it is wrong to torture a cat for fun, and as long as we firmly believe such actions are wrong, then we will be forced to admit that indirect theories are not acceptable.

Indirect theorists can, and have, responded to this line of argument in three ways. First, they could reject the claim that the indirect theorist’s explanation of the duty is unsatisfactory. Second, they could offer an alternative explanation for why such actions as torturing a cat are wrong. Third, they could reject the claim that those sorts of acts are necessarily wrong.

2. Direct but Unequal Theories

Most people accept an account of the proper moral status of animals according to which the interests of animals count directly in the assessment of actions that affect them, but do not count for as much as the interests of human beings. Their defense requires two parts: a defense of the claim that the interests of animals count directly in the assessment of actions that affect them, and a defense of the claim that the interests of animals do not count for as much as the interests of human beings.

a. Why Animals have Direct Moral Status

The argument in support of the claim that animals have direct moral status is rather simple. It goes as follows:

  1. If a being is sentient then it has direct moral status.
  2. (Most) animals are sentient
  3. Therefore (most) animals have direct moral status.

“Sentience” refers to the capacity to experience episodes of positively or negatively valenced awareness. Examples of positively valenced episodes of awareness are pleasure, joy, elation, and contentment. Examples of negatively valenced episodes of awareness are pain, suffering, depression, and anxiety.

In support of premise (1), many argue that pain and pleasure are directly morally relevant, and that there is no reason to discount completely the pleasure or pain of any being. The argument from analogy is often used in support of premise (2) (see the discussion of this argument in section I, part C above). The argument from analogy is also used in answering the difficult question of exactly which animals are sentient. The general idea is that the justification for attributing sentience to a being grows stronger the more analogous it is to human beings.

People also commonly use the flaws of indirect theories as a reason to support the claim that animals have direct moral status. Those that believe both that the marginal cases have direct moral status and that indirect theories cannot answer the challenge of the Argument from Marginal Cases are led to support direct theories; those that believe both that such actions as the torture of one’s own cat for fun are wrong and that indirect theories cannot explain why they are wrong are also led to direct theories.

b. Why Animals are not Equal to Human Beings

The usual manner of justifying the claim that animals are not equal to human beings is to point out that only humans have some property, and then argue that that property is what confers a full and equal moral status to human beings. Some philosophers have used the following claims on this strategy: (1) only human beings have rights; (2) only human beings are rational, autonomous, and self-conscious; (3) only human beings are able to act morally; and (4) only human beings are part of the moral community.

i. Only Human Beings Have Rights

On one common understanding of rights, only human beings have rights. On this conception of rights, if a being has a right then others have a duty to refrain from infringing that right; rights entail duties. An individual that has a right to something must be able to claim that thing for himself, where this entails being able to represent himself in his pursuit of the thing as a being that is legitimately pursuing the furtherance of his interests (Cf. McCloskey, 1979). Since animals are not capable of representing themselves in this way, they cannot have rights.

However, lacking rights does not entail lacking direct moral status; although rights entail duties it does not follow that duties entail rights. So although animals may have no rights, we may still have duties to them. The significance of having a right, however, is that rights act as “trumps” against the pursuit of utility. In other words, if an individual has a right to something, we are not permitted to infringe on that right simply because doing so will have better overall results. Our duties to those without rights can be trumped by considerations of the overall good. Although I have a duty to refrain from destroying your property, that duty can be trumped if I must destroy the property in order to save a life. Likewise, I am not permitted to harm animals without good reason; however, if greater overall results will come about from such harm, then it is justified to harm animals. This sort of reasoning has been used to justify such practices as experimentation that uses animals, raising animals for food, and using animals for our entertainment in such places as rodeos and zoos.

There are two points of contention with the above account of rights. First, it has been claimed that if human beings have rights, then animals will likewise have rights. For example, Joel Feinberg has argued that all is required in order for a being to have a right is that the being be capable of being represented as legitimately pursuing the furtherance of its interests (Feinberg, 1974). The claim that the being must be able to represent itself is too strong, thinks Feinberg, for such a requirement will exclude infants, the senile, and other marginal cases from the class of beings with rights. In other words, Feinberg invokes yet another instance of the Argument from Marginal Cases in order to support his position.

Second, it has been claimed that the very idea of rights needs to be jettisoned. There are two reasons for this. First, philosophers such as R. G. Frey have questioned the legitimacy of the very idea of rights, echoing Bentham’s famous claim that rights are “nonsense on stilts” (Frey, 1980). Second, philosophers have argued that whether or not a being will have rights will depend essentially on whether or not it has some other lower-order property. For example, on the above conception of rights, whether a being will have a right or not will depend on whether it is able to represent itself as a being that is legitimately pursuing the furtherance of its interests. If that is what grounds rights, then what is needed is a discussion of the moral importance of that ability, along with a defense of the claim that it is an ability that animals lack. More generally, it has been argued that if we wish to deny animals rights and claim that only human beings have them, then we must focus not so much on rights, but rather on what grounds them. For this reason, much of the recent literature concerning animals and ethics focuses not so much on rights, but rather on whether or not animals have certain other properties, and whether the possession of those properties is a necessary condition for equal consideration (Cf. DeGrazia, 1999).

ii. Only Human Beings are Rational, Autonomous, and Self-Conscious

Some people argue that only rational, autonomous, and self-conscious beings deserve full and equal moral status; since only human beings are rational, autonomous, and self-conscious, it follows that only human beings deserve full and equal moral status. Once again, it is not claimed that we can do whatever we like to animals; rather, the fact that animals are sentient gives us reason to avoid causing them unnecessary pain and suffering. However, when the interests of animals and human beings conflict we are required to give greater weight to the interests of human beings. This also has been used to justify such practices as experimentation on animals, raising animals for food, and using animals in such places as zoos and rodeos.

The attributes of rationality, autonomy, and self-consciousness confer a full and equal moral status to those that possess them because these beings are the only ones capable of attaining certain values and goods; these values and goods are of a kind that outweigh the kinds of values and goods that non-rational, non-autonomous, and non-self-conscious beings are capable of attaining. For example, in order to achieve the kind of dignity and self-respect that human beings have, a being must be able to conceive of itself as one among many, and must be able to choose his actions rather than be led by blind instinct (Cf. Francis and Norman, 1978; Steinbock, 1978). Furthermore, the values of appreciating art, literature, and the goods that come with deep personal relationships all require one to be rational, autonomous, and self-conscious. These values, and others like them, are the highest values to us; they are what make our lives worth living. As John Stuart Mill wrote, “Few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beast’s pleasures” (Mill, 1979). We find the lives of beings that can experience these goods to be more valuable, and hence deserving of more protection, than the lives of beings that cannot.

iii. Only Human Beings Can Act Morally

Another reason for giving stronger preference to the interests of human beings is that only human beings can act morally. This is considered to be important because beings that can act morally are required to sacrifice their interests for the sake of others. It follows that those that do sacrifice their good for the sake of others are owed greater concern from those that benefit from such sacrifices. Since animals cannot act morally, they will not sacrifice their own good for the sake of others, but will rather pursue their good even at the expense of others. That is why human beings should give the interests of other human beings greater weight than they do the interests of animals.

iv. Only Human Beings are Part of the Moral Community

Finally, some claim that membership in the moral community is necessary for full and equal moral status. The moral community is not defined in terms of the intrinsic properties that beings have, but is defined rather in terms of the important social relations that exist between beings. For example, human beings can communicate with each other in meaningful ways, can engage in economic, political, and familial relationships with each other, and can also develop deep personal relationships with each other. These kinds of relationships require the members of such relationships to extend greater concern to other members of these relationships than they do to others in order for the relationships to continue. Since these relationships are what constitute our lives and the value contained in them, we are required to give greater weight to the interests of human beings than we do to animals.

3. Moral Equality Theories

The final theories to discuss are the moral equality theories. On these theories, not only do animals have direct moral status, but they also have the same moral status as human beings. According to theorists of this kind, there can be no legitimate reason to place human beings and animals in different moral categories, and so whatever grounds our duties to human beings will likewise ground duties to animals.

a. Singer and the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests

Peter Singer has been very influential in the debate concerning animals and ethics. The publication of his Animal Liberation marked the beginning of a growing and increasingly powerful movement in both the United States and Europe.

Singer attacks the views of those who wish to give the interests of animals less weight than the interests of human beings. He argues that if we attempt to extend such unequal consideration to the interests of animals, we will be forced to give unequal consideration to the interests of different human beings. However, doing this goes against the intuitively plausible and commonly accepted claim that all human beings are equal. Singer concludes that we must instead extend a principle of equal consideration of interests to animals as well. Singer describes that principle as follows:

The essence of the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests is that we give equal weight in our moral deliberations to the like interests of all those affected by our actions (Singer, 1993: 21).

Singer defends this principle with two arguments. The first is a version of the Argument from Marginal Cases; the second is the Sophisticated Inegalitarian Argument.

i. The Argument from Marginal Cases (Again)

Singer’s version of the Argument from Marginal Cases is slightly different from the version listed above. It runs as follows:

  1. In order to conclude that all and only human beings deserve a full and equal moral status (and therefore that no animals deserve a full and equal moral status), there must be some property P that all and only human beings have that can ground such a claim.
  2. Any P that only human beings have is a property that (some) human beings lack (e.g., the marginal cases).
  3. Any P that all human beings have is a property that (most) animals have as well.
  4. Therefore, there is no way to defend the claim that all and only human beings deserve a full and equal moral status.

Singer does not defend his first premise, but does not need to; the proponents of the view that all and only humans deserve a full and equal moral status rely on it themselves (see the discussion of Direct but Unequal Theories above). In support of the second premise, Singer asks us to consider exactly what properties only humans have that can ground such a strong moral status. Certain properties, such as being human, having human DNA, or walking upright do not seem to be the kind of properties that can ground this kind of status. For example, if we were to encounter alien life forms that did not have human DNA, but lived lives much like our own, we would not be justified in according these beings a weaker moral status simply because they were not human.

However, there are some properties which only human beings have which have seemed to many to be able to ground a full and equal moral status; for example, being rational, autonomous, or able to act morally have all been used to justify giving a stronger status to human beings than we do to animals. The problem with such a suggestion is that not all human beings have these properties. So if this is what grounds a full and equal moral status, it follows that not all human beings are equal after all.

If we try to ensure that we choose a property that all human beings do have that will be sufficient to ground a full and equal moral status, we seemed to be pushed towards choosing something such as being sentient, or being capable of experiencing pleasure and pain. Since the marginal cases have this property, they would be granted a full and equal moral status on this suggestion. However, if we choose a property of this kind, animals will likewise have a full and equal moral status since they too are sentient.

The attempt to grant all and only human beings a full and equal moral status does not work according to Singer. We must either conclude that not all human beings are equal, or we must conclude that not only human beings are equal. Singer suggests that the first option is too counter-intuitive to be acceptable; so we are forced to conclude that all animals are equal, human or otherwise.

ii. The Sophisticated Inegalitarian Argument

Another argument Singer employs to refute the claim that all and only human beings deserve a full and equal moral status focuses on the supposed moral relevance of such properties as rationality, autonomy, the ability to act morally, etc. Singer argues that if we were to rely on these sorts of properties as the basis of determining moral status, then we would justify a kind of discrimination against certain human beings that is structurally analogous to such practices as racism and sexism.

For example, the racist believes that all members of his race are more intelligent and rational than all of the members of other races, and thus assigns a greater moral status to the members of his race than he does do the members of other races. However, the racist is wrong in this factual judgment; it is not true that all members of any one race are smarter than all members of any other. Notice, however, that the mistake the racist is making is merely a factual mistake. His moral principle that assigns moral status on the basis of intelligence or rationality is not what has led him astray. Rather, it is simply his assessment of how intelligence or rationality is distributed among human beings that is mistaken.

If that were all that is wrong with racism and sexism, then a moral theory according to which we give extra consideration to the very smart and rational would be justified. In other words, we would be justified in becoming, not racists, but sophisticated inegalitarians. However, the sophisticated inegalitarian is just as morally suspect as the racist is. Therefore, it follows that the racist is not morally objectionable merely because of his views on how rationality and intelligence are distributed among human beings; rather he is morally objectionable because of the basis he uses to weigh the interests of different individuals. How intelligent, rational, etc., a being is cannot be the basis of his moral status; if it were, then the sophisticated inegalitarian would be on secure ground.

Notice that in order for this argument to succeed, it must target properties that admit of degrees. If someone argued that the basis of human equality rested on the possession of a property that did not admit of degrees, it would not follow that some human beings have that property to a stronger degree than others, and the sophisticated inegalitarian would not be justified. However, most of the properties that are used in order to support the claim that all and only human beings deserve a full and equal moral status are properties that do admit of degrees. Such properties as being human or having human DNA do not admit of degrees, but, as already mentioned, these properties do not seem to be capable of supporting such a moral status.

iii. Practical Implications

In order to implement the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests in the practical sphere, we must be able to determine the interests of the beings that will be affected by our actions, and we must give similar interests similar weight. Singer concludes that animals can experience pain and suffering by relying on the argument from analogy (see the discussion of Cartesian Theories above). Since animals can experience pain and suffering, they have an interest in avoiding pain.

These facts require the immediate end to many of our practices according to Singer. For example, animals that are raised for food in factory farms live lives that are full of unimaginable pain and suffering (Singer devotes an entire chapter of his book to documenting these facts. He relies mainly on magazines published by the factory farm business for these facts). Although human beings do satisfy their interests by eating meat, Singer argues that the interests the animals have in avoiding this unimaginable pain and suffering is greater than the interests we have in eating food that tastes good. If we are to apply the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests, we will be forced to cease raising animals in factory farms for food. A failure to do so is nothing other than speciesism, or giving preference to the interests of our own species merely because of they are of our species.

Singer does not unequivocally claim that we must not eat animals if we are to correctly apply the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests. Whether we are required to refrain from painlessly killing animals will depend on whether animals have an interest in continuing to exist in the future. In order to have this interest, Singer believes that a being must be able to conceive of itself as existing into the future, and this requires a being to be self-conscious. Non-self-conscious beings are not harmed by their deaths, according to Singer, for they do not have an interest in continuing to exist into the future.

Singer argues that we might be able to justify killing these sorts of beings with The Replaceability Argument. On this line of thought, if we kill a non-self-conscious being that was living a good life, then we have lessened the overall amount of good in the world. This can be made up, however, by bringing another being into existence that can experience similar goods. In other words, non-self-conscious beings are replaceable: killing one can be justified if doing so is necessary to bring about the existence of another. Since the animals we rear for food would not exist if we did not eat them, it follows that killing these animals can be justified if the animals we rear for food live good lives. However, in order for this line of argumentation to justify killing animals, the animals must not only be non-self-conscious, but they must also live lives that are worth living, and their deaths must be painless. Singer expresses doubts that all of these conditions could be met, and unequivocally claims that they are not met by such places as factory farms.

Singer also condemns most experimentation in which animals are used. He first points out that many of the experiments performed using animal subjects do not have benefits for human beings that would outweigh the pain caused to the animals. For example, experiments used to test cosmetics or other non-necessary products for human beings cannot be justified if we use the Principle of Equal Consideration of Interests. Singer also condemns experiments that are aimed at preventing or curing human diseases. If we are prepared to use animal subjects for such experiments, then it would actually be better from a scientific point of view to use human subjects instead, for there would be no question of cross-species comparisons when interpreting the data. If we believe the benefits outweigh the harms, then instead of using animals we should instead use orphaned infants that are severely cognitively disabled. If we believe that such a suggestion is morally repugnant when human beings are to be used, but morally innocuous when animals are to be used, then we are guilty of speciesism.

Likewise, hunting for sport, using animals in rodeos, keeping animals confined in zoos wherein they are not able to engage in their natural activities are all condemned by the use of the Principle of the Equal Consideration of Interests.

b. Regan and Animal Rights

Tom Regan’s seminal work, The Case for Animal Rights, is one of the most influential works on the topic of animals and ethics. Regan argues for the claim that animals have rights in just the same way that human beings do. Regan believes it is a mistake to claim that animals have an indirect moral status or an unequal status, and to then infer that animals cannot have any rights. He also thinks it is a mistake to ground an equal moral status on Utilitarian grounds, as Singer attempts to do. According to Regan, we must conclude that animals have the same moral status as human beings; furthermore, that moral status is grounded on rights, not on Utilitarian principles.

Regan argues for his case by relying on the concept of inherent value. According to Regan, any being that is a subject-of-a-life is a being that has inherent value. A being that has inherent value is a being towards which we must show respect; in order to show respect to such a being, we cannot use it merely as a means to our ends. Instead, each such being must be treated as an end in itself. In other words, a being with inherent value has rights, and these rights act as trumps against the promotion of the overall good.

Regan relies on a version of the Argument from Marginal Cases in arguing for this conclusion. He begins by asking what grounds human rights. He rejects robust views that claim that a being must be capable of representing itself as legitimately pursuing the furtherance of its interests on the grounds that this conception of rights implies that the marginal cases of humanity do not have rights. However, since we think that these beings do have moral rights there must be some other property that grounds these rights. According to Regan, the only property that is common to both normal adult human beings and the marginal cases is the property of being a subject-of-a-life. A being that is a subject-of-a-life will:

have beliefs and desires; perception, memory, and a sense of the future, including their own future; an emotional life together with feelings of pleasure and pain; preference- and welfare-interests; the ability to initiate action in pursuit of their desires and goals; a psychological identity over time; and an individual welfare in the sense that their experiential life fares well or ill for them, logically independently of their utility for others, and logically independently of their being the object of anyone else’s interests (Regan, 1983: 243).

This property is one that all of the human beings that we think deserve rights have; however, it is a property that many animals (especially mammals) have as well. So if these marginal cases of humanity deserve rights, then so do these animals.

Although this position may seem quite similar to Singer’s position (see section III, part A above), Regan is careful to point to what he perceives to be the flaws of Singer’s Utilitarian theory. According to Singer, we are required to count every similar interest equally in our deliberation. However, by doing this we are focusing on the wrong thing, Regan claims. What matters is the individual that has the interest, not the interest itself. By focusing on interests themselves, Utilitarianism will license the most horrendous actions. For example, if it were possible to satisfy more interests by performing experiments on human beings, then that is what we should do on Utilitarian grounds. However, Regan believes this is clearly unacceptable: any being with inherent value cannot be used merely as a means.

This does not mean that Regan takes rights to be absolute. When the rights of different individuals conflict, then someone’s rights must be overriden. Regan argues that in these sorts of cases we must try to minimize the rights that are overriden. However, we are not permitted to override someone’s rights just because doing so will make everyone better off; in this kind of case we are sacrificing rights for utility, which is never permissible on Regan’s view.

Given these considerations, Regan concludes that we must radically alter the ways in which we treat animals. When we raise animals for food, regardless of how they are treated and how they are killed, we are using them as a means to our ends and not treating them as ends in themselves. Thus, we may not raise animals for food. Likewise, when we experiment on animals in order to advance human science, we are using animals merely as a means to our ends. Similar thoughts apply to the use of animals in rodeos and the hunting of animals.

See also Animal Ethics.

4. References and Further Reading.

a. Anthologies

  • Miller, H. and W. Miller, eds. Ethics and Animals (Clifton, NJ: Humana Press, 1983).
  • Regan, T. and P. Singer, eds. Animal Rights and Human Obligations 2/e (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1989).
  • Walters, K and Lisa Portmess, eds. Ethical Vegetarianism: From Pythagoras to Peter Singer(Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999).

b. Monographs

  • Carruthers, Peter. The Animals Issue: Morality in Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).
  • Clark, Stephen. The Moral Status of Animals (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977).
  • DeGrazia, David. Taking Animals Seriously: Mental Life and Moral Status (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).
  • Dombrowski, Daniel. Babies and Beasts: The Argument from Marginal Cases. (Urbana: The University of Illinois Press, 1997).
  • Fox, Michael A. The Case for Animal Experimentation: An Evolutionary and Ethical Perspective (Berkeley: The University of California Press, 1986).
  • Frey, R. G. Interests and Rights: The Case Against Animals (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980).
  • Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Practical Reason (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1993), originally published 1788.
  • Kant, Immanuel. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1956), originally published 1785.
  • Midgley, Mary. Animals and Why They Matter (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 1983).
  • Mill, John Stuart. Utilitarianism (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishers, 1979), originally published 1861.
  • Noddings, Nell. Caring: A Feminist Approach to Ethics and Moral Education (Berkeley: The University of California Press, 1984).
  • Nozick, Robert. Anarchy, State, and Utopia (New York: Basic Books, 1974).
  • Pluhar, Evelyn. Beyond Prejudice: The Moral Significance of Human and Nonhuman Animals(Durham: Duke University Press, 1995).
  • Rachels, James. Created from Animals: The Moral Implications of Darwinism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990).
  • Regan, Tom. The Case for Animal Rights (Berkeley: The University of California Press, 1983).
  • Rodd, Rosemary. Biology, Ethics, and Animals (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990).
  • Rollin, Bernard. The Unheeded Cry: Animal Consciousness, Animal Pain, and Science(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989).
  • Sapontzis, S. F. Morals, Reasons, and Animals (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1987).
  • Singer, Peter. Animal Liberation, 2/e (New York: Avon Books, 1990).
  • Singer, Peter. Practical Ethics, 2/e (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
  • Warren, Mary Anne. Moral Status: Obligations to Persons and Other Living Things (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997).

c. Articles

  • Carruthers, Peter. “Brute Experience”, The Journal of Philosophy 86 (1989): 258-69.
  • Cigman, Ruth. “Death, Misfortune, and Species Inequality”, Philosophy and Public Affairs 10 (1981): 47-64.
  • Cohen, Carl. “The Case for the Use of Animals in Biomedical Research”, The New England Journal of Medicine 315 (1986): 865-70.
  • DeGrazia, David. “Animal Ethics Around the Turn of the Twenty-First Century”, Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics 11 (1999): 111-29.
  • Diamond, Cora. “Eating Meat and Eating People”, Philosophy 53 (1978): 465-79.
  • Feinberg, Joel. “The Rights of Animals and Unborn Generations”, in W. T. Blackstone, ed.,Philosophy and Environmental Crisis (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 1974).
  • Fox, Michael A. “Animal Experimentation: A Philosopher’s Changing Views”, Between the Species 3 (1987): 55-82.
  • Francis, Leslie Pickering and Richard Norman. “Some Animals are More Equal than Others”, Philosophy 53 (1978): 507-27.
  • Goodpaster, Kenneth. “On Being Morally Considerable”, The Journal of Philosophy 75 (1978): 308-25.
  • Harrison, Peter. “Do Animals Feel Pain?”, Philosophy 66 (1991): 25-40.
  • McCloskey, H. J. “Moral Rights and Animals”, Inquiry 22 (1979): 23-54.
  • Miller, Peter. “Do Animals Have Interests Worthy of Our Moral Interest?”, Environmental Ethics 5 (1983): 319-33.
  • Narveson, Jan. “Animal Rights”, Canadian Journal of Philosophy 7 (1977): 161-78.
  • Steinbock, Bonnie. “Speciesism and the Idea of Equality”, Philosophy 53 (1978): 247-56.
  • Warren, Mary Anne. “Difficulties with the Strong Animal Rights Position”, Between the Species 2 (1987): 161-73.
  • Williams, Meredith. “Rights, Interests, and Moral Equality”, Environmental Ethics 2 (1980): 149-61.
  • Wilson, Scott. “Carruthers and the Argument From Marginal Cases”, The Journal of Applied Philosophy 18 (2001): 135-47.
  • Wilson, Scott. “Indirect Duties to Animals”, The Journal of Value Inquiry, 36 (2002): 17-27.

Author Information

Scott D. Wilson
Email: scott.wilson@wright.edu
Wright State University
U. S. A.

The Philosophy of War

war

Any philosophical examination of war will  center on four general questions: What is war? What causes war? What is the relationship between human nature and war? Can war ever be morally justifiable?

Defining what war is requires determining the entities that are allowed to begin and engage in war. And a person’s definition of war often expresses the person’s broader political philosophy, such as limiting war to a conflict between nations or state.   Alternative definitions of war can include conflict not just between nations but between schools of thought or ideologies.

Answers to the question “What causes war?” largely depend on the philosopher’s views on determinism and free will.  If a human’s actions are beyond his or her control, then the cause of war is irrelevant and inescapable.  On the other hand, if war is a product of human choice, then three general groupings of causation can be identified: biological, cultural, and reason.  While exploring the root cause of conflict, this article investigates the relationship between human nature and war.

Finally, the question remains as to whether war is ever morally justified.  Just war theory is a useful structure within which the discourse of war may be ethically examined.  In the evolving context of modern warfare, a moral calculus of war will require the philosopher of war to account not only for military personnel and civilians, but also for justifiable targets, strategies, and use of weapons.

The answers to all these questions lead on to more specific and applied ethical and political questions.  Overall, the philosophy of war is complex and requires one to articulate consistent thought across the fields of metaphysics, epistemology, philosophy of mind, political philosophy, and ethics.

Table of Contents

  1. What is War?
  2. What causes war?
  3. Human Nature and War
  4. War and Political and Moral Philosophy
  5. Summary

1. What is War?

The first issue to be considered is what is war and what is its definition. The student of war needs to be careful in examining definitions of war, for like any social phenomena, definitions are varied, and often the proposed definition masks a particular political or philosophical stance paraded by the author. This is as true of dictionary definitions as well as of articles on military or political history.

Cicero defines war broadly as “a contention by force”; Hugo Grotius adds that “war is the state of contending parties, considered as such”; Thomas Hobbes notes that war is also an attitude: “By war is meant a state of affairs, which may exist even while its operations are not continued;” Denis Diderot comments that war is “a convulsive and violent disease of the body politic;” for Karl von Clausewitz, “war is the continuation of politics by other means”, and so on. Each definition has its strengths and weaknesses, but often is the culmination of the writer’s broader philosophical positions.

For example, the notion that wars only involve states-as Clausewitz implies-belies a strong political theory that assumes politics can only involve states and that war is in some manner or form a reflection of political activity. ‘War’ defined by Webster’s Dictionary is a state of open and declared, hostile armed conflict between states or nations, or a period of such conflict. This captures a particularly political-rationalistic account of war and warfare, i.e., that war needs to be explicitly declared and to be between states to be a war. We find Rousseau arguing this position: “War is constituted by a relation between things, and not between persons…War then is a relation, not between man and man, but between State and State…” (The Social Contract).

The military historian, John Keegan offers a useful characterization of the political-rationalist theory of war in his A History of War. It is assumed to be an orderly affair in which states are involved, in which there are declared beginnings and expected ends, easily identifiable combatants, and high levels of obedience by subordinates. The form of rational war is narrowly defined, as distinguished by the expectation of sieges, pitched battles, skirmishes, raids, reconnaissance, patrol and outpost duties, with each possessing their own conventions. As such, Keegan notes the rationalist theory does not deal well with pre-state or non-state peoples and their warfare.

There are other schools of thought on war’s nature other than the political-rationalist account, and the student of war must be careful, as noted above, not to incorporate a too narrow or normative account of war. If war is defined as something that occurs only between states, then wars between nomadic groups should not be mentioned, nor would hostilities on the part of a displaced, non-state group against a state be considered war.

An alternative definition of war is that it is an all-pervasive phenomenon of the universe. Accordingly, battles are mere symptoms of the underlying belligerent nature of the universe; such a description corresponds with a Heraclitean or Hegelian philosophy in which change (physical, social, political, economical, etc) can only arise out of war or violent conflict. Heraclitus decries that “war is the father of all things,” and Hegel echoes his sentiments. Interestingly, even Voltaire, the embodiment of the Enlightenment, followed this line: “Famine, plague, and war are the three most famous ingredients of this wretched world…All animals are perpetually at war with each other…Air, earth and water are arenas of destruction.” (From Pocket Philosophical Dictionary).

Alternatively, the Oxford Dictionary expands the definition to include “any active hostility or struggle between living beings; a conflict between opposing forces or principles.” This avoids the narrowness of a political-rationalist conception by admitting the possibility of metaphorical, non-violent clashes between systems of thought, such as of religious doctrines or of trading companies. This perhaps indicates a too broad definition, for trade is certainly a different kind of activity than war, although trade occurs in war, and trade often motivates wars. The OED definition also seems to echo a Heraclitean metaphysics, in which opposing forces act on each other to generate change and in which war is the product of such a metaphysics. So from two popular and influential dictionaries, we have definitions that connote particular philosophical positions.

The plasticity and history of the English language also mean that commonly used definitions of war may incorporate and subsume meanings borrowed and derived from other, older languages: the relevant root systems being Germanic, Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit. Such descriptions may linger in oral and literary depictions of war, for we read of war in poems, stories, anecdotes and histories that may encompass older conceptions of war. Nonetheless, war’s descriptions residing in the literature left by various writers and orators often possess similarities to modern conceptions. The differences arise from the writer’s, poet’s, or orator’s judgement of war, which would suggest that an Ancient Greek conception of war is not so different from our own. Both could recognize the presence or absence of war. However, etymologically war’s definition does refer to conceptions of war that have either been discarded or been imputed to the present definition, and a cursory review of the roots of the word war provides the philosopher with a glimpse into its conceptual status within communities and over time.

For example, the root of the English word ‘war’, werra, is Frankish-German, meaning confusion, discord, or strife, and the verb werran meaning to confuse or perplex. War certainly generates confusion, as Clausewitz noted calling it the “fog of war”, but that does not discredit the notion that war is organized to begin with. The Latin root of bellum gives us the word belligerent, and duel, an archaic form of bellum; the Greek root of war is polemos, which gives us polemical, implying an aggressive controversy. The Frankish-Germanic definition hints at a vague enterprise, a confusion or strife, which could equally apply to many social problems besetting a group; arguably it is of a lower order sociological concept than the Greek, which draws the mind’s attention to suggestions of violence and conflict, or the Latin, which captures the possibility of two sides doing the fighting.

The present employment of ‘war’ may imply the clash and confusion embedded in early definitions and roots, but it may also, as we have noted, unwittingly incorporate conceptions derived from particular political schools. An alternative definition that the author has worked on is that war is a state of organized, open-ended collective conflict or hostility. This is derived from contextual common denominators, that is elements that are common to all wars, and which provide a useful and robust definition of the concept. This working definition has the benefit of permitting more flexibility than the OED version, a flexibility that is crucial if we are to examine war not just as a conflict between states (that is, the rationalist position), but also a conflict between non-state peoples, non-declared actions, and highly organized, politically controlled wars as well as culturally evolved, ritualistic wars and guerrilla uprisings, that appear to have no centrally controlling body and may perhaps be described as emerging spontaneously.

The political issue of defining war poses the first philosophical problem, but once that is acknowledged, a definition that captures the clash of arms, the state of mutual tension and threat of violence between groups, the authorized declaration by a sovereign body, and so on can be drawn upon to distinguish wars from riots and rebellions, collective violence from personal violence, metaphorical clashes of values from actual or threatened clashes of arms.

2. What causes war?

Various sub-disciplines have grappled with war’s etiology, but each in turn, as with definitions of war, often reflects a tacit or explicit acceptance of broader philosophical issues on the nature of determinism and freedom.

For example, if it is claimed that man is not free to choose his actions (strong determinism) then war becomes a fated fact of the universe, one that humanity has no power to challenge. Again, the range of opinions under this banner is broad, from those who claim war to be a necessary and ineluctable event, one that man can never shirk from, to those who, while accepting war’s inevitability, claim that man has the power to minimize its ravages, just as prescriptive medicines may minimize the risk of disease or lightning rods the risk of storm damage. The implication is that man is not responsible for his actions and hence not responsible for war. Wherein lies its cause then becomes the intellectual quest: in the medieval understanding of the universe, the stars, planets and combinations of the four substances (earth, air, water, fire) were understood as providing the key to examining human acts and dispositions. While the modern mind has increased the complexity of the nature of the university, many still refer to the universe’s material nature or its laws for examining why war arises. Some seek more complicated versions of the astrological vision of the medieval mind (e.g., Kondratieff cycle theories), whereas others delve into the newer sciences of molecular and genetic biology for explanations.

In a weaker form of determinism, theorists claim that man is a product of his environment-however that is defined-but he also possesses the power to change that environment. Arguments from this perspective become quite intricate, for they often presume that ‘mankind’ as a whole is subject to inexorable forces that prompt him to wage war, but that some people’s acts-those of the observers, philosophers, scientists-are not as determined, for they possess the intellectual ability to perceive what changes are required to alter man’s martial predispositions. Again, the paradoxes and intricacies of opinions here are curiously intriguing, for it may be asked what permits some to stand outside the laws that everybody else is subject to?

Others, who emphasize man’s freedom to choose, claim that war is a product of his choice and hence is completely his responsibility. But thinkers here spread out into various schools of thought on the nature of choice and responsibility. By its very collective nature, considerations of war’s causation must encroach into political philosophy and into discussions on a citizen’s and a government’s responsibility for a war. Such concerns obviously trip into moral issues (to what extent is the citizen morally responsible for war?), but with regards war’s causation, if man is responsible for the actual initiation of war it must be asked on whose authority is war enacted? Descriptive and normative problems arise here, for one may inquire who is the legal authority to declare war, then move to issues of whether that authority has or should have legitimacy. For example, one may consider whether that authority reflects what ‘the people’ want (or should want), or whether the authority informs them of what they want (or should want). Are the masses easily swayed by the ideas of the élite, or do the élite ultimately pursue what the majority seeks? Here, some blame aristocracies for war (e.g., Nietzsche, who actually extols their virtues in this regard) and others blame the masses for inciting a reluctant aristocracy to fight (cf. Vico, New Science, sect. 87).

Those who thus emphasize war as a product of man’s choices bring to the fore his political and ethical nature, but once the broad philosophical territory of metaphysics has been addressed other particular causes of war can be noted. These may be divided into three main groupings: those who seek war’s causation in man’s biology, those that seek it in his culture, and those who seek it in his faculty of reason.

Some claim war to be a product of man’s inherited biology, with disagreements raging on the ensuing determinist implications. Example theories include those that claim man to be naturally aggressive or naturally territorial, more complex analyses incorporate game theory and genetic evolution to explain the occurrence of violence and war (cf. Richard Dawkins for interesting comments on this area). Within this broad school of thought, some accept that man’s belligerent drives can be channeled into more peaceful pursuits (William James), some worry about man’s lack of inherited inhibitions to fight with increasingly dangerous weapons (Konrad Lorenz), and others claim the natural process of evolution will sustain peaceful modes of behavior over violent (Richard Dawkins).

Rejecting biological determinism, culturalists seek to explain war’s causation in terms of particular cultural institutions. Again determinism is implied when proponents claim that war is solely a product of man’s culture or society, with different opinions arising as to the nature or possibility of cultural change. For example, can the ‘soft morality’ of trade that engages increasing numbers in peaceful intercourse counteract and even abolish bellicose cultural tendencies (as Kant believes), or are cultures subject to an inertia, in which the imposition of external penalties or a supra-national state may be the only means to peace? The problem leads to questions of an empirical and a normative nature on the manner in which some societies have foregone war and on the extent to which similar programs may be deployed in other communities. For example, what generated peace between the warring tribes of England and what denies the people of Northern Ireland or Yugoslavia that same peace?

Rationalists are those who emphasize the efficacy of man’s reason in human affairs, and accordingly proclaim war to be a product of reason (or lack of). To some this is a lament-if man did not possess reason, he might not seek the advantages he does in war and he would be a more peaceful beast. To others reason is the means to transcend culturally relative differences and concomitant sources of friction, and its abandonment is the primary cause of war (cf. John Locke, Second Treatise, sect. 172). Proponents of the mutual benefits of universal reason have a long and distinguished lineage reaching back to the Stoics and echoing throughout the Natural Law philosophies of the medieval and later scholars and jurists. It finds its best advocate in Immanuel Kant and his famous pamphlet on Perpetual Peace.

Many who explain war’s origins in man’s abandonment of reason also derive their thoughts from Plato, who argues that “wars and revolutions and battles are due simply and solely to the body and its desires.” That is, man’s appetite sometimes or perpetually overwhelms his reasoning capacity, which results in moral and political degeneration. Echoes of Plato’s theories abound in Western thought, resurfacing for example, in Freud’s cogitation on war (“Why War”) in which he sees war’s origins in the death instinct, or in Dostoyevsky’s comments on man’s inherent barbarity: “It’s just their defenselessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a beast lies hidden-the beast of rage, the beast of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the beast of lawlessness let off the chain, the beast of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney disease, and so on.” (Brothers Karamazov, ii.V.4, “Rebellion”)

The problem with focusing on one single aspect of man’s nature is that while the explanation of war’s causation may be simplified, the simplification ignores cogent explanations put forward by competing theories. For example, an emphasis on man’s reason as the cause of war is apt to ignore deep cultural structures that may perpetuate war in the face of the universal appeal to peace, and similarly may ignore inherited pugnacity in some individuals or even in some groups. Similarly, an emphasis on the biological etiology of war can ignore man’s intellectual capacity to control, or his will to go against, his predispositions. In other words, human biology can affect thinking (what is thought, how, for what duration and intensity), and can accordingly affect cultural developments, and in turn cultural institutions can affect biological and rational developments (e.g., how strangers are welcomed affects a group’s isolation or integration and hence its reproductive gene pool).

The examination of war’s causation triggers the need for elaboration on many sub-topics, regardless of the internal logical validity of a proposed explanation. Students of war thus need to explore beyond proffered definitions and explanations to consider the broader philosophical problems that they often conceal.

3. Human Nature and War

A setting to explore the relationship between human nature and war is provided by Thomas Hobbes, who presents a state of nature in which the ‘true’ or ‘underlying’ nature of man is likely to come to the fore of our attention. Hobbes is adamant that without an external power to impose laws, the state of nature would be one of immanent warfare. That is, “during the time men live without a common Power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which is called Warre; and such a warre, as is of every man, against every man.” (Leviathan, 1.13) Hobbes’s construction is a useful starting point for discussions on man’s natural inclinations and many of the great philosophers who followed him, including Locke, Rousseau, and Kant, agree to some extent or other with his description. Locke rejects Hobbes’s complete anarchic and total warlike state but accepts that there will always be people who will take advantage of the lack of legislation and enforcement. Rousseau inverts Hobbes’s image to argue that in the state of nature man is naturally peaceful and not belligerent, however when Rousseau elaborates on international politics he is of a similar mind, arguing that states must be active (aggressive) otherwise they decline and founder; war is inevitable and any attempts at peaceful federations are futile. (From Rousseau’s notes on L’état de guerre criticizing the earlier pamphlet of the Abbé Saint-Pierre entitled Perpetual Peace, a title Kant later usurps).

Kant’s position is that the innate conflict between men and later between states prompts humanity to seek peace and federation. It is not that man’s reason alone teaches him the benefits of a pacifistic concord, but that war, which is inevitable when overarching structures are absent, induces men to consider and realize more peaceful arrangements of their affairs, yet even Kant retained a pessimistic conception of mankind: “War…seems to be ingrained in human nature, and even to be regarded as something noble to which man is inspired by his love of honor, without selfish motives.” (Perpetual Peace)

Hobbes presents an atomistic conception of humanity, which many disagree with. Communitarians of various hues reject the notion of an isolated individual pitted against others and prompted to seek a contract between themselves for peace. Some critics prefer an organic conception of the community in which the individual’s ability to negotiate for peace (through a social contract) or to wage war is embedded in the social structures that form him. Reverting to John Donne’s “no man is an island” and to Aristotle’s “man is a political animal”, proponents seek to emphasize the social connections that are endemic to human affairs, and hence any theoretical construction of human nature, and thus of war, requires an examination of the relevant society man lives in. Since the governing elements of man’s nature are thereby relative to time and place, so too is war’s nature and ethic, although proponents of this viewpoint can accept the persistence of cultural forms over time. For instance, the communitarian view of war implies that Homeric war is different from war in the Sixteenth Century, but historians might draw upon evidence that the study of Greek warfare in the Iliad may influence later generations in how they conceive themselves and warfare.

Others reject any theorizing on human nature. Kenneth Waltz, for example argues: “While human nature no doubt plays a role in bringing about war, it cannot by itself explain both war and peace, except by the simple statement that sometimes he fights and sometimes he does not.” (Man, War, and State), and existentialists deny such an entity is compatible with complete freedom of will (cf. Sartre). This danger here is that this absolves any need to search for commonalties in warriors of different periods and areas, which could be of great benefit both to military historians and peace activists.

4. War and Political and Moral Philosophy

The first port of call for investigating war’s morality is the just war theory, which is well discussed and explained in many text books and dictionaries and can also be viewed on the IEP.

However, once the student has considered, or is at least aware of the broader philosophical theories that may relate to war, an analysis of its ethics begins with the question: is war morally justifiable? Again, due notice must be given to conceptions of justice and morality that involve both individuals and groups. War as a collective endeavor engages a co-ordinated activity in which not only the ethical questions of agent responsibility, obedience and delegation are ever present but so too are questions concerning the nature of agency. Can nations be morally responsible for the war’s they are involved in, or should only those with the power to declare war be held responsible? Similarly, should individual Field Marshalls be considered the appropriate moral agent or the army as a corporate body? What guilt, if any, should the Private bear for his army’s aggression, and likewise what guilt, if any, should a citizen, or even a descendant, bear for his country’s war crimes? (And is there such a thing as a ‘war crime’?)

Just war theory begins with an assessment of the moral and political criteria for justifying the initiation of war (defensive or aggressive), but critics note that the justice of warfare is already presumed in just war theory: all that is being outlined are the legal, political, and moral criteria for its justice. Thus the initial justice of war requires reflection. Pacifists deny that war, or even any kind of violence, can be morally permissible, but, as with the other positions noted above, a variety of opinions exists here, some admitting the use of war only in defense and as a last resort (defencists) whereas others absolutely do not admit violence or war of any sort (absolutist pacifists). Moving from the pacifist position, other moralists admit the use of war as a means to support, defend, or secure peace, but such positions may permit wars of defense, deterrence, aggression, and intervention for that goal.

Beyond what has been called the pacificistic morality (in which peace is the end goal as distinct from pacifism and its rejection of war as a means), are those theories that establish an ethical value in war. Few consider war should be fought for war’s sake, but many writers have supported war as a means to various ends other than peace. For example, as a vehicle to forge national identity, to pursue territorial aggrandizement, or to uphold and strive for a variety of virtues such as glory and honor. In this vein of thought, those who are now characterized as social darwinists and their intellectual kin may be heard extolling the evolutionary benefits of warfare, either for invigorating individuals or groups to pursue the best of their abilities, or to remove weaker members or groups from political ascendancy.

The morality of war traipses into the related area of political philosophy in which conceptions of political responsibility and sovereignty, as well as notions of collective identity and individuality, should be acknowledged and investigated. Connections back to war’s causation can also be noted. For example, if the moral code of war concerns the corporate entity of the state, then it is to the existence or behavior of the state that we turn to explain how war’s originate. This raises problems concerning the examination of the moral and political responsibility for war’s initiation and procedure: if states are war’s harbingers, then does it follow that only the state’s leaders are morally and politically responsible, or if we accept some element of Humean democracy (namely that governments are always subject to the sanction of the people they rule or represent) then moral and political responsibility extends to the citizenry.

Once war commences, whatever its merits, philosophers disagree on the role, if any, of morality within war. Many have claimed morality is necessarily discarded by the very nature of war including Christian thinkers such as Augustine, whereas others have sought to remind warriors both of the existence of moral relations in war and of various strictures to remain sensitive to moral ends. Sociologically, those going to and coming back from war often go through rites and rituals that symbolize their stepping out of, or back into, civil society, as if their transition is to a different level of morality and agency. War typically involves killing and the threat of being killed, which existentialist writers have drawn on in their examination of war’s phenomenology.

For the ethicist, questions begin with identifying morally permissible or justifiable targets, strategies, and weapons-that is, of the principles of discrimination and proportionality. Writers disagree on whether all is fair in war, or whether certain modes of conflict ought to be avoided. The reasons for maintaining some moral dimensions include: the preponderance or expectation of peaceful intercourse on other levels; the mutual benefits of refraining from certain acts and the fear of retaliation in kind; and the existence of treatises and covenants that nations may seek to abide by to maintain international status.

A useful distinction here is between absolute war and total war. Absolute war describes the deployment of all of a society’s resources and citizens into working for the war machine. Total war, on the other hand, describes the absence of any restraint in warfare. Moral and political responsibility becomes problematic for proponents of both absolute and total war, for they have to justify the incorporation of civilians who do not work for the war effort as well as the infirm, children, and the handicapped and wounded who cannot fight. Supporters of absolute warfare may argue that membership of a society involves responsibilities for its protection, and if some members are literally unable to assist then all other able-bodied civilians have an absolute duty to do their part. The literature of war propaganda relates well here, as does the penal morality for those who refuse and the definitional politics of the wide range of people who may not wish to fight from conscientious objectors to traitors.

Similar issues dog those who support total warfare in which the military target traditionally sacrosanct people and entities: from non-combatants, women and children, to works of art and heritage buildings. Supporters may evoke the sliding scale that Michael Walzer describes in Just and Unjust Wars, in which graver threats to the body politic may permit the gradual weakening of moral constraints. Curiously, considering his strong emphasis on social virtues, David Hume accepts the abandonment of all notions of justice in war or when the agent’s plight is so dire that recourse to any action becomes permissible (cf. Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, sect.3). Others merely state that war and morality do not mix.

5. Summary

The nature of the philosophy of war is complex and this article has sought to establish a broad vision of its landscape and the connections that are endemic to any philosophical analysis of the topic. The subject matter lends itself to metaphysical and epistemological considerations, to the philosophy of mind and of human nature, as well as to the more traditional areas of moral and political philosophy. In many respects the philosophy of war demands a thorough investigation of all aspects of a thinker’s beliefs, as well as presenting an indication of a philosopher’s position on connected topics. To begin a philosophical discussion of war draws one onto a long and complex intellectual path of study and continual analysis; whereas a cursory announcement of what one thinks on war can be, or points to, the culmination of thoughts on related topics and a deduction from one to the other can and should always be made.

Author Information

Alexander Moseley
United Kingdom

The Language of Thought Hypothesis

The language of thought hypothesis (LOTH) is the hypothesis that mental representation has a linguistic structure, or in other words, that thought takes place within a mental language. The hypothesis is sometimes expressed as the claim that thoughts are sentences in the head. It is one of a cluster of other hypotheses that together offer a theory of the nature of thought and thinking. The other hypotheses in the cluster include the causal-syntactic theory of mental processes (CSMP), and the representational theory of mind (RTM). The former is the hypothesis that mental processes are causal processes defined over the syntax of mental representations. The latter is the hypothesis that propositional attitudes are relations between subjects and mental representations. Taken together these theses purport to explain how rational thought and behavior can be produced by a physical object, such as the human brain. In short, the explanation is that the brain is a computer and that thinking is a computational process. The cluster therefore is referred to often (and aptly) as the computational theory of mind (CTM).

LOTH was first introduced by Jerry Fodor in his 1975 book The Language of Thought, and further elaborated and defended in a series of works by Fodor and several collaborators. Fodor’s original argument for LOTH rested on the claim that (at the time) the only plausible psychological models presupposed linguistically structured mental representations. Subsequent arguments for LOTH are inferences to the best explanation. They appeal to supposed features of human cognition such as productivity, systematicity, and inferential coherence, arguing that these features are best explained if LOTH is true. Important objections to LOTH have come from those who believe that the mind is best modeled by connectionist networks, and by those who believe that (at least some) mental representation takes place in other formats, such as maps and images.

This article has three main sections. The first explains LOTH, as well as CSMP, RTM, and the importance of conjoining all three to arrive at the resulting CTM. The second describes the major arguments in favor of LOTH. The third describes some important problems for LOTH and objections to it.

Table of Contents

  1. The Language of Thought Hypothesis
    1. Combinatorial Syntax and Compositional Semantics
    2. Mental Processes as Causal-Syntactic Processes
    3. RTM and the Propositional Attitudes
    4. The Computational Theory of Mind
    5. Theories of Meaning
  2. Arguments for LOTH
    1. The Only Game in Town
    2. Productivity
    3. Systematicity
    4. Inferential Coherence
  3. Problems and Objections
    1. Individuating Symbols
    2. Context-dependent Properties of Thought
    3. Mental Images
    4. Mental Maps
    5. Connectionist Networks
    6. Analog and Digital Representation
  4. References and Further Reading

1. The Language of Thought Hypothesis

a. Combinatorial Syntax and Compositional Semantics

LOTH is the claim that mental representation has a linguistic structure. A representational system has a linguistic structure if it employs both a combinatorial syntax and a compositional semantics (see Fodor and Pylyshyn 1988 for this account of linguistic structuring).

A representational system possesses a combinatorial syntax if,

(i)              it employs two sorts of representation: atomic representations and compound representations, and

(ii)            the constituents of compound representations are either compound or atomic.

A representational system possesses a compositional semantics if,

(iii)          the semantic content of a representation is a function of the semantic content of its syntactic constituents, the overall structure of the representation, and the arrangement of the constituents within the overall structure.

Formal languages are good examples of languages possessing both combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics. For example, sentential logic (propositional logic) employs symbols to represent simple declarative sentences (usually the capital letters ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C’…) and symbols for logical connectives (usually ‘·’ for ‘and’, ‘v’ for ‘or’, ‘→’ for ‘if… then…,’ and so on). Thus, ‘A’ might be an atomic representation of the sentence ‘Gail is tall’, ‘B’ an atomic representation of the sentence ‘Alan is bald’, and ‘C’ an atomic representation of the sentence ‘Amanda is funny’. In that case, ‘(A · B) v C’ would be a compound representation of the sentence ‘Either Gail is tall and Alan is bald, or Amanda is funny’. The components of this compound representation are the compound representation ‘(A · B)’ and the atomic representation ‘C’. In short, sentential logic employs both atomic and compound representations, and the components of its compound representations are themselves either atomic or compound. Thus, it possesses a combinatorial syntax.

Moreover, the semantic content of a representation within sentential logic (generally taken to be a truth-value—either TRUE or FALSE) is a function of the content of the syntactic constituents, together with overall structure and arrangement of the representation. For instance, the truth-value of a representation with the form ‘A → B’ is TRUE just in case the truth-value of ‘A’ is FALSE or the truth-value of ‘B’ is TRUE. Alter the arrangement of the parts (B → A) or the overall structure (A · B) or the components (A → C) and the truth-value of the whole may change as well. Therefore it also possesses a compositional semantics.

LOTH amounts to the idea that mental representation has both a combinatorial syntax and a compositional semantics. It is the idea that thoughts occur in a formal mental language (termed the “language of thought” or often “mentalese”). A common way of casting it is as the claim that thoughts are literally sentences in the head. This way of explaining the thesis can be both helpful and misleading.

First, it is important to note that sentences can be implemented in a multitude of different kinds of media, and they can be written in a natural language or encoded in some symbolic language. For example, they may be written on paper, etched in stone, or encoded in the various positions of a series of electrical switches. They may be written in English, French, first-order logic, or Morse code. LOTH claims that at a high level of abstraction, the brain can be accurately described as encoding the sentences of a formal language.

Second, it is equally important to note that the symbolic language LOTH posits is not equivalent to any particular spoken language but is the common linguistic structure in all human thought. Part of Fodor’s (1975) original argument for LOTH was that learning a spoken language requires already possessing an internal mental language, the latter being common to all members of the species.

Third, the posited language is not appropriately thought of as being introspectively accessible to a thinking subject. In other words, while thinkers may have access to much of what goes on while they are thinking (for example the images, words and so on that may be visible “in the mind’s eye”), the language of thought is not “visible” as such. Rather, it is best thought of as the representations that are being tokened in and processed by the brain, during and “beneath” all that is accessible to the thinker. (However, that they are not introspectively accessible is not to be taken to indicate that they are not causally efficacious in the production of behavior. On the contrary, they must be, if the theory is to explain the production of rational behavior.)

Casting LOTH as the idea of sentences in the head can be useful, if understood appropriately: as sentences of a species-wide formal language, encoded in the operations of the brain, which are not accessible to the thinker.

b. Mental Processes as Causal-Syntactic Processes

Representational systems with combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics are incredibly important, as they allow for processes to be defined over the syntax of the system of representations that will nevertheless respect constraints on the semantics of those representations. For example, standard rules of inference for sentential logic—rules such as modus ponens, which allows the inference from a representation of the form ‘A É B’ together with a representation of the form ‘A’ to a representation of the form ‘B’—are defined over the syntax of the representations. Nevertheless, the rules respect the following semantic constraint: given true premises, correct application of them will result only in true conclusions.

Processes defined over the syntax of representations, moreover, can be implemented in physical systems as causal processes. Hence, representational systems possessing both combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics allow for the construction of physical systems that behave in ways that respect the semantic constraints of the implemented representational system. That is, they allow for the construction of machines that “think” rationally. Modern digital computers are just such machines: they employ linguistically structured representations and processes defined over the syntax of those representations, implemented as causal processes.

Since LOTH is the claim that mental representation has both combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics, it allows for the further claim that mental processes are causal processes defined over the syntax of mental representations, in ways that respect semantic constraints on those representations (Fodor 1975, Fodor and Pylyshyn 1988). This further claim is the causal-syntactic theory of mental processes (CSMP). LOTH and CSMP together assert that the brain, like a digital computer, processes linguistically structured representations in ways that are sensitive to the syntax of those representations. Indeed, the advent of the digital computer inspired CTM. This will be further discussed below.

c. RTM and the Propositional Attitudes

LOTH is a specification of the representational theory of mind (RTM). RTM is the thesis that commonsense mental states, the propositional attitudes such as believing, desiring, hoping, wishing, and fearing are relations between a subject and a mental representation. According to RTM, a propositional attitude inherits its content from the content of the representation to which the thinker is related. For example, Angie believes that David stole a candy bar if and only if there is a belief relation between Angie and a mental representation, the content of which is David stole a candy bar. Thus, where ‘φ’ names a propositional attitude, and ‘p’ is the content of a propositional attitude, a technical rendering of RTM is as follows:

(R1) A subject S φ’s that p if and only if there is a relation Rφ and a mental representation P such that S bears Rφ to P and P means that p.

According to RTM, the difference between Angie’s believing that David stole a candy bar and her hoping that David stole a candy bar, lies in there being different relations between her and the same representation of the content David stole a candy bar. Thus, (R1) is a schema. For specific propositional attitudes, the name of the attitude will take the place of ‘φ’ in the schema. For example, the case of belief is as follows:

(R1B) A subject S believes that p if and only if there is a relation Rbelief and a mental representation P such that S bears Rbelief to P and P means that p.

RTM is a species of intentional realism—the view that propositional attitudes are real states of organisms, and in particular that a mature psychology will make reference to such states in the explanation of behavior. For debate on this issue see for example Churchland 1981, Stich 1983, Dennett 1987. One important virtue of RTM is that it provides an account of the difference between the truth and falsehood of a propositional attitude (in particular, of a belief). On that account, the truth or falsehood of a belief is inherited from the truth or falsehood of the representation involved. If the relationship of belief holds between Angie and a representation with the content David stole a candy bar, yet David did not steal a candy bar, then Angie has a false belief. This account also provides an explanation of the so-called “Frege cases” in which a subject believes that a given object known by one name has some property yet the subject fails to believe that the same object known by another name has the same property (see Fodor 1978).

d. The Computational Theory of Mind

RTM, LOTH, and CSMP was inspired on one hand by the development of modern logic, and in particular by the formalization of logical inference (that is, the development of rules of inference that are sensitive to syntax but that respect semantic constraints). On the other hand, it was inspired by Alan Turing’s work showing that formal procedures can be mechanized, and thus, implemented as causal processes in physical machines. These two developments led to the creation of the modern digital computer, and Turing (1950) argued that if the conversational behavior (via teletype) of such a machine was indistinguishable from that of a human being, then that machine would be a thinking machine. The combination of RTM, LOTH, and CSMP is in a sense the converse of this latter claim. It is the idea that the mind is a computer, and that thinking is a computational process. Hence the combination of these theses has come to be known as the Computational Theory of Mind (CTM).

The importance of CTM is twofold. First, the idea that thinking is a computational process involving linguistically structured representations is of fundamental importance to cognitive science. It is among the origins of work in artificial intelligence, and though there has since been much debate about whether the digital computer is the best model for the brain (see below) many researchers still presume linguistic representation to be a central component of thought.

Second, CTM offers an account of how a physical object (in particular, the brain) can produce rational thought and behavior. The answer is that it can do so by implementing rational processes as causal processes. This answer provides a response to what some philosophers—most famously Descartes, have believed: that explaining human rationality demands positing a form of existence beyond the physical. That is, it is a response to dualism (See Descartes 1637/1985, 139-40, and see Rey 1997 for discussion of CTM as being a solution to “Descartes’ challenge”). It therefore stands as a major development in the philosophy of mind.

e. Theories of Meaning

Explaining rationality in purely physical terms is one task for a naturalized theory of mind. Explaining intentionality (the meaning or “aboutness” of mental representations) in purely physical terms is a related, though separate, task for a naturalized theory of mind. Famously, Brentano (1874/1995) worried that intentionality cannot be explained in physical terms, as Descartes believed rationality could not be explained in physical terms (see Rey 1997 for CTM being a solution to “Brentano’s challenge”).

Still, CTM lends itself to a physicalist account of intentionality. There are two general strategies here. Internalist accounts explain meaning without making mention of any objects or features external to the subject. For example, conceptual role theories (see for instance Loar 1981) explain the meaning of a mental representation in terms of the relations it bears to other representations in the system. Externalist accounts explicitly tie the meaning of mental representations to the environment of the thinker. For example, causal theories (see for instance Dretske 1981) explain meaning in terms of causal regularities between environmental features and mental representations.

Fodor (1987) has argued for an “asymmetric dependency theory,” which is a kind of causal theory of meaning, intended specifically to deal with the disjunction problem that plagues causal theories. The  problem arises for causal theories of meaning because of the seemingly obvious fact that some mental representations are caused by objects they do not represent. For example, on a dark evening, someone might easily mistake a cow for a horse; in other words, a cow might cause the tokening of a mental representation that means horse. But if, as causal theories have it, the meaning of a representation is determined by the object or objects that cause it, then the meaning of such a representation is not horse, but rather horse or cow (since the type of representation is sometimes caused by horses and sometimes caused by cows).

Fodor’s solution is to suggest that such a representation means horse and not horse or cow, because the fact that it may sometimes be caused by cows is dependent on the fact that it is usually caused by horses. That is, if the representation was not caused by horses, then it would not sometimes be caused by cows. But this dependence is asymmetric: if the representation was not ever caused by cows, it would nevertheless still be caused by horses. CTM, and LOTH in particular, need not be wedded to Fodor’s account. As all of the above examples explain meaning in physical terms, the coupling of a successful CTM with a successful version of any of them would yield an entirely physical account of two of the most important general features of the mind: rationality and intentionality.

2. Arguments for LOTH

LOTH then, is the claim that mental representations possess combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics—that is, that mental representations are sentences in a mental language. This section describes four central arguments for LOTH. Fodor (1975) argued that LOTH was presupposed by all plausible psychological models. Fodor and Pylyshyn (1988) argue that thinking has the properties of productivity, systematicity, and inferential coherence, and that the best explanation for such properties is a linguistically structured representational system.

a. The Only Game in Town

Fodor’s (1975) argument for LOTH proceeded from the claim that the only “remotely plausible” models of cognition are  computational models. Because computational models presuppose a medium of representation, in particular a linguistic medium, and because “remotely plausible theories are better than no theories at all,” Fodor claimed that we were “provisionally committed” to LOTH. In short, the argument was that the only game in town for explaining rational behavior presupposed internal representations with a linguistic structure.

The development of connectionist networks—computational systems that do not presuppose representations with a linguistic format—therefore pose a serious challenge to this argument. In the 1980s, the idea that intelligent behavior could be explained by appeal to connectionist networks grew in popularity and Fodor and Pylyshyn (1988) argued on empirical grounds that such an explanation could not work, and thus that even though linguistic computation was no longer the only game in town, it was still the only plausible explanation of rational behavior. Their argument rested on claiming that thought is productive, systematic, and inferentially coherent.

b. Productivity

Productivity is the property a system of representations has if it is capable, in principle, of producing an infinite number of distinct representations. For example, sentential logic typically allows an infinite number of sentence letters (A, B, C, …), each of which is a unique atomic representation. Thus the system is productive. A street light, on the other hand, has three atomic representations (“red”, “yellow”, “green”), and no more. The system is not productive. Productivity can be achieved in systems with a finite number of atomic representations, so long as those representations may be combined to form compound representations, with no limit on the length of the compounds. Here are three examples: A, A → B and ((A →B) · A) → B. That is, productivity can be achieved with finite means by employing both combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics.

Fodor and Pylyshyn (1988) argue that mental representation is productive, and that the best explanation for its being so is that it is couched in a system possessing combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics. They first claim that natural languages are productive. For example, English possesses only a finite number of words, but because there is no upper bound on the length of sentences, there is no upper bound on the number of unique sentences that can be formed. More specifically, they argue that the capacity for sentence construction of a competent speaker is productive—that is, competent speakers are able to create an infinite number of unique sentences. Of course, this is an issue in principle. No individual speaker will ever construct more than a finite number of unique sentences. Nevertheless, Fodor and Pylyshyn argue that this limitation is a result of having finite resources (such as time).

The argument proceeds by noting that, just as competent speakers of a language can compose an infinite number of unique sentences, they can also understand an infinite number of unique sentences. Fodor and Pylyshyn write,

there are indefinitely many propositions which the system can encode. However, this unbounded expressive power must presumably be achieved by finite means. The way to do this is to treat the system of representations as consisting of expressions belonging to a generated set. More precisely, the correspondence between a representation and the proposition it expresses is, in arbitrarily many cases, built up recursively out of correspondences between parts of the expression and parts of the proposition. But, of course, this strategy can only operate when an unbounded number of the expressions are non-atomic. So linguistic (and mental) representations must constitute [systems possessing combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics]. (1988, 33)

In short, human beings can entertain an infinite number of unique thoughts. But since humans are finite creatures, they cannot possess an infinite number of unique atomic mental representations. Thus, they must possess a system that allows for construction of an infinite number of thoughts given only finite atomic parts. The only systems that can do that are systems that possess combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics. Thus, the system of mental representation must possess those features.

c. Systematicity

Systematicity is the property a representational system has when the ability of the system to express certain propositions is intrinsically related to the ability the system has to express certain other propositions (where the ability to express a proposition is just the ability to token a representation whose content is that proposition). For example, sentential logic is systematic with respect to the propositions Bill is boring and Fred is funny and Fred is funny and Bill is boring, as it can express the former if and only if it can also express the latter. Similarly to the argument from productivity, Fodor and Pylyshyn (1988) argue that thought is largely systematic, and that the best explanation for its being so is that mental representation possesses a combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics.

The argument rests on the claim that the only thing that can account for two propositions being systematically related within a representational system is if the expressions of those propositions within the system are compound representations having the same overall structure and the same components, differing only in the arrangement of the parts within the structure, and whose content is determined by structure, parts, and arrangement of parts within the structure. Thus, the reason the propositions Bill is boring and Fred is funny and Fred is funny and Bill is boring are systematically related in sentential logic is because the representation of the former is ‘B · F’ and the representation of the latter is ‘F · B’. That is, they are both conjunctions, they have the same components, they only differ in the arrangement of the components within the structure, and the content of each is determined by their structure, their parts, and the arrangement of the parts within the structure. But, the argument continues, any representational system that possesses multiple compound representations that are capable of having the same constituent parts and whose content is determined by their structure, parts and arrangement of parts within the structure is a system with combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics. Hence, systematicity guarantees linguistically structured representations.

Fodor and Pylyshyn argue that, if thought is largely systematic, then it must be linguistically structured. They argue that for the most part it is, pointing out that anyone who can entertain the proposition that John loves Mary can also entertain the proposition that Mary loves John. What explains that is that the underlying representations are compound, have the same parts, and have contents that are determined by the parts and the arrangement of the parts within the structure. But then what underlies the ability to entertain those propositions is a representational system that is linguistically structured. (See Johnson 2004 for an argument that language, and probably thought as well, is not systematic).

d. Inferential Coherence

A system is inferentially coherent with respect to a certain kind of logical inference, if given that it can draw one or more specific inferences that are instances of that kind, it can draw any specific inferences that are of that kind. For example, let A be the proposition Emily is in Scranton and Judy is in New York, and let B be the proposition Emily is in Scranton. Here A is a logical conjunction, and B is the first conjunct. A system that can draw the inference from A to B is a system that is able to infer the first conjunct from a conjunction with two conjuncts, in at least one instance. A system may or may not be able to do the same given other instances of the same kind of inference. It may not for example be able to infer Bill is boring from Bill is boring and Fred is funny. If it can infer the first conjunct from a logical conjunction regardless of the content of the proposition, then it is inferentially coherent with respect to that kind of inference. As with productivity and systematicity, Fodor and Pylyshyn point to inferential coherence as a feature of thought that is best explained on the hypothesis that mental representation is linguistically structured.

The argument here is that what best explains inferential coherence with respect to a particular kind of inference, is if the syntactic structure of the representations involved mirrors the semantic structure of the propositions represented. For example, if all logical conjunctions are represented by syntactic conjunctions, and if the system is able to separate the first conjunct from such representations, then it will be able to infer for example, Emily is in Scranton from Emily is in Scranton and Judy is in New York, and it will also be able to infer Bill is boring from Bill is boring and Fred is funny, and so on for any logical conjunction. Thus it will be inferentially coherent with respect to that kind of inference. If the syntactic structure of all the representations matches the logical structure of the propositions represented, and if the system has general rules for processing those representations, then it will be inferentially coherent with respect to any of the kinds of inferences it can perform.

Representations whose syntactic structure mirrors the logical structure of the propositions they represent, however, are representations with combinatorial syntax and compositional semantics; they are linguistically structured representations. Thus, if thought is inferentially coherent, then mental representation is linguistically structured. And Fodor and Pylyshyn claim,

You don’t, for example, get minds that are prepared to infer John went to the Store from John and Mary and Susan and Sally went to the store and from John and Mary went to the store but not from John and Mary and Susan went to the store. Given [linguistically structured representations], it is a truism that you don’t get such minds. (1988, 48)

In short, human thought is inferentially coherent. Any example of inferential coherence is best explained by appeal to linguistically structured representations. Hence, inferential coherence in human thought is best explained by appeal to linguistically structured representations.

3. Problems and Objections

There are important problems for, and objections to, LOTH. The first is the problem of individuating the symbols of the language of thought, which if unsolvable would prove fatal for LOTH, at least insofar as LOTH is to be a component of a fully naturalized theory of mind, or insofar as it is to provide a framework within which psychological generalizations ranging across individuals may be made. The second is the problem of explaining context-dependent properties of thought, which should not exist if thinking is a computational process. The third is the objection that contemporary cognitive science shows that some thinking takes place in mental images, which do not have a linguistic structure, so LOTH cannot be the whole story about rational thought. The fourth is the objection that systematicity, productivity, and inferential coherence may be accounted for in representational systems that do not employ linguistic formats (such as maps), so the arguments from those features do not prove LOTH. The fifth is the argument that connectionist networks, computational systems that do not employ linguistic representation, provide a more biologically realistic model of the human brain than do classical digital computers. The last part briefly raises the question whether the mind is best viewed as an analog or digital machine.

a. Individuating Symbols

An important and difficult problem concerning LOTH is the individuation of primitive symbols within the language of thought, the atomic mental representations. There are three possibilities for doing so: in terms of the meaning of a symbol, in terms of the syntax of a symbol (where syntactic kinds are conceived of as brain-state kinds), and in terms of the computational role of the symbol (for example, the causal relations the symbol bears to other symbols and to behavior).

Some authors (Aydede 1999 and Schneider 2009a) argue that this problem is perhaps fatal for LOTH. Schneider (2009a) argues that none of the above proposals (so far) are consistent with the roles that symbols are supposed to play within LOTH.  In particular, an appeal to meaning in order to individuate symbols would not reduce intentionality to purely physical terms, and would thus stand opposed to a fully naturalized philosophy of mind. An appeal to syntax conceived of as brain states would amount to a type-identity theory for mental representation, and would thus be prone to difficulties faced by a general type-identity theory of mental states. And an appeal to computational role would render impossible an explanation of how concepts can be shared by individuals, since no two individuals will employ symbols that have identical computational roles. A failure to explain how concepts may be shared, moreover, would render impossible the stating of true psychological generalizations ranging across individuals. See Schneider 2009b for a proposed solution to this problem.

b. Context-dependent Properties of Thought

Interestingly enough, Fodor himself has argued that LOTH (and CTM more generally), should be viewed as a thesis about a small portion of cognition. In his view, even were the theory to be completed, it would not offer an entire picture of the nature of thought (see Fodor 2000). His primary argument for this conclusion is that computation is sensitive only to the syntax of the representations involved, so if thinking is computation it should be sensitive only to the syntax of mental representations, but quite often this appears not to be so. More specifically, the syntax of a representation is context-independent, but thoughts often have properties that are context-dependent.

For example, the thought it’s raining might prompt the thought that’s good, the garden needs it in the context of a dry spell, whereas it might prompt the thought maybe we’d better turn around in the context of a hike in the mountains. According to LOTH, however, the syntax of the thought it’s raining is the same in both contexts, and according to CSMP, any computations involving that thought are sensitive only to its syntax. So there would seem to be no explanation why that thought would prompt different thoughts in different contexts, since the computations are not sensitive to those contexts. More generally, the role a given thought will play in one’s thinking is a function of the entire body of propositions one believes. In Fodor’s terminology, the complexity of a thought is not context-independent. However, CTM would seem to require it to be. Thus according to Fodor, there is much cognition that cannot be understood on a computational model. See Ludwig and Schneider 2008 for an argument that this is not in fact a problem for LOTH.

c. Mental Images

Throughout the 1970s, investigators designed a series of experiments concerned with mental imagery. The general conclusion many drew was that mental imagery presents a kind of mental representation that is not linguistically structured. More specifically, it was believed that the parts of mental images correspond to the spatial features of their content, whereas the parts of linguistic representations correspond to logical features of their content (see Kosslyn 1980).

In one well-known experiment, Kosslyn et al. (1978) asked subjects to memorize a map with various named locations on it. They then asked the subjects to imagine this map in their mind and to focus on a particular location. They asked the subjects (i) to say whether another given named location was on the map, and if so, (ii) to follow an imagined black dot as it traveled the shortest distance from the location on which they were focused to the named location (51). The result was that as the distance between the original location and the named location increased, so did the time it took subjects to respond. Kosslyn et al. concluded that “portions of images depict corresponding portions of the represented object(s) and that the spatial relations between portions of the imaged object(s) are preserved by the spatial relations between the corresponding portions of the image” (1978, 59-60).

It is important to note here that while the experiments involved invoke mental images as those images a subject can examine introspectively, the debate is best understood as being about non-introspectible mental representations. Since LOTH is a hypothesis about non-introspectible cognitive processing, any purported challenges to the hypothesis would likewise need to be about such processing. Thus if the above conclusion is correct, then it at least limits the scope of LOTH. Ned Block (1983) explains,

The relevance of the pictorial/descriptional controversy to the viability of the computer metaphor in cognitive science should be becoming visible. The computer metaphor goes naturally with descriptional representations, but it is not at all clear how it can work when the representations are nondescriptional. (535)

However, some authors have denied that the data on mental imagery present a viable challenge to LOTH. Pylyshyn (1981) for instance, argues that the data are better explained by appeal to a kind of “tacit knowledge” possessed by subjects or to architectural features of the cognitive system, but not to representations with non-linguistic structuring. Tye (1991) argues that on a proper understanding of the thesis that mental images have spatial properties, it does not (straightforwardly) undermine the claim that mental representation has a linguistic structure. Rather, he argues, it should be understood as the claim that mental images employ both non-linguistic and linguistic elements. See Block 1981 for a useful collection of essays on the imagery debate.

d. Mental Maps

Another objection to LOTH comes from philosophers who have argued that there are non-linguistic forms of representation that are productive, systematic, and inferentially coherent. For example, David Braddon-Mitchell and Frank Jackson (1996) argue that maps are an important example. The point out that productivity, systematicity and inferential coherence show that thought must be structured, where a system of representation is structured just in case the similarities that hold between the representational states of the system reflect similarities that hold between the states that the system serves to represent, such that for new representational states, one can discover which states they serve to represent. They write,

What is unbelievable is that similarities between the various [representational states] Ri should in no way correspond to similarities among the [represented states] Si; it must be the case that enough information about a finite set of [Ri] giving which [Si] each represents enables in principle the working out, for some new [Ri], which [Si] it would represent. What it means to say that the way the R’s serve to represent the S’s is structured is that at some level of abstraction the similarities and differences between the R’s correspond to similarities and differences among the S’s, and it is this fact that underlies our ability to grasp for some new R which S it represents. (1996, 168-9)

They argue that maps are structured in just this sense, and can therefore account for productivity and systematicity (and presumably inferential coherence as well, but they do not argue for it). They point out that different parts of a map serve to represent different things (red dots for cities, blue lines for rivers, blue circles for lakes). Given these elements, there is no limit on the arrangement of ways in which a map may be constructed. Braddon-Mitchell and Jackson explain,

the conventions of cartography do not set an upper limit on the number of different possible distributions of cities, areas of high pressure and the like that a map framed within those conventions can represent. A map-maker can represent quite a new situation as easily as a word- or sentence-maker can. (1996, 172-3)

They also argue that maps are systematic. They write,

a map that represents Boston as being north of New York has the resources to represent New York as north of Boston, and a map that represented New York as north of Boston would be a kind of rearrangement of the map that represents Boston as north of New York. (1996, 172)

However, there are important differences between maps and linguistic representations. First, although maps have parts, they do not have atomic parts. As Braddon-Mitchell and Jackson put the point,

There are many jigsaw puzzles you might make out of the map, but no single one would have a claim to have pieces that were all and only the most basic units. The reason is that there is no natural minimum unit of truth-assessable representation in the case of maps. (1996, 171)

Second, maps are “informationally rich” in the sense that they never express just a single proposition. Any map that expresses the proposition Boston is north of New York also expresses the proposition New York is south of Boston. One way to think about this difference is in terms of the smallest number of beliefs it is possible to have. For example, David Lewis (1994) questions whether, if thinking employs maps, the word ‘belief’ can be properly pluralized. He writes,

No snippet of a map is big enough that, determinately, something is true according to it, and also small enough that, nothing is true according to any smaller part of it. If mental representation is map-like… then ‘beliefs’ is a bogus plural. You have beliefs the way you have the blues, or the mumps, or the shivers. But if mental representation is language-like, one belief is one sentence written in the belief-box, so ‘beliefs’ is a genuine plural. (311)

Third, the structuring that maps possess is of a different sort than the structuring possessed by linguistic representations. Specifically, the features of content that parts of maps correspond to are spatial features, whereas linguistic representations disregard spatial structure but correspond to logical features of content.

Hence, if the suggestion is that all thinking takes place in mental maps, then it presents a complete alternative to LOTH. This may be difficult to show, however, particularly for thought involving abstract concepts that are not easily expressible in map-form, though Braddon-Mitchell and Jackson do briefly offer one such argument (1996, 172). Camp (2007) argues that much, but not all, human thought may occur in maps, but that an organism of sufficiently limited cognitive capacity could think entirely in maps.

e. Connectionist Networks

The most widely discussed objection to LOTH is the objection that connectionist networks provide better models of cognition than computers processing linguistically structured representations (see Bechtel and Abramson 1990, Churchland 1995, and Elman et al. 1996 for useful introductions). Such networks possess some number of interconnected nodes, typically arranged as layers of input, output, and hidden nodes. Each node possesses a level of activation, and each connection is weighted. The level of activation of all the nodes to which a given node is connected, together with the weightings of those connections, determine the level of activation of the given node. A particular set of activations at the input nodes will result in a particular set of activations at the output nodes.

The activation of a given set of nodes (typically input layers and output layers) can be interpreted as having semantic content, but the activation level of a particular node can not. Moreover, the interpretation of the activations of a set of nodes does not result from the collection of activations of the particular nodes involved in anything like the way the semantic content of a linguistically structured compound representation results from the content of its component parts (that is, they do not combine via concatenation). In short, connectionist networks possess neither combinatorial syntax nor compositional semantics; the representations involved are not linguistically structured.

There are, however, many ways in which networks resemble the brain and its functioning more closely than do digital computers (the canonical model of a linguistic representation processor). The most obvious is that the brain is a massive network of neurons, as connectionist machines are networks of nodes, and does not possess a central processing unit, as do digital computers. Moreover, processing in both the brain and connectionist networks is distributed and parallel, while it is serial in digital computers and concentrated in the central processing unit. Activation levels in both nodes and neurons are defined by continuous numerical values, while representations in digital machines are discrete elements, and processing takes place in discrete steps. It is for these and similar reasons that connectionists have taken networks to offer more “biologically realistic” models of the mind than the digital computer. Smolensky (1988) is careful to note however, that connectionist networks also differ from the brain in many important respects (for example, nodes in a network are uniformly dense, while neurons are more highly connected to neighboring neurons) and thus that the notion that they are “biologically realistic” can be misleading and should be treated with caution.

Much of the debate concerning connectionist networks is about whether or not they provide a real alternative to LOTH. In particular, it is agreed that networks can implement systems that process linguistically structured representations. Such networks may provide useful models of cognition at a level of analysis below the level at which LOTH operates—that is, they may provide an analysis of how higher cognition is implemented in the brain. The question then, is whether they can offer an alternative to LOTH itself, which purports to explain how such (supposed) higher features of cognition such as productivity, systematicity, and inferential coherence, are possible. If they can explain these features without implementing a system that processes linguistically structured representations, then they do indeed offer an alternative to LOTH.

Smolensky (1987) argues that representations in (some) networks do have adequate constituent structure to account for such features as systematicity and inferential coherence. For instance, he suggests that a representation of the concept cup with coffee would include various “microfeatures” (hot liquid, burnt odor, and so forth) that are not included in a representation of the concept cup without coffee. These microfeatures, then, not only comprise a constituent of the representation, but would also comprise a representation of the concept coffee. However, Smolensky admits that these sorts of constituents may not be exact copies of each other in different contexts, but rather will bear a “family resemblance” to one another, such that the features they share are enough to produce “common processing implications.” Fodor and McLaughlin (1990) argue in response that only constituency as it occurs in linguistically structured representations (in which constituents of a representation are tokened whenever the representation in tokened, and in which those constituents are identical across varying contexts) can account for systematicity and inferential coherence, and so Smolensky’s account of constituency in networks cannot explain those features. See Horgan and Tienson 1991 for a useful collection of papers on connectionism and its relation to LOTH.

f. Analog and Digital Representation

One commonality that holds among the last three objections discussed is that they can all reasonably be described as claiming that at least some mental representation is analog, while LOTH describes mental representation as digital. The distinction is usually understood in terms of continuity and discreteness. Digital representations are discrete (as words and sentences). Analog representations are continuous, or possess continuously variable properties such as distances between parts of an image or map, or activation values of the nodes in a network.

However, the distinction between analog and digital representation has been understood in a number of ways. David Lewis (1971) says that “analog representation of numbers is representation of numbers by physical magnitudes that are either primitive or almost primitive,” (325) and that “digital representation of numbers [is] representation of numbers by differentiated multi-digital magnitudes” (327). Fred Dretske (1981) says that “a signal… carries the information that s is F in digital form if and only if the signal carries no additional information about s, no information that is not already nested in s’s being F. If the signal does carry additional information about s, information that is not nested in s’s being F, then… the signal carries this information in analog form (137). And James Blachowitz (1997) says that “the function of analog representation is to map or model what it represents (83). See also Von Neumann 1958, Goodman 1968, Trenholme 1994, Haugeland 1998, and Katz 2008.

The analog/digital distinction may be drawn in reference to different kinds of things:  computers, representations, processes, machines, and so forth. Haugeland (1998) argues that, although all digital representations share some important features, there may be no set of features uniquely characterizing analog representation. If that is the case, then the idea that images, maps, and networks are analog should not be taken to indicate that they share some important set of features other than being non-digital. Moreover, because it remains a possibility that thought is best modeled by a connectionist network implementing a system that processes linguistically structured representations, and because it remains a possibility that some thinking takes place in images, some in maps, some in linguistically structured representations, and some in yet other forms of representation, it would be misleading to suggest that the question whether the mind is best modeled by an analog or digital machine has a singular answer.

4. References and Further Reading

 

  • Aydede, M. (1999). “On the Type/Token Relation of Mental Representations.” Facta Philosophica 2: 23-50.
  • Bechtel, W., and A. Abrahamsen. (1990). Connectionism and the Mind: An Introduction to Parallel Processing in Networks. Cambridge: Blackwell.
  • Blachowitz, J. (1997). “Analog Representation Beyond Mental Imagery.” The Journal of Philosophy 94, no. 2: 55-84.
  • Block, N. (1981). Imagery. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Block, N. (1983). “Mental Pictures and Cognitive Science.” Philosophical Review 93: 499-542.
  • Braddon-Mitchell, D., and F. Jackson. (1996). Philosophy of Mind and Cognition. Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Brentano, F. (1874/1995). Psychology from an Empirical Perspective, ed. Kraus, O., trans. Rancurello, A., D. Terrell, and L. McAlister, 2nd ed. London: Routledge.
  • Camp, E. (2007). “Thinking with Maps.” Philosophical Perspectives 21, no. 1: 145-82.
  • Churchland, P. M. (1981). “Eliminative Materialism and the Propositional Attitudes.” Journal of Philosophy 78, n. 2: 67-89.
  • Churchland, P. M. (1995). The Engine of Reason, the Seat of the Soul. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Dennett, D. (1987). The Intentional Stance. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Descartes, R. (1637/1985). “Discourse on the Method.” In The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, Vol. 1, trans. Cottingham, J., R. Stoothoff, and D. Murdoch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Dretske, F. (1981). Knowledge and the Flow of Information. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Elman, J. L., E. A. Bates, M. H. Johnson, A. Karmiloff-Smith, D. Parisi, and K. Plunkett. (1996). Rethinking Innateness. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Fodor, J. A. (1975). The Language of Thought. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
  • Fodor, J. A. (1978). “Propositional Attitudes.” The Monist 61, no. 4: 501-23.
  • Fodor, J. A. (1987). Psychosomatics: the Problem of Meaning in the Philosophy of Mind. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Fodor, J. A. (2000). The Mind Doesn’t Work That Way. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Fodor, J. A., and B. P. McLaughlin. (1990). “Connectionism and the Problem of Systematicity: Why Smolensky’s Solution Doesn’t Work.” Cognition 35: 183-204.
  • Fodor, J. A., and Z. W. Pylyshyn. (1988). “Connectionism and Cognitive Architecture: A Critical Analysis.” Cognition 28: 3-71.
  • Goodman, N. (1968). Languages of Art. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc.
  • Haugeland, J. (1998). “Analog and Analog.” In Having Thought, ed. Haugeland, J. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
  • Horgan, T., and Tienson, J. (1991). Connectionism and the Philosophy of Mind. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
  • Johnson, K. (2004). “On the Systematicity of Thought and Language.” Journal of Philosophy CI, no. 3: 111-39.
  • Katz, M. (2008). “Analog and Digital Representation.” Minds and Machines 18, no. 3: 403-8.
  • Kosslyn, S. M. (1980). Image and Mind. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press.
  • Kosslyn, S. M., T. M. Ball, and B. J. Reiser. (1978). “Visual Images Preserve Metric Spatial Information: Evidence from Studies of Image Scanning.” Journal of experimental psychology: human perception and performance 4, no. 1: 47-60.
  • Lewis, D. (1971). “Analog and Digital.” Nous 5, no. 3: 321-7.
  • Lewis, D. (1994). “Reduction in Mind.” In Papers in Metaphysics and Epistemology, ed. Lewis, D. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Loar, B. (1981). Mind and Meaning. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Ludwig, K. and S. Schneider. (2008). “Fodor’s Challenge to the Classical Computational Theory of Mind.” Mind and Language 23, no. 1: 123-43.
  • Pylyshyn, Z. (1981). “The Imagery Debate: Analog Media versus Tacit Knowledge,” in Imagery, ed. Block, N. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Rey, G. (1997). Contemporary Philosophy of Mind: A Contentiously Classical Approach. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
  • Schneider, S. (2009a). “LOT, CTM, and the Elephant in the Room.” Synthese 170, no. 2: 235-50.
  • Schneider, S. (2009b). The Nature of Primitive Symbols in the Language of Thought. Mind and Language, forthcoming.
  • Smolensky, P. (1987). “The Constituent Structure of Mental States.” Southern Journal of Philosophy 26: 137-60.
  • Smolensky, P. (1988). “On the Proper Treatment of Connectionism.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 11: 1-23.
  • Stich, S. (1983). From Folk Psychology to Cognitive Science: the Case Against Belief. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Trenholme, R. (1994). “Analog Simulation.” Philosophy of Science 61, no. 1: 115-31.
  • Turing, A. (1950). “Computing Machinery, and Intelligence.” Mind 50: 433-60
  • Tye, M. (1991). The Imagery Debate. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Von Neumann, J. (1958). The Computer and the Brain. New Haven: Yale University Press. 2nd edition, 2000.

Author Information

Matthew Katz
Email: katz1ma@cmich.edu
Central Michigan University
U. S. A.

Gabriel Marcel (1889—1973)

MarcelThe philosophical approach known as existentialism is commonly recognized for its view that life’s experiences and interactions are meaningless.  Many existentialist thinkers are led to conclude that life is only something to be tolerated, and that close or intimate relationships with others should be avoided. Heard distinctly among this despair and dread was the original philosophical voice of Gabriel Marcel.  Marcel, a World War I non-combatant veteran, pursued the life of an intellectual, and enjoyed success as a playwright, literary critic, and concert pianist.  He was trained in philosophy by Henri Bergson, among others.  A prolific life-long writer, his early works reflected his interest in idealism.  As Marcel developed philosophically, however, his work was marked by an emphasis on the concrete, on lived experience.  After converting to Catholicism in 1929, he became a noted opponent of atheistic existentialism, and primarily that of Jean-Paul Sartre.  Sartre’s characterizations of the isolated self, the death of God, and lived experience as having “no exit” especially disgusted Marcel.  Regardless of his point of departure, Marcel throughout his life balked at the designation of his philosophy as, “Theistic existentialism.”  He argued that, though theism was consistent with his existentialism, it was not an essential characteristic of it.

Marcel’s conception of freedom is the most philosophically enduring of all of his themes, although the last decade has seen a resurgence of attention paid to Marcel’s metaphysics and epistemology.  A decidedly unsystematic thinker, it is difficult to categorize Marcel’s work, in large part because the main Marcelian themes are so interconnected.  A close read, however, shows that in addition to that of freedom, Marcel’s important philosophical contributions were on the themes of participation, creative fidelity, exigence, and presence.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Freedom
  3. Participation
  4. Creative Fidelity
  5. Exigence
  6. Presence
  7. Hope and the Existential Self
  8. References and Further Reading

1. Life

Gabriel Marcel was born in Paris in 1889, the city where he also died in 1973.  Marcel was the only child of Henri and Laure Marcel.  His father was a French diplomat to Sweden and was committed to educating his son through frequent travel across Europe.  The death of his mother, in 1893 when Gabriel was not quite four years old left an indelible impression on him.  He was raised primarily by his mother’s sister, whom his father married two years after Laure’s passing, and though “Auntie” loved her nephew and gave him the best formal education, Gabriel loathed the structure of the classroom, and became excited about the intellectual life only after entering Sorbonne, from which he graduated in 1910.

Marcel was not a “dogmatic pacifist,” but experiences in World War I as a non-combatant solidified to Marcel the, “Desolate aspect that it [war] became an object of indignation, a horror without equal,” (AE 20) and contributed to a life-long fascination with death.  It was during the war that many of the important philosophical themes in Marcel’s later work would take root, and indeed, during the war, Marcel began writing in a journal that served as a framework for his first book, Metaphysical Journal (1927).

After the war, Marcel married Jaqueline Boegner, and he taught at a secondary school in Paris.  It was in these early wedded years that Marcel became engaged as a playwright, philosopher, and literary critic.  The couple continued to travel, they adopted a son, Jean Marie, and Marcel developed friendships with important thinkers of the day.  Marcel gave talks throughout Europe as a result of these contacts, and was regarded as a keen mind and a type of renaissance figure, excelling in music, drama, philosophy, theology, and politics.  As for his literary works, Marcel in total published more than 30 plays, a number of which have been translated in English and produced in the United States.  Marcel was acutely aware, however, that his dramatic work did not enjoy the popularity of his philosophical work, but he believed nonetheless that both were, “Capable of moving and often of absorbing readers very different from one another, living in the most diverse countries—beings whom it is not a question of counting precisely because they are human beings and belong as such to an order where number loses all meaning,” (AE, 27).

Although Marcel did not pursue anything more permanent than intermittent teaching posts at secondary schools, he did hold prestigious lectureships, giving the Gifford Lectures at Aberdeen in 1949-50 and the William James Lectures at Harvard in 1961.  His most significant philosophical works include Being and Having (1949), The Mystery of Being, Volume I and II (1950-51), Man against Mass Society (1962) and Creative Fidelity (1964). During his latter years, he emerged as a vocal political thinker, and played a crucial role in organizing and advocating the international Moral Re-Armament movement of the 1960s.  (Marcel was pleased to be awarded the Peace Prize of the Börsenverein des Buchhandels in 1964.)

Throughout his life, Marcel sought out, and was sought out by, various influential thinkers, including Paul Ricoeur, Jacques Maritain, Charles Du Bos, Gustave Thibon, and Emmanuel Levinas.  In spite of the many whom he positively influenced, Marcel became known for his very public disagreements with Jean-Paul Sartre.  In fact, the acrimony between the two became such that the two would attend performances of the other’s plays, only to storm out midway.  Perhaps the most fundamental ideological disagreement between the two was over the notion of autonomy.  For Marcel, autonomy is a discovery of the self as a being receptive to others, rather than as a power to be exerted.  Marcel’s autonomy is rooted in a commitment to participation with others (see 3 below), and is unique in that the participative subject is committed by being encountered, or approached by, another individual’s need.  Sartre’s notion of commitment is based on the strength of the solitary decisions made by individuals who have committed themselves fully to personal independence.  Yet, Marcel took commitment to be primarily the response to the appeal directed to the self as an individual (A 179) so that the self is free to respond to another on account of their mutual needs.  The feud between the two, though heated, had the effect of casting a shadow over Marcel’s work as “mysticism” rather than philosophy, a stigma that Marcel would work for the rest of his life to dispute.

2. Freedom

A strange inner mutation is spreading throughout humanity, according to Marcel.  As odd as it first seems, this mutation is evoked by the awareness that members of humanity are contingent on conditions which make up the framework for their very existence.  Man recognizes that at root, he is an existing thing, but he somehow feels compelled to prove his life is more significant than that.  He begins to believe that the things he surrounds himself with can make his life more meaningful or valuable.  This belief, says Marcel, has thrown man into a ghostly state of quandary caused by a desire to possess rather than to be.  All people become a master of defining their individual selves by either their possessions or by their professions.  Meaning is forced into life through these venues.  Even more, individuals begin to believe that their lives have worth because they are tied to these things, these objects.  This devolution creates a situation in which individuals experience the self only as a statement, as an object, “I am x.”

The objectification of the self through one’s possessions robs one of her freedom, and separates her from the experiences of her own participation in being.  The idolatrous world of perverted possession must be abandoned if the true reality of humanity is to be reached (SZ 285).  Perhaps most known for his views on freedom, Marcel gave to existentialism a view of freedom that marries the absolute indeterminacy of traditional existentialism with Marcel’s view that transcendence out of facticity can only come by depending upon others with the same goals.  The result is a type of freedom-by-degrees in which all people are free, since to be free is to be self-governing, but not all people experience freedom that can lead them out of objectification.  The experience of freedom cannot be achieved unless the subject extricates herself from the grip of egocentrism, since freedom is not simply doing what desire dictates.  The person who sees herself as autonomous within herself  has a freedom based on ill-fated egocentrism.  She errs in believing freedom to be rooted on independence.

Freedom is defined by Marcel in both a negative and positive sense.  Negatively, freedom is, “The absence of whatever resembles an alienation from oneself,” and positively as when, “The motives of my action are within the limits of what I can legitimately consider as the structural traits of my self,” (TF, 232).  Freedom, then, is always about the possibilities of the self, understood within the confines of relationships with others.  As an existentialist, Marcel’s freedom is tied to the raw experiences of the body.  However, the phenomenology of Marcelian freedom  is characterized by his insistence that freedom is something to be experienced, and the self is fully free when it is submerged in the possibilities of the self and the needs of others.  Although all humans have basic, autonomous freedom (Marcel thought of this as “capricious” freedom), in virtue of their embodiment and consciousness; only those persons who seek to experience being by freely engaging with other free beings can break out of the facticity of the body and into the fulfillment of being.  The free act is significant because it contributes to defining the self, “By freedom I am given back to myself,” (VII vii).

At first glance, Marcelian freedom is paradoxical:  the more one enters into a self-centered project, the less legitimate it is to say that the act is free, whereas the more the self is engaged with other free individuals, the more the self is free.  However, the phenomenological experience of freedom is less paradoxical when it is seen through the lens of the engagement of freedom.  Ontologically, we rarely have experiences of the singular self; instead, our experiences are bound to those with whom we interact.  Freedom based on the very participation that the free act seeks to affirm is the ground of the true experience of freedom towards which Marcel gravitates.

3. Participation

Marcel was an early proponent of what would become a major Sartrean existential tenet:  I am my body.  For Marcel, the body does not have instrumental value, nor is it simply a part or extension of the self.  Instead, the self cannot be eradicated from the body.  It is impossible for the self to conceive of the body in any way at all except for as a distinct entity identified with the self (CF 23).  Existence is prior, and existence is prior to any abstracting that we do on the basis of our perception.  Existence is indubitable, and existence is in opposition to the abstraction of objectivity (TW 225).  That we are body, of course, naturally lends us to think of the body in terms of object.  But individuals who resort to seeing the self and the world in terms of functionality are ontologically deficient because not only can they not properly respond to the needs of others, but they have become isolated and independent from others.  It is our active freedom that prevents us from the snare of objectifying the self, and which brings us into relationships with others.

When we are able to act freely, we can move away from the isolated perspective of the problematic man (“I am body only,”) to that of the participative subject (“I am a being among beings”) who is capable of interaction with others in the world.  Marcelian participation is possible through a special type of reflection in which the subject views herself as a being among beings, rather than as an object.  This reflection is secondary reflection, and is distinguished from both primary reflection and mere contemplation.  Primary reflection explains the relationship of an individual to the world based on her existence as an object in the world, whereas secondary reflection takes as its point of departure the being of the individual among others.  The goal of primary reflection, then, is to problematize the self and its relation to the world, and so it seeks to reduce and conquer particular things.  Marcel rejects primary reflection as applicable to ontological matters because he believes it cannot understand the main metaphysical issue involved in existence:  the incommunicable experience of the body as mine.  Neither does mere contemplation suffice to explain this phenomenon.  Contemplation is existentially significant, because it indicates the act by which the self concentrates its attention on its self, but such an act without secondary reflection would result in the same egocentrism that Marcel attempts to avoid through his work.

Secondary reflection has as its goal the explication of existence, which cannot be separated from the individual, who is in turn situated among others.  For Marcel, an understanding of one’s being is only possible through secondary reflection, since it is a reflection whereby the self asks itself how and from what starting point the self is able to proceed (E 14).  The existential impetus of secondary reflection cannot be overemphasized for Marcel:  Participation which involves the presence of the self to the world is only possible if the temptation to assume the self is wholly distinct from the world is overcome (CF 22).  The existential upshot is that secondary reflection allows the individual to seek out others, and it dissolves the dualism of primary reflection by realizing the lived body’s relation to the ego.

Reflexive reflection is the reflection of the exigent self (see 5 below).  It occurs when the subject is in communion with others, and is free and also dependent upon others (as discussed in 2).  Reflexive reflection is an inward looking that allows the self to be receptive to the call of others.  Yet, Marcel does not call on the participative subject to be reflective for receptivity’s sake.  Rather, the self cannot fully understand the existential position without orientating itself to something other than the self.

4. Creative Fidelity

For Marcel, to exist only as body is to exist problematically.  To exist existentially is to exist as a thinking, emotive, being, dependent upon the human creative impulse.  He believed that, “As soon as there is creation, we are in the realm of being,” and also that, “There is no sense using the word ‘being’ except where creation is in view,” (PGM xiii).  The person who is given in a situation to creative development experiences life qualitatively at a higher mode of being than those for whom experiences are another facet of their functionality.  Marcel argues that, “A really alive person is not merely someone who has a taste for life, but somebody who spreads that taste, showering it, as it were, around him; and a person who is really alive in this way has, quite apart from any tangible achievements of his, something essentially creative about him,” (VI, 139).  This is not to say, of course, that the creative impulse is measurable by what we produce.  Whereas works of art most explicitly express creative energy, inasmuch as we give ourselves to each other, acts of love, admiration, and friendship also describe the creative act.  In fact, participation with others is initiated through acts of feeling which not only allow the subject to experience the body as his own, but which enable him to respond to others as embodied, sensing, creative, participative beings as well.  To feel is a mode of participation, a creative act which draws the subject closer to an experience of the self as a being-among-beings, although higher degrees of participation are achieved by one whose acts demonstrate a commitment to that experience.  So, to create is to reject the reduction of the self to the level of abstraction—of object, “The denial of the more than human by the less than human,” (CF 10).

If the creative élan is a move away from the objectification of humanity, it must be essentially tied relationally to others.  Creative fidelity, then, entails a commitment to acts which draw the subject closer to others, and this must be balanced with a proper respect for the self.  Self-love, self-satisfaction, complacency, or even self-anger are attitudes which can paralyze one’s existential progress and mitigate against the creative impulse.  To be tenacious in the pursuit– the fidelity aspect– is the most crucial part of the creative impulse, since creation is a natural outflow of being embodied.  One can create, and create destructively.  To move towards a greater sense of being, one must have creative fidelity.  Fidelity exists only when it triumphs over the gap in presence from one being to another—when it helps others relate, and so defies absences in presence (CF 152).

It is not enough to be constant, since constancy is tenacity towards a specific goal, which requires neither presence nor an openness to change.  Rather, creative fidelity implies that there is presence, if it is true that faithfulness requires being available (in the Marcelian sense, see 5) to another even when it is difficult.  (Interestingly, Marcel’s notion of fidelity means more than someone’s merely not being unfaithful.  A spouse, for example, might not physically cheat on her husband, but on Marcel’s view, if she remains unavailable to her partner, she can only be called “constant”.  She cannot be called “faithful”.)  Additionally, fidelity requires that a subject be open to changing her mind, actions, and beliefs if those things do not contribute to a better grasp of what it means to be.  Since fidelity is a predicate that is best ascribed by others to us, it follows that receptivity to the views of others’ is a natural component of fidelity.

But what is it that Marcel thinks we ought to be faithful towards? It isn’t simply to pursue the impetus of the exigent life, although that is involved.  More concretely, creative fidelity is a fidelity towards being free, and that freedom involves making decisions about what is important, rather than living in a state of stasis.  Marcel railed against indecision with respect to what is essential, even though such indecision, “Seems to be the mark and privilege of the illumined mind,” (CF 190) because truly free people are not entrapped by their beliefs, but are liberated by living out their consequences (see 2).

5. Exigence

Dominating Marcel’s philosophical development was the intersection of his interest in the individuality of beings and his interest in the relations which bind beings together.  An acceptable ontology must account for the totality of the lived experience, and so must have as a point of departure the fact that humans are fundamentally embodied.  From there, ontology must explain how an individual fits among other individuals, and so must account for what it means to experience and have relations in the world.  Ontological exigence is the Marcelian actualization of transcendence, which is manifested as a thirst for the fullness of being and a demand to transcend the world of abstract objectivity.  This desire to be fulfilled within the body, however, is not a desire for perfection (which cannot be achieved) but is instead, “The contradiction of the functionalized world and of the overpowering monotony of a society in which it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate between members of society,” (V. II, 42).  The typical person (that is, the “Problematic man”) has become an object to him or herself through sheer busyness of life, through a lack of meaningful relationships with others, and through the intrusion of technological advancement.  The exigent person can transcend her problematicity—indeed, she, “Gradually develops individuality” (CF 149), and she does this by being aware of the self as a body in relation with, and in participation with, others in the world.  (The cognitive subject cannot seek the fulfilled state of the exigent self in a meaningful way, and the experiencing subject cannot see beyond herself as an object.  It is the participative subject, who is governed by the uniquely Marcelian doctrines of reflection, communion, receptivity, and availability, which can move from self-as-body to self-as-being among beings.)

The reflective focus of the exigent self occurs most effectively when the subject is involved in a community of people who are mutually receptive and accepting of others’ experiences and needs.  Just as secondary reflection must be active in order to participate with others, the exigent self’s reflexive reflection is rooted in an active, more developed sense of availability to others (see  3).  This availability is not passive; rather, the exigent self actively seeks out relationships with others, just as she is actively engaged in the concern for others.  Whereas a subject’s passivity can result in fear, hesitancy, and powerlessness, the action of the exigent self can allow her to positively change a situation for another person.  The force of the exigent life comes through the experience of being that is only found in sharing with others in being.  The most significant end achievable for an individual is to be immersed in the beings of others, for only with others does the self experience wholeness of being.  (This isn’t to say, of course, that the self will experience wholeness just in virtue of her being available to others.  Availability is a risk one takes, since it is only through availability that the potential for fullness emerges as possible.)

In opposition to exigence is the life of the problematic man.  There is a polarity between what is given in the technological world (a world in which things are objectified according to their function—biological, political, economic, social) and the fullness of being, which resists abstract determinations.  Marcel argued that, “Nothing is more awful than this reduction of man, of a human being by such distinctions,” (TW 225-6).  The exigent life is repelled by this reduction, and serves as a protest against it.  Exigence provides a recourse to a type of experience which bears within itself the warrant of its own value.  It is the substitution of one mode of experience for another; one that strives towards an increasingly pure mode of existence (VI ix).

6. Presence

The term “presence” is used in various ways in the English language, although each connote a “here-ness” that indicates whether or not a subject was “here”.  One of the differences in how we use the term is in the strength of a thing’s “here-ness”.  Two people sitting in close physical proximity on an airplane might not be present to each other, although people miles away speaking on a phone might have a stronger awareness of being together.  There is mystery in presence, according to Marcel, because presence can transcend the objective physical fact of being-with each other.   Presence is concerned with recognizing the self as a being-among-beings, and acknowledging the relevance of others’ experiences to the self, as a being.

The notion of presence for Marcel is comprised of two other parallel notions, communion and availability.  Together, communion and availability enable an individual to come into a complete participation with another being.  Although “presence” is found throughout Marcel’s work, he admits that it is impossible to give a rigorous definition of it.  Rather than working out a lexical definition of the term, we ought to evoke its meaning through our shared experiences.  Marcel demonstrates this by noting how easy it is to find ourselves with others who are not significantly present at all, and at other times we are present to those who are not physically with us at all.  The mark of presence is the mutual tie to the other.  For Marcel, it means that the self is “given” to the other, and that givenness is responsively received or reciprocated.  (The reciprocity of presence is a necessary condition for it.)  Presence is shared, then, in virtue of our openness to each other.

This openness is not linguistically based, since it is beyond the physical relation and communication among individuals.  Non-linguistic presence is possible for Marcel because of an aspect of presence Marcel calls “communion”.  Communion with other participative beings is renewing to the self as a result of the other giving to me out of who he is, rather than merely by what he says.  Marcel almost certainly borrows from Martin Buber’s I-Thou in his view of communion, in that Buber’s ontological communion is the free expression of those who are able to give and receive freely to each other so that an encounter with the other is possible, and for Marcel this communion is expressed as a free reception of the other to oneself (IB 136).  Communion-as-encounter, according to Marcel (GR 273), is encapsulated by the French en, whereas in English, within best represents the envelopment of one’s being that occurs in communion.  A shared experience allows for a more full understanding of one’s own being.  If the self is in communion with another, and is present to the other, the self is more present towards the self.  Communion with others can give new meaning to experiences that otherwise would have been closed to the self.

For interactions in which there is communication without communion, Marcel believes that the self becomes an object to the one with whom the communication is occurring.  And, where there is objectification, there cannot be participation, and without the availability of participation, there cannot be presence.  A key aspect of communion, then, is the way it limits the objectification of beings.  Marcel argues that one cannot have presence with—that is, one cannot welcome or gather to the self—whatever is purely and simply an object.  For objects, the self can take it or leave it, but presence can only be invoked or evoked (VI 208).  Presence that results from communion produces a bond between those who are in participation with another, who are receptive to another, and who are committed to sharing in each others’ experiences.

Communion is necessary for presence, but is entwined with Marcel’s notion of availability, disponibilité.  If it is true that participative beings can have communion with each other, and so encounter one another, then there must be another component to presence that enables a once-objectified person to respond to the encounter of communion.  The ability to yield to that which is encountered, and so to pledge oneself to another, is the component of presence that Marcel calls availability (HV 23).  Availability can be understood as being at hand, or handiness, so that a person is ready to respond to another when called upon.  The available subject seeks out other available subjects as individuals whose experiences can compliment and more fully speak to her.  Of course, for another’s experiences to speak to the subject, she must be open to the influence and needs of the other.  But this openness cannot result in the objectification of the subject by the other.  To be available is not to be possessed as an object.  Rather, to be available means that that the best use the subject can make of her freedom is to place it in the other’s hands, as a free response to who the other is.  The subject is not an object to be disposed of, then, but a fellow subject in need of the influence of the experiences of the other.

The positive result of living an available life is that it makes the subject more fully aware of herself than she would be if she did not have the relationship.  No longer does the subject have to struggle with her facticity, but she can find contentment through the mutual presence—from the communion and availability she has with a community of beings, all of whom are committed to the same end.  Just as the joints of the skeleton are conjoined and adapted to bones, Marcel contends that the individual life finds its justification and its meaning by being inwardly conjoined, adapted, and oriented towards something other than itself (V I, 201-2).

There are, certainly, detriments to the life of presence that Marcel explicates.  He penned as many words on unavailability, indisponibilité as he did availability, and with good reason:  obstacles frequently occur when individuals attempt to coalesce their experiences to emerge as stronger, more cohesive beings.  Almost all occurrences of unavailability result form an individual seeking fulfillment through the objectification of the self.  To be unavailable is to be preoccupied with the self as an object, to be self-centered in such a way as to exclude the possibility of engaging with others as subjects (BH 74, 78).  The unavailable person is characterized by an absorption with her self, whether with her own successes and accomplishments or her own problems.  She can feel temporary satisfaction by wallowing in herself, but she only experiences herself as object, and so cannot be whole.  Whatever brief satisfaction the unavailable individual has, it is short-lived because she becomes encumbered—for Marcel, “used up”—by all of the things by which she attempts to define herself:  job, family, poor health, indebtedness, etc.  Marcel compares the encumbered, unavailable life, to a hand-written draft of a manuscript.  Just as the clutter of editing marks on a draft disables the author from figuring out what is important to the central ideas, the encumbered self no longer has access to her own point of view.  The result is frustration, apathy, or distrust in oneself or others.  The weight of encumbrance renders the self incapable of presence, and so the self becomes opaque.  The opaque person ceased to let his presence pass into the world, and so has blocked the experiences of others to help inform and shape his own.

7. Hope and the Existential Self

The existential life that Marcel paints as possible for humanity is largely one of hope—but not one of optimism.   Being in the world as body allows one to seek out new opportunities for the self, and so Marcelian hope is deeply pragmatic in that it refuses to compute all of the possibilities against oneself.  But the picture is not rosy.  Hope for Marcel is not faith that things will go well, because most often, things do not go well.  The depravity of the problematic man threatens to suffocate.  Yet, even if there is despair in our situation, there is always movement towards something more.  This movement towards is the philosophical project for Gabriel Marcel.  If there is always movement, and always more to reach for, the existential self is never complete (and indeed, this is why Marcel refused to categorize his existential project as a “system” or “dialectic”).  The mystery of being for the existential self is unsolvable, because it is not a problem to be solved.

The notion of “hope” for Marcel relies upon a significant Marcelian distinction between problem and mystery.  For the problematic man (see section 2) each aspect of life is reduced to the level of a problem, so that the self and all of its relationships, goals, and desires are treated as obstacles to be conquered.  Life is, for the problematic man, a series of opportunities to possess, and the body is alienated from the problematic man’s own corporeality.  Not only is such a person separated from his own being as a result, he is distanced from the true mystery of being.  If I am my body, and I want to inquire into being, I must grasp that being is a philosophical mystery to be engaged with rather than a problem to be solved.  The existential self, upon recognizing that the self is not something that is possessed, can then shift his thought from questioning the significance of his own existence as a matter of fact, to questioning how he is related to his body.  The vital cannot be separated from the spiritual, since the spiritual is conditioned on the body, which can then provide for opportunities and so, for hope.

The mystery of being, then, is a tale to be told, analyzed, probed, and worked toward.  To be sure, even as experiences change, society evolves, and relations emerge, the individual who seeks meaning through an investigation of their being will never be fully satisfied.  If Marcel’s ontology is viable, and the self can question who it is that asks Who am I?, then the self will find the answer to be constantly in flux.

8. References and Further Reading

  • Bollnow, Otto Friedrich. “Marcel’s Concept of Availability,” In The Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel:  The Library of Living Philosophers, 17.  Edited by Paul Arthur Schlipp and Lewis Edwin Hahn.  LaSalle, IL:  Open Court, 1984.  Abbreviated A.
  • Gallagher, Kenneth T. The Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel. NY: Fordham University Press, 1962.  Abbreviated PGM.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “Autobiographical Essay,” In The Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel: The Library of Living Philosophers, 17.  Edited by Paul Arthur Schlipp and Lewis Edwin Hahn.  LaSalle, IL:  Open Court, 1984.  Abbreviated AE.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. Being and Having.  New York:  Harper & Row, 1965. Abbreviated BH.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. Creative Fidelity. NY:  Noonday Press, 1970.  Abbreviated CF.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “Existence,”  New Scholasticism 38, no. 2 (April 1964).  Abbreviated E.
  • Marcel, Gabriel.  omo Viator: Introduction to a Metaphysic of Hope, tr. Emma Craufurd (Chicago:  Harper & Row), 1965.  Abbreviated HV.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. The Mystery of Being, Volume I and II.  Chicago: Charles Regnery Co, 1951. Abbreviated V. I and V.II.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “Reply to Gene Reeves,” In The Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel:  The Library of Living Philosophers, 17.  Edited by Paul Arthur Schlipp and Lewis Edwin Hahn.  LaSalle, IL:  Open Court, 1984.  Abbreviated GR.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. Tragic Wisdom and Beyond.  Evanston, IL:  Northwestern University Press, 1973.  Abbreviated TW.
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “Truth and Freedom,” Philosophy Today 9 (1965).  Abbreviated TF.
  • Strauss, E.W. and M. Machado, “Marcel’s Notion of Incarnate Being,” In The Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel:  The Library of Living Philosophers, 17.  Edited by Paul Arthur Schlipp and Lewis Edwin Hahn.  LaSalle, IL:  Open Court, 1984.  Abbreviated IB.
  • Zuidema, S.U. “Gabriel Marcel: A Critique,” Philosophy Today 4, no. 4 (Winter 1960).  Abbreviated SZ.

Author Information:

Jill Graper Hernandez
Email: jill.hernandez@utsa.edu
University of Texas at San Antonio
U. S. A.

John Hick (1922—2012)

HickJohn Hick was arguably one of the most important and influential philosophers of religion of the second half of the twentieth century. As a British philosopher in the anglo-analytic tradition, Hick did groundbreaking work in religious epistemology, philosophical theology, and religious pluralism.

As a young law student, Hick underwent a strong religious experience that led him to accept evangelical Christianity and to change his career direction to theology and philosophy. This experience would prove not only life-altering but also important for his subsequent philosophical views. Early in his career, Hick argued that Christian faith is based not on propositional evidence but on religious experience. He thus defended Christian faith against the evidentialist criticisms of the then dominant logical positivists. During this stage Hick also developed his Irenaean “soul-making” theodicy in which he argued that God allows evil and suffering in the world in order to develop humans into virtuous creatures capable of following his will.

In the late 1960s, Hick had another set of experiences that dramatically affected his life and work. While working on civil rights issues in Birmingham, he found himself working and worshiping alongside people of other faiths. During this time he began to believe that sincere adherents of other faiths experience the Transcendent just as Christians do, though with variances due to cultural, historical, and doctrinal factors. These experiences led him to develop his pluralistic hypothesis, which, relying heavily on Kant’s phenomenal/noumenal distinction, states that adherents of the major religious faiths experience the ineffable Real through their varying culturally shaped lenses. Hick’s pluralistic considerations then led him to adjust his theological positions, and he subsequently developed interpretations of Christian doctrines, such as the incarnation, atonement, and trinity, not as metaphysical claims but as metaphorical or mythological ones. However, despite Hick’s changes theologically, many of his underlying philosophical positions remained largely intact over the course of his long career.

Hick’s most influential works include Faith and Knowledge, Evil and the God of Love, Death and Eternal Life, The Myth of God Incarnate (ed.), and An Interpretation of Religion. Other of his significant works include Arguments for the Existence of God, God Has Many Names, The Metaphor of God Incarnate, A Christian Theology of Religions, The New Frontier of Religion and Science, and his widely used textbook, Philosophy of Religion.

Table of Conents

  1. Life
  2. Religious Epistemology
    1. Religious Experience
    2. Eschatological Verification
    3. Religion and Neuroscience
  3. Philosophical Theology
    1. Irenaean “Soul-making” Theodicy
    2. Christology as Myth or Metaphor
    3. Death and Afterlife
  4. Religious Pluralism
    1. Religious Ambiguity
    2. Kantian Phenomenal/Noumenal Distinction and the Transcategorial Real
    3. Soteriological and Ethical Criteria
    4. Religious Language as Mythological
  5. Criticisms and Influences
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Life

John Harwood Hick was born in January 1922 to Mark and Aileen Hick in Scarborough, England. The Hick family history involves a Scarborough shipping trade that can be traced back at least as far as the mid-eighteenth century. Hick was a middle child, whose older brother Pentland became an entrepreneur and younger sister Shirley had a successful career in social work. Hick grew up in a working middle-class family in Scarborough, where as a shy boy he had an unfavorable time at the nearby preparatory school, Lisvane. After briefly studying at home with a private tutor, Hick spent two more favorable years (1937-38) at a Quaker boarding school, Bootham, in York. After Bootham, Hick returned to Scarborough to work as an articled clerk for his father’s small law firm, Hick & Hands.

By the age of seventeen, Hick was reading many of the major works of Western philosophy, finding especially fascinating Kant, who would shape his later philosophical pursuits. Hick’s family was not known for academics, despite two notable exceptions from his mother’s side: Benjamin Cocker, who taught philosophy at the University of Michigan in the late nineteenth century, and Hick’s great uncle, Edward Wales Hirst, who taught Christian Ethics at Manchester University and elsewhere. Hirst encouraged Hick to pursue academic philosophy and continued to correspond with him after he decided instead to study law. While still working at Hick & Hands, Hick began commuting twice a week to University College, Hull, to attend law lectures. This was shortly before the outbreak of World War II and the bombing of Britain, and by his second term Hick had moved to a hostel closer to campus in order to study full-time.

Hick’s family was not particularly religious, though his mother and grandmother had both experimented widely in a variety of religious practices, which helped develop in him a keen religious interest from a young age. He had a penchant for leftist, anti-Christian literature of the likes of George Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Bertrand Russell, and others; yet in the midst of the turmoil at the outbreak of the war, Hick found himself turning to evangelical Christianity under the influence of his college friends from the Inter-Varsity Fellowship. Hick writes of his experience:

As a law student at University College, Hull, at the age of eighteen, I underwent a powerful evangelical conversion under the impact of the New Testament figure of Jesus. For several days I was in a state of intense mental and emotional turmoil, during which I became increasingly aware of a higher truth and greater reality pressing in upon me and claiming my recognition and response. At first this was highly unwelcome, a disturbing and challenging demand for nothing less than a revolution in personal identity. But then the disturbing claim became a liberating invitation. The reality that was pressing in upon me was not only awesomely demanding…. but also irresistibly attractive, and I entered with great joy and excitement into the world of Christian faith…. An experience of this kind which I cannot forget, even though it happened forty-two years ago [from 1982], occurred—of all places—on the top deck of a bus in the middle of the city of Hull…. As everyone will be very conscious who can themselves remember such a moment, all descriptions are inadequate. But it was as though the skies opened up and light poured down and filled me with a sense of overflowing joy, in response to an immense transcendent goodness and love. I remember that I couldn’t help smiling broadly—smiling back, as it were, at God – though if any of the other passengers were looking they must have thought that I was a lunatic, grinning at nothing. (Autobiography, 33-34)

Though Hick now views his subsequent evangelical years as something of an anomaly on the span of his intellectual biography, at the time it had a dramatic, life-changing impact. He immediately left law to study for Christian ministry, at first still at Hull but shortly thereafter at Edinburgh. While at Edinburgh he studied philosophy under Norman Kemp Smith, who left an indelible impression on the young Hick.

Hick’s time at Edinburgh was interrupted, however, by World War II. As a conscientious objector—much to the dismay of his father—Hick declined the draft and instead served with the Friends Ambulance Unit in Egypt, Italy and Greece. Upon returning from the war, he resumed at Edinburgh, where he graduated in 1948 before going to Oriel College, Oxford, to earn his doctorate in philosophy. At Oxford Hick studied under H. H. Price, and Hick’s thesis became the basis for his first book, Faith and Knowledge.

Hick then went to Westminster College, Cambridge, in 1950, where for the next three years he studied for the Presbyterian ministry, primarily under theologian H. H. Farmer. At Westminster Hick met his soon-to-be wife, Hazel. After graduating from Westminster, he was inducted as minister of Belford Presbyterian church in the small town of Belford, Northumberland, in August 1953. Later that month he and Hazel were married in the church, where Hick served as minister for two and a half years and where the Hicks had their first daughter, Eleanor, in June 1955.

Hick left Belford for the U.S., where in the spring semester of 1956 he began an assistant professorship in philosophy at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. The following year he published Faith and Knowledge with Cornell University Press. At the time Cornell’s philosophy faculty included Max Black, Norman Malcolm, and John Rawls, among others, and was known as a center for Wittgensteinian thought. Hick taught at Cornell for three and a half years, but not being himself Wittgensteinian, he looked elsewhere for a teaching position. While at Cornell the Hicks had two sons: Mark, born in 1957, and Peter, born toward the end of their time in Ithaca.

In the fall of 1959, Hick moved from Cornell to the Stuart chair of Christian philosophy at Princeton Theological Seminary. While at Princeton he became the center of controversy with the Presbyterian synod of New Jersey for not affirming—though not necessarily denying—the virgin birth of Christ. The case received national attention and was eventually decided in Hick’s favor, allowing him to remain in his professorship.

In 1963 Hick received the Guggenheim Fellowship as well as a one year S. A. Cooke Bye-Fellowship at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, where for the following year he worked on what would become his second monograph, Evil and the God of Love. During his sabbatical at Cambridge, a lectureship in philosophy of religion opened there, to which Hick was appointed. He taught one last semester at Princeton Seminary before moving to Cambridge.

During Hick’s third year at Cambridge, the H. G. Wood chair of philosophy of religion at Birmingham—previously held by Ninian Smart—opened, and Hick received the appointment. It was at Birmingham that Hick’s pluralistic outlook began to take shape, as he spent much of his time outside of class with multi-faith groups working on race issues in and around the city. He writes of his experiences:

As I spent time in mosques, synagogues, gurudwaras and temples as well as churches something very important dawned on me. On the one hand all the externals were different…. And not only the externals, but also the languages, the concepts, the scriptures, the traditions are all different and distinctive. But at a deeper level it seemed evident to me that essentially the same thing was going on in all these different places of worship, namely men and women were coming together under the auspices of some ancient, highly developed tradition which enables them to open their minds and hearts “upwards” toward a higher divine reality which makes a claim on the living of their lives. (Autobiography, 160)

Hick subsequently became heavily involved with the group All Faiths for One Race, working on civil rights issues in and around Birmingham. He also began studying Eastern religions, traveling to India to study Hinduism, Punjab to study Sikhism, and Sri Lanka to study Buddhism. The fruit of this study would be his extensive work, Death and Eternal Life, in which he explores various Eastern and Western conceptions of the afterlife and develops an afterlife hypothesis combining elements from Eastern and Western traditions.

In 1977 Hick became embroiled in further controversy after the publication of his edited work, The Myth of God Incarnate. Hick admits that the title was intentionally provocative as an attempt to open the ideas of the book to a larger audience. In this he succeeded, as the book sold thirty-thousand copies in the first six months and was translated into various languages. During their time at Birmingham, the Hicks also had their youngest son, Mike, who at the age of twenty-four would be killed in a tragic climbing accident in the French Alps.

In 1978 Hick gave a lecture at Claremont Graduate University near Los Angeles and was subsequently offered the position of Danforth professor of philosophy of religion. For his first three years, he split his year between Claremont and Birmingham—even spending the summer of 1980 teaching in South Africa, where he met Desmond Tutu, who would become a life-long friend—but beginning in 1982 Hick moved full-time to Claremont. He spent the next ten years at Claremont teaching, organizing conferences in philosophy of religion, and developing his pluralistic hypothesis, which he would present as his Gifford Lectures in 1986-87 and publish as An Interpretation of Religion in 1989 to much critical praise, including the prestigious Grawemeyer Award. During his time at Claremont, Hick’s pluralism took a less theistic turn, due in large measure to his interaction with Buddhist philosophers in the U.S. and Japan, including his Claremont colleague, Masao Abe.

In 1992, at the age of seventy, Hick retired from Claremont and moved back to Birmingham. In 1996 his wife Hazel died of a sudden massive stroke while Hick was recovering from spinal surgery. Throughout the 1990s he continued to travel often to the U.S. and elsewhere for conferences and lectures. Throughout the 2000s, he became less mobile but still managed to continue academic work, continuing a close relationship with Birmingham University as a Fellow of its Institute for Advanced Research in Arts and Social Sciences and publishing a number of books, including The New Frontier of Religion and Science: Religion, Neuroscience and the Transcendent in 2006, Who or What is God? And Other Investigations in 2008, and Beyond Faith and Doubt: Dialogues on Religion and Reason in 2010. In 2011 the University of Birmingham launched the John Hick Centre for Philosophy of Religion and later the same year awarded him an honorary doctorate of divinity, at which time he gave his last public speech. John Hick died on February 9, 2012, just weeks after celebrating his ninetieth birthday.

2. Religious Epistemology

a. Religious Experience

Though Hick’s religious views changed significantly throughout his career, most of the themes of his mature religious epistemology are already present in his first work, Faith and Knowledge. Indeed, it would be difficult to overestimate the importance of this work for contemporary religious epistemology. Instead of describing faith as propositional assent to certain beliefs, Hick describes faith as the interpretive element in religious experience or “experiencing-as”—experiencing the world as not only natural and ethical but as the sphere of the religious as well. While Faith and Knowledge can be read as an apologetic for Christian faith, Hick’s explicit aims are more modest. Rather than demonstrating that God does in fact exist, Hick’s aim is to describe how God is known to humans, if God does exist, and how such knowledge relates to other forms of human knowledge. According to Hick, the difference between faith and other forms of knowledge is not one of kind but of the level of reality known. Just as ethical knowledge supervenes on natural knowledge, so too religious knowledge supervenes on both ethical and natural knowledge.

In arguing for his experience-based understanding of faith, Hick discusses prior understandings of faith, rejecting some elements while retaining others. Hick challenges the traditional Christian definitions of faith as a form of propositional belief, either in the Thomist-Catholic form as a matter of a voluntaristic or fideistic intellectual assent to a certain set of divinely revealed doctrinal propositions, or in the modern voluntarist views, represented by Pascal’s wager and the pragmatism of James. Hick is more ambivalent about Kant’s understanding of faith as a postulate from moral judgment. He approvingly cites Hume and Kant’s attacks on natural theology, holding that there are no compelling arguments for God’s existence. However, according to Kant, even though we cannot offer a logical demonstration for belief in God, nevertheless, “For the practical reason, pursuing the summum bonum, must assume that its attainment is possible, and must therefore postulate a Good Will powerful enough to ensure a final apportionment of happiness to virtue” (Faith and Knowledge, 2d ed. [FK], 61). For Kant, faith is thus not a matter of theoretical rationality based on naturally or divinely revealed propositions, but is a matter of practical rationality based on our moral judgments. Hick discusses this line of reasoning in response to a contemporary advocate, Donald Baillie, before ultimately rejecting the conclusion that our moral intuitions can be used as a proof for God’s existence. However, while Hick rejects the inference from our moral intuitions to the existence of God as a proof, he integrates a similar strand from Baillie into his own view, in which “our apprehension of the divine [is] mediated through our apprehension of values” (FK, 68). Building on this insight, Hick discusses Cardinal Newman’s understanding of faith as an “illative sense,” which Hick defines as “the acquired capacity to respond to indefinable indications in a given field and to marshal a mass of apparently unrelated evidences and divine their trend” (FK, 91). While Hick approvingly discusses Newman’s view that faith consists of a “global impression” or “interpretation,” he takes Newman’s view a step further and raises the even more fundamental question of “whether faith, in its primary sense, is rightly regarded as a propositional attitude at all” (FK, 91). It is the view of faith as a propositional attitude—in any of the forms discussed above—that Hick ultimately rejects.

Instead, Hick argues that for the ordinary believer, religious knowledge is gained by experiencing God for oneself. Religious knowledge, then, is mediated through our experience of the world, in much the same way that the rest of the knowledge we have about the world is gained. Hick calls this aspect of our human experience of the world “significance,” which he further defines as “that fundamental and all pervasive characteristic of our conscious experience which de facto constitutes it for us the experience of a ‘world’ and not merely empty void or churning chaos” (FK, 98). Hick then posits the notion of “interpretation” as the “correlative mental activity by which [significance] is apprehended,” stating,

We shall find that interpretation takes place in relation to each of the three main types of existence…. recognized by human thought—the natural, the human, and the divine; and that in order to relate ourselves appropriately to each, a primary and unevidenceable act of interpretation is required which, when directed toward God, has traditionally been termed “faith.” Thus I shall try to show that while the object of religious knowledge is unique, its basic epistemological pattern is that of all our knowing. (FK, 96-97)

Religious interpretation is thus a perception of significance rather than an inference from or to certain propositions. As Hick further explains,

the primary religious perception, or basic act of religious interpretation, is not to be described as either a reasoned conclusion or an unreasoned hunch that there is a God. It is, putatively, an apprehension of the divine presence within the believer’s human experience. It is not an inference to a general truth, but a “divine-human encounter,” a mediated meeting with the living God. (FK, 115)

Religious interpretation, however, is no worse off than any other kind of perception about the world, since, as Hick argues, “we must accept the Kantian thesis that we can be aware only of that which enters into a certain framework of basic relations which is correlated with the structure of our own consciousness” (FK, 98). In other words, once the Kantian paradigm is accepted, it becomes evident that every experience of the world—natural, ethical, and religious—involves an act of interpreting significance. Religious interpretation is simply the highest order of experiencing the world, not something of a different epistemological kind.

b. Eschatological Verification

Though Hick wrote Faith and Knowledge just as logical positivism was beginning to wane, the logical positivists’ attack upon metaphysics, and theism more specifically, still had enormous residual influence. According to the logical positivists’ verification criterion of cognitive meaning, non-empirical claims are such that they cannot in principle be true or false. Only those claims that can in principle be empirically verified have cognitive meaning. In response to this attack on religious claims, Hick posits the notion of eschatological verification. Eschatological verification is intended to respond to the logical positivists on their own terms by providing a possible scenario in which verification conditions for certain Christian claims obtain, and thus such claims are shown to be cognitively meaningful. So, for the sake of argument, Hick accepts the verification criterion. He then argues that the content of Christian faith can be verified in the afterlife if it is true, though if it is false it cannot be falsified, since there would be no afterlife in which to falsify one’s beliefs. To illustrate his principle of eschatological verification, he offers a parable of two men traveling along a road that one believes leads to a Celestial City and the other believes leads to nowhere. Though they each have the same experiences along the road, the first interprets the experiences as trials to prepare him for the Celestial City, while the other finds the experiences to have no larger meaning. Of the experiences of the travelers in his parable, Hick describes:

During the course of the journey the issue between them is not an experimental one. They do not entertain different expectations about the coming details of the road, but only about its ultimate destination. And yet when they do turn the last corner it will be apparent that one of them has been right all the time and the other wrong. Thus, although the issue between them has not been experimental, it has nevertheless from the start been a real issue. They have not merely felt differently about the road; for one was feeling appropriately and the other inappropriately in relation to the actual state of affairs. Their opposed interpretations of the road constituted genuinely rival assertions, though assertions whose status has the peculiar characteristic of being guaranteed retrospectively by a future crux. (FK, 177-78)

In the same way, Hick argues that the eschatological expectations of the Christian believer provide “an experientially verifiable claim, in virtue of which the belief-system as a whole is established as being factually true-or-false” (FK, 195). He thus argues—contra most logical positivists and Christian believers at the time—that Christian belief is compatible with the logical positivists’ criterion of verification. Though for Hick the world is sufficiently ambiguous to be interpreted theistically or atheistically, nevertheless, “the theistic assertion is indeed—whether true or false—a genuinely factual assertion” (FK, 195).

c. Religion and Neuroscience

Whereas logical positivism provided a formidable objection to religious belief in the twentieth century, neuroscience offers a possible objection to religious belief in the twenty-first century. Instead of judging religious language to be meaningless, as logical positivism had done, the objection from neuroscience is that religious experience is delusory. However, just as Hick found the objection of the logical positivists to be unfounded, so too in his more recent work, The New Frontier of Religion and Science, he finds the objection from neuroscience wanting. He protests that neuroscientists themselves often do not have the philosophical acumen necessary to interpret their research and that many philosophers of mind only give token attention to the findings from neuroscience, assuming a naturalistic worldview from the outset. The result is that it is practically taken as fact that neuroscience has proven a materialist view of persons, when in fact the evidence is ambiguous.

Hick concedes that for every mental event there is a corresponding physical event in the brain, but he argues that proving a brain/mind correlation is a far cry from proving brain/mind identity. He further concedes that brain stimulation through drugs, epileptic seizures, and brain surgery may produce non-veridical religious experiences, but he argues that the ability to cause religious hallucinations does nothing to rule out the possibility of authentic religious experiences.

In response to the naturalist objection from neuroscience, Hick takes a brief foray into the philosophy of mind. He argues first that mind/brain identity is extremely implausible. As he states, “The basic problem [with mind/brain identity] is that not even the most complete account of brain function reaches the actual conscious experience with which it is associated” (The New Frontier of Religion and Science [NFRS], 85). Because many philosophers of mind presuppose a materialist view of persons, they simply beg the question by assuming that mental events are identical to brain events. But for Hick this is simply “an article of naturalistic faith” (NFRS, 91). Despite the ingenuity of naturalist philosophers of mind, consciousness continues to elude a strictly materialist description. Hick next argues that the varieties of epiphenomenalism—in which consciousness is a non-causal byproduct of brain function—fare no better than identity views. If epiphenomenalism is true, then consciousness serves no biological role, and “its emergence would be inexplicable” (NFRS, 103). He argues that developments in artificial intelligence, which are often used to support materialism, actually provide an argument against materialism. For if it is possible to program computers to perform complex functions akin to human behavior without being conscious, then again “consciousness becomes functionless and inexplicable” (NFRS, 101). Assuming that it is more likely that consciousness would emerge if it offered an evolutionary advantage of some kind, he judges epiphenomenalism to be nearly as implausible as mind/brain identity.

After rejecting materialist views of the mind, Hick posits a “non-Cartesian dualism” in which the mind “exists as a non-physical reality in continual interaction with the brain” (NFRS, 111). He believes that this kind of dualism better accounts for nondeterministic or libertarian free will, which he finds entirely more philosophically defensible than compatibilist freedom—the latter of which Hick considers to be self-defeating at best and “an example of philosophical spin doctoring” at worst (NFRS, 112).

Hick summarizes his argument for the possibility of religious experience, stating, “The human person is more than a physical organism, and it cannot be excluded a priori that there may be a non-physical supra-natural reality, perhaps of the limitless significance that the religions claim, and also an answering non-physical aspect of our own nature” (NFRS, 123). He thus invokes the principle of critical trust, in which we take our experiences to be veridical unless and until there is reason to reject their veridicality. He notes that we all live by the principle of critical trust in our everyday experience of the natural world. And since he has argued that there is no a priori reason to rule out the possibility of a supra-natural reality, he concludes that we should apply the same principle of critical trust to our religious experience. One who has a religious experience can take that religious experience to be veridical unless and until there is reason for rejecting its veridicality.

3. Philosophical Theology

a. Irenaean “Soul-making” Theodicy

One of Hick’s most important contributions to philosophical theology is his “soul-making” theodicy, first presented in his work, Evil and the God of Love. He spends much of this work interacting with what he calls the traditional Augustinian type of theodicy, in which finitely perfect human beings at a remote time in history fell from perfection by using their free will to turn away from God—an act of rebellion that precipitated evil and suffering in the world. Hick finds this response to be inadequate due to its basis in a narrowly literal reading of the account of the fall found in Genesis chapter three. According to Hick, it is very difficult to take the story of Adam and Eve’s fall literally in light of the scientific evidence for evolution. Moreover, he finds the traditional view incapable of making sense of “finitely perfect creatures who fall out of the full glory and blessedness of God’s Kingdom” (Evil and the God of Love, 2d. ed. [EGL], 280). For if such a creature lived “face to face with infinite plenitude of being, limitlessly dynamic life and power, and unfathomable goodness and love, there seems to be an absurdity in the idea of his seeing rebellion as a possibility” (EGL, 278). However, if instead such a creature “does not exist in such closeness to God, but rather in a human (or angelic) world in which the divine reality is not unambiguously manifest to him,” then it seems that the circumstances are “weighted against the creature,” and sinning “is now rather more than a bare possibility” (EGL, 279). According to Hick’s understanding of the traditional Augustinian view, then, “The creature’s fall is either impossible, or else so very possible as to be excusable” (EGL, 280).

Rather than utilizing a traditional free-will defense that includes the concept of a literal fall, Hick takes an evolutionary approach to speak of humanity’s developing moral education. In contrast to the Augustinian type of theodicy that looks backward to a remote point of perfection in human history, Hick’s theodicy is decidedly eschatological—looking forward to future perfection in God’s heavenly Kingdom. Though Hick concedes that the Augustinian type has been the dominant one throughout Christian history—with advocates in the Catholic as well as the Protestant tradition—Hick finds another minority type first advocated by the Hellenistic or Eastern Fathers and then re-emerging in the nineteenth century liberal Protestant thought of Schleiermacher. Hick calls this view the Irenaean type of theodicy after the Eastern Father Irenaeus in whom Hick finds the germ of his theodicy. According to the Irenaean type, humans were not created in a perfected state in an idyllic environment but are rather in a continuous process of creation or development from morally immature creatures to morally perfected ones. God thus created the world—with all its potential evil and suffering—to serve as a “vale of soul-making.” Hick states that “it is an ethically reasonable judgment…. that human goodness slowly built up through personal histories of moral effort has a value in the eyes of the Creator which justifies even the long travail of the soul-making process” (EGL, 256). He argues further,

Men are not to be thought of on the analogy of animal pets, whose life is to be made as agreeable as possible, but rather on the analogy of human children, who are to grow to adulthood in an environment whose primary and overriding purpose is not immediate pleasure but the realizing of the most valuable potentialities of human personality. (EGL, 258)

According to Hick, the story of the human fall is a mythological way of describing the present human situation. Humans are given a certain level of autonomy from their creator in virtue of being created at an “epistemic distance” from God. It is possible for humans to know God, but they can only do so by freely exercising a faith-response, which for Hick consists “in an uncompelled interpretive activity whereby we experience the world as mediating the divine presence” (EGL, 281). Humans are cognitively free to live as if the natural world is all that is, but those who interpret the world religiously by responding to God in faith can be slowly developed into the likeness of God.

Hick acknowledges a number of comparisons between the Augustinian type of theodicy and his Irenaean soul-making type of theodicy, such as God’s share in the responsibility for the existence of evil, but he finds the Irenaean type more plausible and theologically satisfying. According to Hick, the Augustinian type is often too impersonal and is undermined by its view of the destiny of humanity divided between the pleasures of heaven and the torments of hell. In contrast, the Irenaean type of theodicy offers the hope “that God will eventually succeed in His purpose of winning all men to Himself in faith and love” (EGL, 342).

Later developments in Hick’s theology and philosophy of religion caused him to back away from taking his soul-making view as an explanation of the design of a loving personal God seeking fellowship with his creatures. Thus, as Marilyn Adams notes in the forward to the 2007 reissue of Evil and the God of Love, Hick shifts from a soul-making theodicy to a soul-making soteriology. In later works, such as his Death and Eternal Life, he continues to make use of the soul-making view, but he develops it in a way that can be utilized to fit his pluralistic orientation to religions, including concepts such as reincarnation and post-mortem moral development.

b. Christology as Myth or Metaphor

In one of Hick’s most important and controversial essays, “Jesus and the World Religions,” Hick calls for a reinterpretation of Jesus’s divinity in light of modern biblical criticism and our growing awareness of religious diversity. According to Hick, “the Nicene definition of God-the-Son-incarnate is only one way of conceptualizing the lordship of Jesus, the way taken by the Graeco-Roman world of which we are the heirs;” however, “in the new age of world ecumenism which we are entering it is proper for Christians to become conscious of both the optional and the mythological character of this traditional language” (“Jesus and the World Religions” [JWR], in The Myth of God Incarnate, 168). Hick argues that the earliest understanding of Jesus expressed by his first disciples and to a large extent portrayed in the synoptic Gospels and the book of Acts is that of a man “intensely and overwhelmingly conscious of the reality of God” (JWR, 172). Because of Jesus’s intimate relationship with God, he possessed a stunning spiritual authority that included the ability to forgive sins, heal diseases, and speak on behalf of God. Jesus was thus given honorific titles by his followers, such as Messiah, Lord, and Son of God. Over time these poetic images attributed to Jesus took on more than the symbolic or metaphorical value in which they were originally intended and instead became metaphysical statements. Hick finds this development already in the Gospel of John and finally formalized in the two-natures Christology of Nicea and Chalcedon.

According to Hick, the two-natures view of Jesus as fully human and fully divine is deficient in at least three ways. First, it misreads the original poetic intent of Jesus’s divine titles, transposing “a metaphorical son of God to a metaphysical God the Son” (JWR, 176). Second, Hick argues that the two-natures view is itself unintelligible. In a now famous quote, he states, “For to say, without explanation, that the historical Jesus of Nazareth was also God is as devoid of meaning as to say that this circle drawn with a pencil on paper is also a square” (JWR, 178). Finally, he argues that a literal understanding of Jesus as the Son of God requires a restrictive view of the authentic religious life as contained exclusively within the Christian tradition. In contrast, by understanding Christological language as mythological, we can affirm that the Logos of God was working in the person of Jesus of Nazareth just as it has worked “in various ways within the Indian, the semitic, the Chinese, the African…. forms of life” (JWR, 181). Hick believes that such an understanding of Jesus will not diminish but will increase his importance in the global religious life.

c. Death and Afterlife

Hick’s Death and Eternal Life stands as one of the few substantial constructive works in pluralistic philosophy of religion or what he calls “global theology.” His expansive treatment of the topic includes discussion of historical views, contemporary philosophical views, humanist views, the contributions of biology, psychology, and parapsychology, and Western and Eastern religious views, including Catholic, Protestant, Vedantic Hindu, and Buddhist thought. Hick argues that there is no good reason to rule out the existence of an afterlife a priori. He rejects naturalistic views of the human person, including mind/brain identity and epiphenomenal views, and argues that the evidence from parapsychology—which he believes is more formidable than is often acknowledged—points to “the independent reality of mind and brain, as mutually interacting entities or processes” and “considerably decreases the a priori improbability of the survival of the mind after the death of the body” (Death and Eternal Life [DEL], 126).

Hick takes a decidedly empirical stance toward views of the afterlife from the various world religions. He invokes the principle of openness to all data, attempting to withhold any bias for or against any particular view. What results is a philosophical evaluation of the Western idea of the survival of a disembodied mind or soul, the semitic/Western idea of bodily resurrection, and the Eastern concepts of reincarnation and rebirth. Hick argues for the possibility of each of these views and examines each for internal consistency and explanatory value. For example, he argues that the popular conception of reincarnation or rebirth in which an individual person literally inhabits a number of successive human bodies “has limited support from the alleged memories of former lives…. but tends to be unconvincing to those outside these cultures, and indeed seems to be slowly losing its hold even within them” (DEL, 392). On the other hand, the more sophisticated understanding of reincarnation, in which a “higher self” or karmic package produces a series of persons, may be true but “lacks the moral and practical significance of the more popular pictures of reincarnation” (DEL, 392).

To argue for the logical possibility of a post-mortem bodily resurrection, Hick offers what he calls the “replica” theory. He explains this theory with a thought experiment that proceeds in three stages. In the first stage a person suddenly disappears in London and an exact “replica” of him reappears in New York. Hick argues that after examining the person in New York, we would find that “there is everything that would lead us to identify the one who appeared with the one who disappeared, except continuous occupancy in space” (DEL, 280). In the second stage of the thought experiment, a person in London suddenly dies and an exact “replica” appears in New York. Hick argues that even if we had the corpse of the person who died in London, we would still eventually conclude—after interaction with the person in New York—that the person who appeared in New York is the same person as the one who died in London. Finally, in the third stage of the thought experiment, the person dies in London and an exact “replica” appears “in a different world altogether, a resurrection world inhabited by resurrected ‘replicas’ – this world occupying its own space distinct from the space with which we are familiar” (DEL, 285). Again, Hick argues that the “replica” in the other world would be considered the same person as the person who died in London. In order to avoid confusion, he uses the term “replica” in quotes to indicate his special use of the term. The point of the quote marks around “replica” is that these are not ordinary replicas, of which there can be many of the same individual, but “replicas” of which there can by definition only be one of each individual. He concludes that as bizarre as these cases may be, they support the logical possibility of bodily resurrection. He does not necessarily endorse the “replica” view but uses it as a helpful way of understanding the idea of post-mortem bodily resurrection expressed in Jewish and Christian thought.

Hick’s primary constructive contribution to the philosophical discussion of the afterlife is his distinction between eschatologies, which describe the final state, and pareschatologies, which describe the state between death and the eschaton. By making such a distinction, he is able to combine multiple religious and philosophical conceptions of the afterlife into his afterlife hypothesis. According to his hypothesis, which he posits tentatively, the state immediately upon death “is subjective and dream-like” and thus can take the form of the expectation of the deceased person (DEL, 416). Since the immediate post-mortem state is shaped partly by the person’s expectations, the devoted Christian may find herself before the throne of final judgment, while the secularist might have a dream-like experience largely continuous with her earthly life. However, because Hick believes that life is a continuous soul-making process and that most of us have not completed that process at death, he hypothesizes that our earthly life may be “the first of a series of limited phases of existence, each bounded by its own ‘death’” (DEL, 408). Unlike traditional reincarnation views, though, Hick believes that each new life will be lived in a new world with its own unique opportunities to continue in the soul-making process toward one’s ultimate perfection.

Finally, Hick proposes very tentatively that the final state, or eschaton, will include all of humanity in a perfected state of unity with each other and with the Transcendent Reality. Hick considers this view to be expressive of the “point towards which the more eastern aspects of traditional western thought seem to converge with the more western aspects of traditional eastern thought” (DEL, 459). In contrast to traditional Western religious views, Hick rejects the notion of the immortal ego. But in contrast to traditional Eastern religious views, he also rejects the idea of complete personal extinction or absorption. Rather,

What Christians call the Mystical Body of Christ within the life of God, and Hindus the universal Atman which we all are, and Mahayana Buddhists the self-transcending unity in the Dharma Body of the Buddha, consists of the wholeness of ultimately perfected humanity beyond the existence of separate egos. (DEL, 464)

Thus, at the completion of the long soul-making process, each person will maintain her individual identity which will be completely void of any “ego-aspect,” having been filled instead with “the unselfish love which the New Testament calls agape” (DEL, 464).

4. Religious Pluralism

a. Religious Ambiguity

Hick’s pluralistic hypothesis is based on the notion that the world is religiously ambiguous, such that it can be experienced either religiously or non-religiously, with no compelling proofs for or against any one religious or nonreligious interpretation of the world. Hick first introduced the notion of religious ambiguity in Faith and Knowledge, though at that time he applied it solely to the ambiguity between theistic and atheistic interpretations of the world rather than drawing out its fuller implications for religious pluralism. Nevertheless, the epistemological ideas in Faith and Knowledge such asexperiencing-as” and “religious interpretation” become the foundation for his pluralistic hypothesis, which he develops most fully in An Interpretation of Religion, based on his 1986-87 Gifford Lectures. There he argues not only that the world is sufficiently ambiguous to allow it to be interpreted religiously in different ways but also that there is parity among each of the major world religions regarding their soteriological and ethical efficacy. As far as can be judged by human observation, no one religion stands out above the rest in terms of its ability to transform lives. Moreover, no one religion can lay claim to being the only context for authentic religious experiences. Once one accepts Hick’s epistemological justification for one’s own religious experience, one must be willing to grant the same epistemological justification for those who form their own quite different religious beliefs based on their religious experiences. Thus Hick proposes his pluralistic hypothesis in which each world faith is viewed as a separate culturally conditioned way in which the Ultimate Reality can be experienced. As he states, “These traditions are accordingly to be regarded as alternative soteriological ‘spaces’ within which, or ‘ways’ along which, men and women can find salvation/liberation/ultimate fulfilment” (An Interpretation of Religion, 2d. ed. [IR], 240).

b. Kantian Phenomenal/Noumenal Distinction and the Transcategorial Real

In developing his pluralistic hypothesis, Hick relies heavily on Kant’s distinction between the phenomenal and the noumenal, where the former is the world as humanly experienced and the latter is the world an sich, as it is in itself. Hick applies this model directly to the religious Ultimate, distinguishing between the Real as humanly experienced and the Real an sich. For Hick, the personal gods described by the various religions, such as Yahweh, the Trinity, Allah, Shiva and Vishnu are experienced at the phenomenal level, as are the non-personal depictions of the religious ultimate which are characteristic of Eastern religions, such as the Absolute, Brahman and Dharmakaya. The concepts of personae and impersonae are based on our phenomenological experiences of the Real; however, such descriptions cannot be literally applied to the Real an sich, which is transcategorial or ineffable. As Hick states, the Real an sich “cannot be said to be one or many, person or thing, substance or process, good or evil, purposive or non-purposive” (IR, 246). Only purely formal categories can be applied to the Real an sich, such as, for example, that it is the ground of our religious experience. In order for religious experiences to be veridical—which Hick argues for at length—he posits the Real an sich as “the necessary postulate of the pluralistic religious life of humanity” (IR, 249). In other words, in order to avoid the extremes of religious exclusivism, where only one religion accurately describes the Real, and religious non-realism, where all religious experience is based on human projection, Hick posits the transcategorial Real as the ground for all authentic religious experience, though the Real in itself is not describable by any one religion.

c. Soteriological and Ethical Criteria

Hick argues that the primary function or goal of each of the major world religions in their various ways is “the transformation of human existence from self-centredness to Reality-centeredness” (IR, 300). According to his pluralistic hypothesis, human salvation is defined by this very transformation. Thus, in order to evaluate the various religions, one must examine their respective abilities to bring about this transformation. By Hick’s estimation, each of the major world religions has produced its own share of saints who exemplify the transformation from self-centeredness to Reality-centeredness. Moreover, “what has happened to a striking extent in the saints has also been happening in lesser degrees to innumerable others within the same traditions” (IR, 307). Therefore, the major world religions should all be judged as authentic soteriological paths. Hick argues further that such transformation is not coincidental but attests to the ethical core of the major world religions, encompassed in the Golden Rule. He finds similarly stated ethical principles in the scriptures and teachings of each of the major world religions but also points to aspects of the various religions that deviate from this ethical core. As he states, “Taking the great world traditions as totalities, then, we can only say that each is an unique mixture of good and evil” (IR, 337). Therefore, as a practical outworking of his pluralistic hypothesis, Hick argues that those doctrines and dogmas of the various religions that do not cohere with the common ethical ideal should be purified from the religions by their respective adherents.

d. Religious Language as Mythological

Since Hick holds that the Real is ultimately transcategorial, ineffable, or mysterious, he posits that all religious language, or language about the Real, is mythological rather than literal. Such mythological language is language that “is not literally true but nevertheless tends to evoke an appropriate dispositional attitude” toward the Real (IR, 348). His application of this mythological language to Christology is perhaps the most well known and controversial, but Hick also proposes similar applications to theological doctrines of each of the various religions, and indeed, to his own theodicy.

5. Criticisms and Influences

Because Hick was such a highly original thinker, whose work fits into neither the established orthodoxies of conservative Christianity nor of philosophical naturalism, his work has been both widely influential and widely criticized. Hick writes in his Autobiography that he has been “attacked from different quarters as anti-Christian, as too narrowly Christian, as an atheist, a polytheist, a postmodernist, and as not postmodernist enough!” (321). While virtually all the ideas he has proposed, including eschatological verification, “replica” theory, epistemic distance, and soul-making have been subject to scrutiny in countless articles and sometimes books, it is his pluralistic hypothesis and its resulting implications for Christian theology which have received the heaviest criticisms by far. Many of these criticisms have been largely theological, but there have been a number of substantial philosophical criticisms as well. For example, William Rowe, Alvin Plantinga, Keith Yandell, George Mavrodes, and others have argued that Hick’s Kantian distinction—as well as his related notion of transcategoriality or ineffability—is philosophically untenable. Mavrodes takes Hick’s phenomenal/noumenal distinction at face value and asks why this does not amount to polytheism, since “all the gods [of the various world religions] are real in the same sense that cantaloupes are real on the Kantian view” (“Polytheism,” in The Philosophical Challenge of Religious Diversity, 147, italics original). Rowe and Plantinga each argue that for every set of contradictory properties, one of them must literally apply to the Real. So, for example, Plantinga argues that between the logically contradictory properties of being or not being a tricycle, the latter is literally true of the Real. Likewise, Plantinga and Yandell each argue that if the Real is in fact ineffable, then it could not serve as the explanatory ground for religious experience. If it is beyond the distinction between good and evil, why believe that it is the ground of moral development rather than moral degradation? Hick has responded to these and other criticisms in his introduction to the second edition of An Interpretation of Religion and has published the back and forth conversations with a number of his critics in his Dialogues in the Philosophy of Religion.

Though Hick’s work has faced some of the strongest criticisms from more traditionally orthodox Christians, he also had a strong influence among this group. Many of his former students are now established Christian philosophers in their own right, including Steven T. Davis, William Lane Craig, and Harold A. Netland. Moreover, his more orthodox contemporary, William Alston, has credited Hick’s Faith and Knowledge as a major influence on his widely influential epistemology of religious experience. However, Hick’s most indelible influence comes not in the form of individual scholars or schools of thought but in the fruit of his efforts to revive philosophy of religion as an academically viable field at a time when it had all but died. The renaissance of philosophy of religion today owes a great debt to Hick’s work in the 1950s-70s, when theism was still very much on the defensive due to the legacy of logical positivism and the impact of the later work of Wittgenstein. It was within this hostile environment that Hick took the tools of analytic philosophy and aggressively defended the rationality of religious practices. Moreover, at a time when philosophy of religion was still dominated by Western theistic discussions, Hick introduced religious diversity as a serious philosophical topic. Today no serious discussion of religious language, religious epistemology, the problem of evil, Christology, or religious pluralism can ignore Hick’s influence.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • John Hick, An Autobiography. Oxford: Oneworld, 2002.
    • With the help of his personal journals, Hick recounts his life and career.
  • John Hick, An Interpretation of Religion: Human Responses to the Transcendent, 2d. ed. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004 (1989).
    • Based on his 1986-87 Gifford Lectures, offers his most comprehensive work in the philosophy of religion, including extended discussion on religious epistemology and religious pluralism.
  • John Hick, Death and Eternal Life. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1994 (London: Collins, 1976).
    • A substantial treatment of the afterlife from a multi-disciplinary, multi-faith perspective.
  • John Hick, Dialogues in the Philosophy of Religion. New York: Palgrave, 2001.
    • Presents Hick’s dialogues over the years with philosophers and theologians, including Alvin Plantinga, William Alston, D. Z. Phillips, and Paul Knitter, among others.
  • John Hick, Disputed Questions in Theology and the Philosophy of Religion. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993.
    • A shorter treatment of Hick’s views in religious epistemology, Christology, religious pluralism, and the afterlife.
  • John Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 2d. ed. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007 (1966).
    • First published in 1966, offers the main presentation of Hick’s soul-making theodicy.
  • John Hick, Faith and Knowledge, 2d. ed. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1966 (1957).
    • Based on his dissertation, this first book of Hick’s presents his experiential account of Christian faith.
  • John Hick, God Has Many Names. Philadelphia: Westminster, 1982.
    • A shorter, less technical discussion of Hick’s pluralistic hypothesis.
  • John Hick, “Jesus and the World Religions.” In The Myth of God Incarnate, ed. John Hick. Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977, 167-85.
    • A clear and concise explanation of Hick’s mythological understanding of Christology.
  • John Hick, The New Frontier of Religion and Science: Religious Experience, Neuroscience and the Transcendent. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.
    • Recalling many of the themes from Hick’s work, addresses the challenge of neuroscience for religious experience and belief.

b. Secondary Sources

  • William P. Alston, Perceiving God: The Epistemology of Religious Experience. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991.
    • A technical defense of religious experience that acknowledges Hick’s Faith and Knowledge as a major influence.
  • Lance Ashdown. Anonymous Skeptics: Swinburne, Hick, and Alston. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002.
    • A technical, critical evaluation of Hick’s religious epistemology from a Wittgensteinian perspective.
  • Douglas Geivett, Evil and the Evidence for God: The Challenge of John Hick’s Theodicy. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995.
    • An evaluation of Hick’s soul-making theodicy by an evangelical philosopher.
  • Harold Hewitt, ed. Problems in the Philosophy of Religion: Critical Studies of the Work of John Hick. London: Macmillan, 1991.
    • A collection of essays by leading philosophers of religion, including Gavin D’Costa, William Rowe, Linda Zagzebski, and Steven Davis, among others, with responses by Hick.
  • Chad Meister, Introducing Philosophy of Religion. New York: Routledge, 2009.
    • A highly readable textbook that offers a good introduction to Hick’s pluralistic hypothesis, as well as Hick’s soul-making theodicy and religious epistemology.
  • Harold Netland. Encountering Religious Pluralism: The Challenge to Christian Faith & Mission. Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity, 2001.
    • An evangelical response to Hick’s pluralistic hypothesis from one of his former students.
  • Alvin Plantinga, Warranted Christian Belief. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000.
    • A lengthy defense of specifically Christian belief that criticizes Hick’s notion of the ineffable Real and responds to his pluralistic critique of exclusive Christian belief.
  • Philip L. Quinn and Kevin Meeker, eds., The Philosophical Challenge of Religious Diversity. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000.
    • A collection of essays from philosophers and theologians from across the theological spectrum, including William Lane Craig, Keith Ward, George Mavrodes, William Alston, and others, interacting primarily with Hick’s pluralistic hypothesis.
  • Robert McKim, Religious Ambiguity and Religious Diversity. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001.
    • A monograph drawing often implicitly and sometimes explicitly on a number of Hick’s themes.
  • Arvind Sharma, ed. God, Truth and Reality. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993.
    • A collection of essays in honor of Hick from a host of philosophical and theological colleagues and contemporaries, including William Rowe, Masao Abe, Robert and Marilyn McCord Adams, John Cobb, Ninian Smart, and others.

Author Information

David C. Cramer
Email: david.c.cramer@gmail.com
Baylor University
U. S. A.

Dai Zhen (Tai Chen, 1724—1777)

daizhenDai Zhen, also known as Dai Dongyuan (Tai Tung-yuan), was a philosopher and intellectual polymath believed by many to be the most important Confucian scholar of the Qing (Ch’ing) dynasty (1644-1911). He was also the foremost figure among the sophisticated new class of career academics who rose to prominence in the mid-Qing. A prominent critic of the Confucian orthodoxy of the Song and Ming dynasties (known today in the West as “Neo-Confucianism”), Dai charged his predecessors with philosophical errors that had dire moral consequences for their adherents and brilliantly showed them to be rooted in misreadings of the Confucian classics. Chief among these errors was the tendency to understand feelings and desires as being obstacles to proper moral deliberation and action, a view that Dai saw as opening to the door to frictionless moral judgments, free of calculations of benefit or harm and not responsible to the felt responses of others. Dai aimed to restore feelings and desires to prominence by assigning a central place to sympathetic concern (shu) in moral deliberation. He thus reconceived the fundamental nature of the Neo-Confucian universe in a way that explained moral claims in terms of the human affects. He accomplished this dramatic reconfiguration of the Neo-Confucian thought against the backdrop of social institutions that showed little enthusiasm for, and sometimes outright hostility to, his philosophical endeavors.

Table of Contents

  1. Life and Works
  2. Moral Agency
    1. Dai’s Critique of the Neo-Confucian Account
    2. Sympathy as a Form of Moral Deliberation
  3. Human Nature and Moral Cultivation
  4. Metaphysics and Metaethics
  5. Influence
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Life and Works

Born in 1724 to a poor cloth merchant of Anhui province, Dai Zhen emerged from an unlikely educational background, attending local schools because his father could not afford the customary private tutorials. By the time Dai was eighteen, however, his genius and scholarly accomplishment had won him the acclaim of his elders and shortly thereafter the backing of a reputable literary scholar in his own clan. Bolstered by a series of endorsements and his own evident academic success, Dai came under the tutelage of the famous classicist Jiang Yong (1681-1762), through whom he became acquainted with many figures in the thriving community of mid-Qing academics. Dai soon proved to be not just a precocious and prolific scholar but a versatile one as well. His 1753 commentary on the Poetry Classic was finished contemporaneously with his first major work in phonology, and both followed closely on the heels of a celebrated treatise in mathematics. Although Dai’s interest in philosophical topics was evident quite early, he did not finish his best-known treatises in this field of intellectual endeavor until late in life, the two most important being On the Good (Yuan Shan) and An Evidential Study of the Meaning and Terms of the Mencius (Mengzi ziyi shuzheng). Between these it is the Evidential Study that is generally regarded as his masterwork, being widely appreciated for its sophistication and rigor. By his own account, hisEvidential Study was his greatest labor of love. Several of the last years of his life were spent writing and revising it, and it is likely that he would have continued to revise the work if it were not for his untimely death 1777.

Dai became a leading figure in the dominant new philological or evidential studies (kaozheng) movement, partly because of his interest in mathematics, calendrical studies, and ancient languages and partly because of his exacting standards of argument. Yet Dais relationship to the philological movement was an uneasy one. Like other philological thinkers, he shared an interest in using hard evidence and careful exegesis to reconstruct the language and practices of the ancients. He also shared with many of them the deep conviction that the orthodox Confucianism of Zhu Xi (1130-1200), which by his time had reigned for several centuries, was thoroughly contaminated with Daoist and Buddhist ideas and needed to be corrected with the tools of evidential scholarship. But Dais contemporaries in philological studies tended to believe that the misreadings and obfuscations of orthodox Confucianism were an inevitable part of theoretical speculation about the meanings and principles (yili) of the classics. For Dai, in contrast, the purpose of evidential studies was to reconstruct the meanings and principlesincluding the ethics and metaphysicsof the Confucian canons ancient authors.

This difference of opinion regarding the study of meanings and principles appears to have led Dai to part with his philological contemporaries in two crucial ways. First, while the professional scholars of his time increasingly valued specialization in certain subfields such as astronomy or geography, Dai nevertheless remained a devoted generalist, seeing all of the various disciplines as potentially working together to reconstruct the often highly theoretical meanings of terms and moral practices contained in the classics. Second, while Dais contemporaries believed it was his contributions in fields such as phonology and mathematics that made him the most formidable scholar of his time, Dai himself believed his greatest contributions to be his treatises on such theoretical topics as human nature, metaphysics, and (especially) moral deliberation and cultivation. In his own lifetime Dais highest accolade was a prestigious position on the staff that compiled the Complete Collection of the Four Treasuries (Sikuquanshu) for the Imperial Librarya collection of classic texts that heavily favoredworks of philological interest. Admirers in Dais own era regarded his treatises on meanings and principles as a monumental waste of time, and most of his early biographers barely mentioned such work, even though it became the central focus of his thought and efforts by the end of his life. But while Dais more speculative labors may have been judged harshly in the mid-Qing, his own appraisal of his work and its importance has been vindicated by later scholars. He has come to be hailed as the foremost representative of Qing dynasty philosophy and is routinely presented as such in surveys of Chinese thought.

2. Moral Agency

a. Dai’s Critique of the Neo-Confucian Account

Dai presents his best-known philosophical work, the Evidential Study, as an indictment of Neo-Confucianism. Of particular concern to him is the reigning orthodoxy of Cheng Yi (1033-1107) and Zhu Xi (1130-1200), whose thought had been deeply embedded in China’s governing institutions for centuries, and whose very moral and metaphysical language had come into popular use. At the heart of Dai’s critique is an array of worries about the Neo-Confucian picture of moral agency, where acting well is conceived primarily as a matter of freeing certain native, spontaneous instincts from the influence of feelings and desires. Of particular concern to Dai is the view that merely by eliminating or paring away such feelings and desires one can somehow become a good moral agent. As Dai sees it, this view neglects not just the deliberative, non-spontaneous work that one must do in order to act well, but also the crucial role that affects should play in those deliberations. Thus his critique is aimed in particular at the idea that our native instincts, once freed of the influence of our feelings and desires, are somehow “complete and self-sufficient”—adequate by themselves to give proper moral guidance (Evidential Study, ch. 14, 27).

In Dai’s view, this Neo-Confucian account is factually wrong, and as such does profound injustice to the role that education and cultivation should have in the development of the moral understanding. If we see our work in moral self-cultivation as primarily subtractive or eliminative—as a matter of overcoming bad feelings and desires so as to let the refined parts of the nature act of their own accord—then, Dai maintains, it makes no sense to think of moral education as contributing to the growth and maturation of the moral understanding. What we learn in the process of study (xue) might be understood as having instrumental value, helping to free us from the grip of our bad dispositions and realize the dormant moral sensibilities in ourselves, but once that is accomplished the content of our knowledge would seem to play noconstitutive part in moral comprehension. It is this demotion of education to mere instrument that the erudite Dai Zhen finds to be deeply mistaken. When we learn from the classics, he argues, they have a transformative effect on the faculty of the understanding (xinzhi), helping it to see the morally salient features of one’s life more clearly and respond more appropriately (ch. 14). Just as the nourishment of food and water actually becomes a part of the thing it is meant to nourish, he maintains, so too do the contributions of one’s education become, in a psychological analogue to digestion, a part of the understanding (ch. 9, 26).

Dai is particularly troubled by the pernicious effects the Neo-Confucian account has on its adherents—and, after centuries of Neo-Confucian orthodoxy, on popular culture as well. When the account is strictly followed, he argues, it does not allow the feelings of others to have the right kind of purchase on our own moral evaluations and judgments. If the principal work of moral action lies in eliminating meddlesome emotions, Dai argues, then our deliberations could not be informed by personal acquaintance with the feelings of others (the kind we get from imagining ourselves asthe other person, which is presumably distinct from the kind we get by inferring merely from general rules or observational data). The sentiments stirred by such an acquaintance would be seen as interfering with the authentic expression of the good natural instincts within oneself. Left unchecked by a proper understanding of the felt responses of others, however, Dai maintains that a person’s moral conclusions are at best subjective “opinions” (yijian) and not what Dai calls “invariant norms” (buyi zhi ze)—so named because they represent views that could under ideal circumstances attain a kind of universal agreement across all times and places (ch. 4, 42). In several remarkable passages, Dai writes movingly about the abuses of power that such a doctrine would condone when adopted by those in a position to impose their decisions on the weak or institutionally disadvantaged, unconstrained by the feelings of the helpless people most affected by such decisions (ch. 5, 10).

Another pernicious feature of the Neo-Confucian account, and for Dai Zhen the most alarming one, is that it prevents proper consideration of benefits and harms from figuring in one’s moral deliberations. This problem inspires Dai’s most passionate remarks, as he notes repeatedly how the Neo-Confucian view would blind its adherents to the detrimental effects of their own actions. Unable to consult their desires, he argues, moral agents would have no practicable way of discerning what really matters to the well-being of others (nor, he hints, would they even be capable of recognizing what would or would not contribute to their own well-being). Combined with the first worry, about the inability of others’ claims to suitably inform one’s own personal deliberations, this leaves agents in what Dai describes as “a state of profound blindness,” unable to know what behaviors qualify as good and incapable of being alerted to their mistakes by others (ch. 4). When the doctrine of native self-sufficiency is deeply embraced, Dai concludes, “its harm is great, and yet no one is able to be aware of it” (ch. 43).

b. Sympathy as a Form of Moral Deliberation

Dai Zhen’s corrective for the shortcomings of the Neo-Confucian view (and its Daoist and Buddhist forebears) is an emotional attitude known as “shu,” whose meaning for Dai most closely approximates what we might call “sympathy” or “sympathetic concern.” The characteristic way of exercising shu, for Dai, is to imagine oneself in another’s shoes and so ask what one might desire if one were that person. By reconstructing another person’s desires one can better appreciate the extent to which certain states of affairs would benefit or harm that person. Dai assumes that some simulation of desires (and resultant feelings) is necessary to take proper account of potential benefits and harms, and he insists that the desire-averse picture of moral action upheld by the Neo-Confucians rules out such an exercise from the start. Thus he concludes that the Neo-Confucian picture is unable to fulfill what he takes to be a fundamental demand of any viable account of moral deliberation.

Not just any exercise of shu will provide reliable information about human well-being. For Dai, as for most other Confucian thinkers, shu can be done well or poorly. Given the rather cerebral form of moral cultivation Dai advocates, he believes that most moral agents need a great deal of education before they can make truly informed judgments. Even with this caveat in mind, however, Dai’s critics and occasionally his admirers have often constructed accounts of shuthat make it all too easy to dismiss.

One temptation for those whose intuitions are driven by the English word “sympathy” is to see Dai as advocating an exercise in mirroring or replicating the psychological states of others, especially their desires. If this were the case, shu would seem a poor indicator of the mirrored person’s well-being, since the person may well want things that are bad for her. But in fact Dai’s account of shu leaves it open to the moral agent to simulate counterfactual psychological states. Strictly speaking, Dai understands shu as the act of “taking oneself and extending it to others” (ch. 15), leaving it to the agent to judge which states would be the appropriate ones to synthesize.

A more common temptation is to say that Dai advocates bringing whatever desires we happen to have into our sympathetic reconstruction of the other’s point of view. If I am a solitary type of person, presumably, then I am to imagine others with the same preference for solitude. But this interpretation leaves Dai vulnerable to the charge of sympathetic paternalism, whereby one reconstructs another’s point of view on the basis of affective predispositions that are not the other’s. If this is how shu is supposed to work, then it would again seem a flawed measure of well-being, for others might benefit a great deal more from friendship and company than I, for instance.

The problem with this reading is that it assigns shu no critical role in selecting the desires that are to be synthesized. Just as the first interpretation depicts shu as naïvely mirroring or replicating the wants of another, the second depicts it as naïvely adopting one’s own wants, with no regard to whether these are true indicators of the other’s well-being. In fact, there is considerable evidence that Dai Zhen, at least in his more cogent moments, understands shu as being much more selective than either of these models would suggest. More than just imagining others with the same desires that one happens to have, Dai also sees shu as helping to identify the desires that really matter for welfare in the first place, which he understands as the desires that contribute to “life” (sheng) or “the fulfillment of life” (sui sheng). These are the basic desires which, upon sufficient reflection, we find that we all share—a common core that belong to what Dai sometimes characterizes as “the ordinary human feelings” (ren zhi changqing) and more often describes as the “true feelings” (qing) (ch. 5). In using shu, Dai suggests, one finds similarities that cut across distinctions in power or position: “If one genuinely returns to oneself and reflects on the true feelings of the weak, the few, the dull, the timid, the diseased, the elderly, the young, the orphaned, or the solitary, can those [true feelings] of these others really be any different from one’s own?” (ch. 2).

While there is evidence to suggest that Dai sees shu as having a robust role in selecting desires, it is less clear what the precise mechanism of selection is supposed to be. Possibly the very exercise of constructing a new point of view is supposed to help free one of the clutter of one’s own misguided or excessively idiosyncratic predilections. And Dai probably sees the special care or concern for a person inherent in shu as drawing attention to the desires that really matter to her, much in the way that grief or love draw attention to the features of a person to which the griever or lover is most attached. Dai also hints that there should be some sort of comparative exercise in shu, where one reconstructs the emotional reactions of others and measures them against those that one would have oneself under similar circumstances.

However Dai understands shu to work in detail, he is emphatic about its use as a form of moral deliberation. So understood, Dai suggests, it relies upon our desires in ways incompatible with the Neo-Confucian account of moral agency. His criticisms point to at least two such ways. First, proper moral action as Dai conceives of it requires that we use our desires in the process of deliberation. Second, it requires that we have a certain baseline of dispositions to want the right things. In other words, moral deliberation requires that we “have desires” both in an occurrent sense (as when I am described as actively feeling some inclination to eat good food) and in a dispositional sense (as when I am described as the kind of person who wants good food, even if I am presently working on an essay and not thinking about food at all). Thus, Dai’s picture of moral agency conflicts with the Neo-Confucian account not just in how it envisions moral deliberation but also in its conception of the kind of person that a good moral agent should be. Dai maintains that good human beings should have robust dispositions to desire beneficial things, which in turn requires that they have a healthy interest in their own well-being or life-fulfillment. Without the desire to “fulfill one’s own life,” Dai contends, one will “regard the despairing conditions of others with indifference” (ch. 10). Dai thus unabashedly asserts that even self-interested desires should figure prominently in the life of the virtuous moral agent.

3. Human Nature and Moral Cultivation

Like most Confucian philosophers, Dai Zhen shows a great deal of interest in the moral proclivities of human nature, a topic which by his time had long taken its bearings from Mencius’ (391-308 BCE) famous claim that the natural dispositions are good, and Xunzi (310-219 BCE) equally renowned polemic against this Mencian view. Although Dai is not alone in taking up this particular debate between Mencius and Xunzi, it nevertheless presents him with an important opportunity to sort through an apparent tension in his work, for it is Mencius that Dai takes to speak with final authority, and yet many of Dai’s own views carry an undisguised debt to Xunzian thinking about the relationship between nature, agency, and self-cultivation. Unlike most major figures who have weighed in on the Mencius-Xunzi debate, then, Dai has an interest in confirming much of Xunzi’s position while showing with great care and nuance how Xunzi’s views can be rendered compatible with the thesis that human dispositions are good by nature.

The parts of Xunzi’s doctrine that resonate most deeply with Dai Zhen concern the need to reshape the natural dispositions. If they are already more or less good, Xunzi reasons, it is hard to see why we would need an education that in any meaningful way transforms them. Our nature would already provide adequate or nearly adequate resources for moral self-improvement. Furthermore, Xunzi is plausibly read as upholding a picture of moral cultivation where the heart-and-mind must often overrule the desires, directing the body to act in ways contrary to the tug of one’s felt inclinations.

Like Xunzi, Dai is particularly concerned to develop a picture of the natural dispositions that would countenance a transformative account of self-cultivation. After all, one of the centerpieces of his philosophical work is a critique of the Neo-Confucian account of cultivation as merely subtractive or eliminative—as helping us to remove the bad parts of our nature, but forming no constitutive part of the cultivated self. Dai also shares with Xunzi the presupposition that this transformation requires some sort of power by the heart-and-mind to overrule the desires, and even uses language nearly identical to Xunzi’s to describe the mechanism of control—likening the heart-and-mind to the ruler (jun) of the body in that it issues orders of “permission or denial” (ke fou) to act on the desires of the latter (ch. 8). Thus Dai believes both that our dispositions begin in need of a great deal of reshaping and that one’s heart-and-mind must often resist the pull of the natural dispositions in order to reshape it.

One can consistently maintain this view while upholding the doctrine of natural goodness, Dai thinks, simply by acknowledging that there are parts of one’s nature that are not manifest in the raw, pre-cultivated state. Dai recognizes (as is now routinely observed) that much of Xunzi’s argument depends on a narrow understanding of “nature,” by which anything that appears before the deliberate activity of moral education is considered natural, and anything that appears afterwards is a product of human artifice. But Dai insists that one’s nature consists of latent capacities as well, potentialities which may not always be immediately manifest but which could nevertheless be said to be part of one’s nature, or in one’s nature, as the potential to grow into a peach tree is in the pit of a peach (ch. 25, 29).

In saying this, Dai takes himself to be making a much stronger and more capacious claim than one might think, for if human beings have in their nature the potential to become good, Dai believes, then this happy outcome could be brought about only by building upon nascent goodness, or virtues, already in existence. In other words, if we are to be capable of both understanding the good and being motivated by it, then we must already have some germ of moral understanding and some ability to delight in the good, even if these moral buds have no discernable effect on our behavior. This is because, as Dai puts it, moral inquiry and study are to one’s moral capacities as the nutritive powers of food and drink are to the material endowments of the body: one cannot use them to nurture or grow their intended objects unless some budding form of that object already exists (ch. 26).

This particular move in Dai’s argument might seem controversial. It assumes, after all, that the operations of moral inquiry and study really are like the nurturing of something that already exists, and not, for example, like the procreation or generation of something entirely new. But underlying this argument is a larger commitment to a picture of moral education as always building on some prior ability to appreciate the relevant norms, and it may have been this commitment that in the end makes the Xunzian account of the natural dispositions untenable in Dai’s eyes. For Dai, even at the earliest stages one learns by drawing upon one’s pre-existing grasp of propriety (li) and righteousness (yi), enlarging and expanding upon the understanding that one already has. In contrast, for Xunzi (as Dai reads him), those who aspire to goodness must start from scratch, without the benefit of nascent tendencies to appreciate the good (ch. 25-26).

4. Metaphysics and Metaethics

Most accounts of Dai Zhen’s place in the history of Chinese philosophy focus on his contributions to the ongoing dispute about the ontological status of li (pattern, principle) and qi (vital energy, material force), the two things most often proposed as the fundamental constituents of the universe in later Confucian metaphysics. Neo-Confucians such as Zhu Xi were arguably dualists about li and qi, acknowledging that the two could not exist apart from one another, but also seeing them as mutually irreducible. By contrast, Dai’s treatises seek to explain away the phenomena and the canonical terminology that strike so many of his predecessors as referencing irreducible notions of li, often by recasting them as references to the cyclical movements of yin and yang, or as particular arrangements of emotions or material bodies—all of these being typically understood as qi-based phenomena. Dai never declares himself a monist about qiin any unambiguous way,but he nevertheless devotes himself to showing how conceptions of the former should be explained in terms of the latter, and he is now frequently cited for the philological ingenuity and argumentative creativity that he brought to bear against Zhu Xi’s dualism.

As the great synthesizer of Neo-Confucian thought, Zhu Xi understands li as the cosmological patterns or principles that both make a thing the kind of thing it is (e.g., a human being rather than a goat) and determine the norms to which a thing should conform (e.g., serving one’s family, being of sound mind, and so on). Proper accounts of a thing’s kind and its norms should, Zhu believes, ultimately appeal to these patterns, not to the endowment of qi—the stuff that makes up one’s body and embodied feelings and desires—that a thing happens to have. Zhu understands li both as patterns that belong to the cosmos as a whole and, as Dai is fond of pointing out, as formless things that somehow exist inside all concrete individuals, including the heart-and-mind of every human being. These internalized li are, for Zhu, the “parts” or “manifestations” (fen) of the cosmological li, which implies in turn that the patterns belonging to each concrete individual are produced by (and thus harmonize with) the patterns that govern Heaven and Earth.

Dai Zhen’s trenchant criticism of the metaphysical picture offered by Zhu and other Neo-Confucians is that they wrongly took li and qi to be “two roots” (er ben)—that is, they mistakenly saw li as being “rooted” separately from qi (ch. 19). This critique encapsulates two general sorts of errors that he finds in the thought of his Neo-Confucian predecessors. The first is their tendency to see li as being separately “rooted” in the sense of having independent causal power. For example, Dai never embraces the view that the liare somehow responsible for making an individual thing the kind of thing it is. If li have anything to do with distinguishing between kinds, he maintains, it is simply because they represent the fine-grained features of things that we use to identify what kind they are, not the causal agent that makes them what they are (ch. 1). Similarly, he takes issue with the Neo-Confucian assertion that there is some li-based cosmological force that gives rise to qi’s tendency to fluctuate between two extremes (yin and yang). For Dai, the term for this purported cosmological force, known from the Classic of Change as “extreme polarity” or “taiji,” simply describes or names the fundamental oscillation in the cosmic qi. It is not a distinct force that makes the qi move as it does (ch. 18).

The second sense in which Dai’s predecessors see li as separately “rooted” is in conceiving of it as having independent explanatory power, such that one could give an adequate account of li without appealing to qi. The consequences of this sort of error are most apparent in moral claims. For Zhu Xi, to say that someone’s behavior is virtuous or good is to say that it is a proper expression of the li in her, which means in turn that it is a proper expression of some natural endowment of patterning imbued in her heart-and-mind by Heaven. Dai sees this as the wrong sort of story to tell, not just because it presupposes the existence of an unlikely causal agent (the formless “li” of the individual heart-and-mind), nor because he rejects the view that our Heavenly-endowed nature is predisposed in some small way to recognize and delight in the good (in fact, Dai seems to accept some version of this picture). Rather, Dai sees it as mistaken because it has nothing to do with why such behavior is good. Dai’s own preferred account invokes not the proclivities of Heaven as a basis for moral claims, but instead the proper arrangement of such worldly qi-based things as emotional dispositions and desires. Things are in accordance with their proper patterns, Dai asserts, when “the feelings do not err” (ch. 2).

Ever the attentive classicist, Dai traces much of the confusion he finds in the Neo-Confucian usage of “li” to a subtle misreading of the Confucian canon. In the Confucian classics, Dai notes, when the term “li” is used in its moral sense it tends to refer to the state of things when they are patterned in the right way, or “well-ordered” (tiao li) (ch. 1). Thus to speak of the “li” of something (e.g., a person, a boat) is not to refer to some formless object in that thing, but simply to the perfected state of that thing. The Neo-Confucians run afoul of this original sense of the word in assuming that “li” must denote something like an actual object, existing in esse. In so doing, Dai suggests, they open the door to a very different explanation of how someone becomes a “li” or “well-ordered” version of herself, where what makes her well-ordered is not simply that she has improved upon her feelings and desires in the right way, but that some quasi-object in her has expressed itself in the right way. For Dai, in contrast, it is enough to think of li as the state of things as they ought to be:

The exhaustive grasp of human li is nothing but an exhaustive grasp of what is imperative (biran) in human relations and daily affairs, and that is all. “What is imperative” is to push something to its greatest limit, where it can no longer be altered, and this is to speak of its perfection, not to trace out its root. (ch. 13)

5. Influence

At the time of Dai Zhen’s death he was widely revered for his scholarship in such fields as mathematics and phonology but ignored or dismissed as a philosopher. Among his contemporaries, the best-known admirers of his work on metaphysics and ethics were Hong Bang (1745-1779) and Zhang Xuecheng (1738-1801), though their admiration had little impact on other scholars of the era. Dai’s most successful student and friend, Duan Yucai (1735-1815), wrote a biography of Dai in which he dutifully reported his teacher’s profound devotion to and enthusiasm for his less popular philosophical works. But Duan never shared that enthusiasm and himself worked on conventional philological issues.

Only in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century were Dai’s On the Good and Evidential Study taken up with much interest, notably by reform-minded thinkers such as Zhang Taiyan (1868-1936), Liu Shipei (1884-1919), and Liang Qichao (1873-1929), who were particularly drawn to Dai’s suggestion that Cheng-Zhu thought countenanced abuses of power unchecked by the feelings and desires of the disadvantaged or powerless. Later, with the rise of Marxist thought in China, Dai’s attack on Neo-Confucian li—and his concomitant interest in explaining phenomena in terms of qi—made his work a convenient centerpiece for sweeping narratives about the decline of “idealism” and rise of “materialism” in the Ming and Qing dynasties. To some extent this preoccupation with Dai’s place in the li-qi debate lingers in the literature today, although scholars have increasingly turned to focus on his moral philosophy in its own right. Throughout the last two centuries, Dai has remained one of the chief sources of inspiration to those Confucian scholars who find Song and Ming Confucianism to be unviable or fundamentally contaminated with Daoist and Buddhist concepts. As such, he continues to be regarded as one of the most prominent internal critics of the Confucian tradition today.

6. References and Further Reading

Although the study of Dai Zhen’s life and work has become a minor cultural industry in the last couple of decades, there is still relatively little published material that focuses primarily on his philosophy, and even less that is accessible to those unfamiliar with the exegetical disputes prominent in his day. Readers are encouraged to begin with Feng Youlan and Philip J. Ivanhoe (below), and to make use of general surveys of the history of Chinese philosophy.

  • Chin, Ann-ping, and Freeman, Mansfield. Tai Chen [Dai Zhen] on Mencius: Explorations in Words and Meanings. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990.
    • A widely available summary of Dai’s life and thought, with a complete if not always careful translation of Dai’s most important philosophical work, the Evidential Study.
  • Ewell, John W. Reinventing the Way: Dai Zhen’s Evidential Commentary on the Meanings of Terms in Mencius (1777). Berkeley: Ph.D. dissertation in history, 1990.
    • Includes the strongest of the available English translations of Dai’s Evidential Study.
  • Feng Youlan [Fung Yu-lan]. A History of Chinese Philosophy,volume II. Trans. Derk Bodde. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953.
    • An English translation of this well-known scholar’s monumental survey of history of Chinese philosophy. The portion devoted to Dai Zhen is replete with ample quotations from Dai’s works.
  • Hu Shi. Dai Dongyuan de zhexue (The Philosophy of Dai Dongyuan). Reprinted in Taipei: Taiwan Shangwu, 1996.
    • An important and thorough if somewhat dated introduction to Dai Zhen’s philosophy and his place in Qing dynasty academics. This edition also includes the full texts of Dai’s On the Goodand Evidential Study,as well as several of his letters.
  • Ivanhoe, Philip J. “Dai Zhen.” In Confucian Moral Self Cultivation, 2nd ed. (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company, 2000): 89-99.
    • The best introduction to Dai Zhen’s moral thought in the English language. This work also exhibits the rare virtue (in Dai Zhen studies) of being accessible to those less familiar with classical Chinese language and Neo-Confucianism.
  • Lao Siguang. Xin bian zhong guo zhe xue shi (History of Chinese Philosophy, new edition). Taipei : San min shu ju, 1981.
    • A view of Dai Zhen from one of his more strident critics, presented as the final chapter of a survey of Chinese philosophy. Lao uses little charity in attempting to understand Dai, but his is one of the very few lengthy studies that focuses primarily on the philosophical content of Dai’s views.
  • Nivison, David S. “Two Kinds of ‘Naturalism’: Dai Zhen and Zhang Xuecheng.” In The Ways of Confucianism: Investigations in Chinese Philosophy, ed. Bryan Van Norden (Chicago: Open Court, 1996): 261-82.
    • Nivison’s contribution to the academic “cottage industry” in studies of Dai’s influence on Zhang. Like most such studies, this piece is primarily an exercise in intellectual history, but Nivison’s passing summaries of Dai’s views are careful and insightful.
  • Shun, Kwong-loi. “Mencius, Xunzi, and Dai Zhen: A Study of the Mengzi ziyi shuzheng.” In Mencius: Contexts and Interpretations, ed. Alan K. L. Chan (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2002): 216-241.
    • An overview of Dai Zhen’s masterwork. This piece is particularly helpful in sorting out Dai’s several ways of understanding the doctrine that human nature is good.
  • Tiwald, Justin. “Dai Zhen on Human Nature and Moral Cultivation.” In the Dao Companion to Neo-Confucian Philosophy, ed. John Makeham (Dordrecht [Netherlands]: Springer, 2009): Ch. 20.
    • An extended overview and analysis of Dai’s ethics.
  • Yu Yingshi. Lun Dai Zhen yu Zhang Xuecheng (On Dai Zhen and Zhang Xuecheng). Taipei: Dong da tu shu gu fen you xian gong si, 1996.
    • Originally published in 1976, this is one of the best Chinese language works on Dai Zhen’s philosophical life and writings, although the focus is on Dai’s influence on Zhang Xuecheng and Qing dynasty academics.

Author Information

Justin Tiwald
Email: jtiwald@sfsu.edu
San Francisco State University
U. S. A.

Benedict de Spinoza: Epistemology

spinozaThe theory of knowledge, or epistemology, offered by the 17th century Dutch philosopher Benedict de Spinoza may yet prove to be the most daring in the history of philosophy. Not only does Spinoza claim to be able to know all the ways one can know something, he also claims to be able to know what everything is. Few philosophers besides Spinoza have sought and proclaimed possession of absolute knowledge quite like he had. Of the philosophers who have claimed absolute knowledge, only Spinoza has offered it, not as the reception of a divine revelation, and not as the fulfillment of a historical process, as in Hegel’s epistemology, but as a means for intuitively affirming the truth inherent within all of reality. Reality is susceptible to such an intuition, he said, because every being is a mode of it, or a way that it expresses itself. In other words, for us to come to know the “absolute” is for the absolute to come to know itself. There is thus something basically self-reflexive and introspective about Spinoza’s epistemology. At the same time, knowledge for Spinoza is always of what he calls God or Nature, which can also be understood as the universe itself.

However, whether or not Spinoza’s epistemology is valid by any standard besides his own, remains a point of contention. Most philosophers believe that Spinoza’s epistemology wildly oversteps the limits of human finitude, while others believe that even if Spinoza certainly experienced something within himself that he called “the truth,” we have no real access to it ourselves. This article explores the role and function of knowledge in Spinoza’s philosophy as a whole and the methodology he uses to know things and to know knowledge. The article closely follows Spinoza’s threefold division of the different types of knowledge as  presented in his Ethics. This threefold division is constituted by the distinctions among imagination, intuition, and the exercise of the intellect.

Table of Contents

  1. The Role of Knowledge in Spinoza’s Philosophy
    1. Why Search for Knowledge?
    2. Knowledge in the Ethics
  2. Spinoza’s Method for Epistemology
    1. The Geometric Method
    2. The Sub Specie Model, or Perspectivism
  3. The First Kind of Knowledge
    1. Imagination
    2. Prejudice and Superstition
    3. Miracles, Prophecy, and Revelation
  4. The Second Kind of Knowledge
    1. Intellection
    2. Common Notions
    3. Reason
  5. The Third Kind of Knowledge
    1. Intuition
    2. Love and Blessedness
  6. References and Further Reading

1. The Role of Knowledge in Spinoza’s Philosophy

 

Spinoza’s philosophy as a whole can be seen as continuous reflection on the role and function of knowledge itself. As a rationalist, along with Descartes and Leibniz, he was concerned with improving the power of the intellect, with its inherent capacity to reason, so that it could overcome the obscurity and confusion of our everyday perceptions. Spinoza’s first attempt at writing philosophy was a treatise intended to teach us how to best utilize our natural, rational powers so as to overcome our enslavement to the partial knowledge supplied by the senses. This work was the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect (TdIE). Spinoza wrote this work, it is believed, in the early 1660s, but he never finished it. In the treatise, Spinoza begins with an autobiographical moment that explains to the reader why he wanted to improve or emend the intellect.

1a. Why Search for Knowledge?

 

Spinoza sees the obtaining of true knowledge to be the sole avenue for liberating oneself from the limits and fallibility of an average human existence. Both for the mind and the body, Spinoza is searching for a way we can come to correct ourselves and thus know reality with a certainty that would guarantee for us a thoroughly active and affirmative existence, which is an existence defined solely by the active affects of joy and love. There is, therefore, also an ethical aspect to the improvement of the mind that a search for true knowledge is intended to yield. Spinoza calls the joy which a true knowledge of things would imply the “true good.” Such a “true good” is not merely an ephemeral happiness, but instead an eternal joy. Spinoza writes:

After experience had taught me that all the things which regularly occur in ordinary life are empty and futile, and I saw that all the things which were the cause or object of my fear had nothing of good or bad in themselves, except insofar as [my] mind was moved by them, I resolved at last to try to find out whether there was anything which would be the true good, capable of communicating itself, and which alone would affect the mind, all others being rejected—whether there was something which, once found and acquired, would continuously give me the greatest joy, to eternity (TdIE 1).

Spinoza does not deny that searching for true knowledge is a risky gesture. To sacrifice the pleasantries and safety of what everyday experience provides and proclaims as certain is to risk interrupting the comfort of one’s normal routine. In light of this, Spinoza sought to search for true knowledge in a way that would not violate the comfort of his everyday existence, but that would reject what humans usually take to be the highest goods: “riches, honor, and sensual pleasure” (TdIE 3). What this means is that true knowledge will not make you money, give you a popular reputation, or even offer you any momentary delights. Spinoza’s own biography attends to this fact. However, Spinoza was no ascetic. For him, true knowledge does not consist in any misanthropic disavowal of the plight of human beings. Rather, obtaining true knowledge will simply allow one to live with the internal confidence that existence is not defined merely by the indefinite search for finite pleasures. True knowledge will instead empower its possessor to the extent that s/he will be unperturbed by the vacillating conflict of the emotions, or affects, that determine the everyday existence of most humans. In this sense, Spinoza’s emphasis on the affective power of true knowledge is very similar to Stoicism. Ultimately, we should search for true knowledge not only because it will improve our inherent rational ability to check and control our reactive and passive emotions and drives, but because true knowledge will lead us to a direct experience of the essence of all reality, which is an experience that liberates us from finite concerns and endows us with the power and virtue of true blessedness. For Spinoza, true blessedness is an expression of intellectual love towards an eternal and infinite entity: God or Nature. We should search for true knowledge because it will allow us to become truly blessed and wise. Wisdom is true blessedness, or beatitude, for Spinoza. To emend the intellect so that it can use its reason to control its emotions will also allow it, along with becoming wise, to discover the true laws of Nature and common properties of all things. Checking its natural tendency toward reactive passivity and confused perceptions is the self-cultivation of a power essential to the intellect. An emended intellect is, therefore, the perfection of a way of knowing and existing that has searched for and obtained true knowledge.

1b. Knowledge in the Ethics

 

The most mature statement of Spinoza’s philosophy is his Ethics. The Ethics is composed of five parts. The first part gives us Spinoza’s ontology. It deals primarily with what Spinoza regards to be the one true substance or thing that defines reality, which is, once again, God or Nature. Spinoza felt that, prior to discovering how one can know anything, it was best to start any philosophic investigation by establishing the very nature of what is. Getting to God as quickly as possible was only almost an injunction for Spinoza. Spinoza was a substance monist, which means he thought that everything is essentially one thing or substance and that all things are so many modes or ways it modifies or affects itself. The one substance that is everything is infinitely self-causing, self-expressing, and self-sustaining. It is all-powerful, perfect, and real. There is thus only one substance in Nature, as opposed to the many substances philosophers from Aristotle to Descartes had presumed, and that substance is Nature itself. Substance is an indivisible entity of which everything is a modification. The essence of substance, which is its eternal and necessary existence, is what Spinoza calls the attributes. While there is in essence an absolute and indivisible infinity of attributes, we know only two of these attributes: thought and extension. We can know thought and extension because we are ourselves modes of them. Thought is an infinite power of thinking that is God’s idea of himself, while we, our minds and all our thoughts, are so many ways God modifies himself by constitutively expressing himself through an indefinite amount of finite thoughts. In other words, God has and is every idea, while we are just our idea of our ideas of our body and the other bodies that affect us. Extension, likewise, is an infinite power of acting that is God’s infinite and self-causal body (for he is Nature and Nature is essentially physical), while we, our bodies and all the bodies that compose and affect us, are so many ways God modifies himself by constitutively expressing himself through an indefinite amount of finite bodies. In other words, God has and is every body—he is Nature’s naturing (natura naturans)—while we are just our body’s drive to persevere as it intends to actively make stronger compositions with other bodies.

The second part of the Ethics is about the human mind and how it has the ability to emend itself so it can come to know not only its own essence as a finite thing, but also the infinite essence of which it is a mode. The second part teaches us how we can come to know how we are a way God infinitely expresses and continuously causes himself to exist, which is to say we can come to know God’s attributes. We will deal with this part of the Ethics extensively in the sections to come. If the second part teaches us how to strengthen our minds so we can come to know what we really are and how we actually exist as thinking things, then the next two parts of the Ethics (the third dealing with the affects and the fourth their strength) teaches us how to strengthen our bodies so we can come to physically be what we really are and how we actually exist as extended things essentially defined by a desire to persevere. The fifth and final part of the Ethics, dealing with Spinoza’s definition of freedom, synthesizes these approaches and teaches us how to immediately intuit and affirm the infinite and eternal essence we had come to know and embody through the prior parts. The role of knowledge in the Ethics is, therefore, both essential and integral. Through an improvement of our knowledge we can come to be strong and free, or wise and blessed. Spinoza’s understanding and use of knowledge in the Ethics is presented as a way for giving us the means to discover not only the different ways we can know reality, but also the best way we can know it. The ultimate goal of showing us what knowledge is and how we can render it truer—thereby emboldening it with a certain adequacy, power, and clarity and distinctness—is to enable us to obtain that eternal joy which is the very reason why we search for true knowledge in the first place. The role and function of knowledge in the Ethics is to be that way through which we can come to adequately, actively, and rationally exist.

2. Spinoza’s Method for Epistemology

Implied in Spinoza’s epistemology is the admission that there are a variety of ways one can have knowledge. It is also implied in Spinoza epistemology that there is a definitively adequate way for knowing this variety of ways. Spinoza’s method for his epistemology has two aspects, one that is formal and another that is more concerned with the concrete perspectives that define the different ways one can have knowledge.

2a. The Geometric Method

 

It might appear strange that Spinoza waits until part II of the Ethics to address the human mind and the different ways it can have knowledge, considering that the search for the freedom and blessedness of true knowledge is the stated purpose of his thinking. The reason he does this is because of the structural demands of the form in which he wrote the Ethics. Spinoza writes the Ethics in geometric form, which entails that in each part of the text the formal presentation of his arguments involve the use of definitions, axioms, propositions, demonstrations, proofs, scholia, and so on. Formally, the Ethics is written in a way that is similar to Euclid’s Elements. Also, Descartes had popularized the use of geometric form in Spinoza’s time. In opposition to Descartes, however, Spinoza preferred a more synthetic geometric approach than an analytic one. Synthesis is a way of combining primary or axiomatic truths already established as indubitable or self-evident in order to reach other primary truths. To utilize a synthetic geometric method allows one to start with certain ultimate conclusions or truths in order to build a new knowledge from them by demonstrating and proving propositions on their basis. This is why Spinoza starts with God, the one substance that is everything. There are things about God or Nature that simply cannot be denied and that must serve as the basis from which all other knowledge will be derived: that he essentially exists, that he is absolutely infinite, self-causal, conceivable as existing only in and through himself, omnipotent, omniscient, and eternally existing of necessity.

So, in a sense, Spinoza already has absolute knowledge before he reaches it. While the synthetic geometric method was that powerful for him, Spinoza also knew that we, as readers, still needed to progress through the entirety of his text in order to see if and how he was right. Believing that what Spinoza establishes as axiomatically certain is in fact so is a necessary gesture on our part if we are to come to know how Spinoza can start with such perfect knowledge. In other words, Spinoza writes the rest of his Ethics for a reason when he could have just as easily cut everything off after part I, and that reason is that he wants to teach us what we, quite paradoxically, already know as well. The knowledge we all already have is what Spinoza himself explicitly knows as he put it into axiomatic form. The process of coming to have knowledge, for Spinoza, is thus always an explication of a knowledge that is eternally implied in every mind. Spinoza uses the axiomatic geometric form so he does not have to waist time by starting from scratch and eventually discovering the very basis from which he can start through the simple establishment of definitions and axioms. This can be seen as the reason why he never completed the TdIE as well, because it began with the natural inadequacy of our everyday knowledge and sought to overcome it through an almost analytic process of forming a basis from which future knowledge would be capable of discovering the very truth of God that Spinoza and, according to him, we all already know. Such an analytic approach was Descartes’ in his Meditations and it was also probably the main inspiration for Spinoza’s writing the TdIE in the way that he did. By beginning with God and what is absolutely true of him in the Ethics, Spinoza could then show us the variety of ways in which we are inherently both inadequately and adequately knowing God from the start. Spinoza found the destructive tendencies of the analytic method, especially of Descartes’ hyperbolic doubt, to be superfluous because if one has the truth it is not doubted and if it is doubted then it is not the truth and you do not have it.

For Spinoza, it is not that we do not have knowledge of God. The problem is that our knowledge is usually quite poor and confused. But merely by following Spinoza through the Ethics, because of its synthetic geometric form, we come to know that we already have a knowledge that is, in an everyday sense, quite poor. The way to come to know adequately then what we always already know inadequately is to come to know the different ways that knowledge can be known and the different ways knowledge knows things, both of which will become utterly identical through the reflexivity demanded by Spinoza’s epistemology. Such reflexivity, therefore, will constitute Spinoza’s actual method for doing epistemology insofar as the geometric method is the formal presentation of its synthetic necessities, but not its precise application to the different kinds of knowledge. Spinoza says as much in the TdIE when he argues that any true method must be “reflexive knowledge” (TdIE 38). This is not to say that Spinoza’s geometric method does not itself imply reflexivity, but that it is more the form in which a truly reflexive epistemology can be invented and utilized.

2b. The Sub Specie Model, or Perspectivism

 

The truly reflexive way Spinoza does epistemology can be called the sub specie model. Sub specie is Latin for “under the species or aspect of,” or “from the perspective of.” Each aspect or perspective of knowledge is a way of knowing. Spinoza uses the phrase when speaking of how, when we use the common notions and reason that define the second kind of knowledge, we perceive reality “under a certain species of eternity” (EIIP44C2). True knowledge for Spinoza, as we will see, means that one shifts one’s perspective away from imagining reality in terms of the abstractions and quantifications implied by using time (and space) to measure an indefinitely enduring finite existence, to intellectually conceiving reality from the perspective of its own true and indivisible eternity. Insofar as there is only one substance, one real thing, in and as the universe for Spinoza, when we have any knowledge, whether it is true or false, it is necessarily going to be of this substance. The sub specie model states that all the ways of knowing are different ways of knowing one thing and not different ways of knowing substantially different things. Each way of knowing is a perspective on one substance. While our knowledge may be perceived as changing, what we know cannot be truly perceived in such a way.

The sub specie model is reflexive because it allows Spinoza to know how knowledge actually functions while still sustaining his substance monism. He retains his substance monism by affirming the existence of the great variety of ways humans, and moreover all beings, can have knowledge as being so many ways God expresses himself. If all ways of knowing are ways God is known, then God himself, insofar as he is absolutely self-causal and self-expressive, would have to thereby know himself through and as all the different ways he is known. Therefore, from the perspective of God, God knows himself in an infinity of ways, while we, in our everyday existence and from our finite perspective, are just so many of these infinite ways God can both inadequately and adequately know all of reality as himself. But, does this mean that God is actually false as he knows himself inadequately through us? Yes, but only from a finite, limited, and inadequate perspective. On the other hand, while God essentially is the way we know him naturally and inadequately, he is also the adequate knowledge of our inadequate knowledge insofar as he absolutely knows all the ways he is known; or more precisely, he adequately knows himself in every way, from every perspective, he is known. God’s knowledge, therefore, is the absolutely self-reflexive epistemological model we must try to express, experience, embody, intuit, and know if we are to come to have true knowledge ourselves. In other words, we must become as epistemologically self-reflexive as God; that is, we must come to know our inadequate knowledge in the exact way or from the very perspective God adequately knows it.

To come to have adequate or true knowledge is first to come to know how our everyday, finite knowledge is just a way, a particular perspective, of having knowledge and that it is a perspective on God just like every other way of knowing. For us to have an adequately reflexive knowledge is for us to have a reflexive knowledge of God’s reflexive knowledge. That is, we must think God from his own absolutely self-reflexive, self-knowing perspective in order to have adequate knowledge, an adequate knowledge that is both of God and ourselves. For Spinoza, to have an adequate knowledge of epistemology, or adequate knowledge of the ways knowledge knows and is known, is to have an adequate epistemology of epistemology itself. Yet, we must now see how we can arrive at such knowledge. Now we must see the three main ways humans can have knowledge and how we can come to have God’s absolute knowledge of these ways from the absolute perspective he has on himself. We must see how we can shift our perspective to that of God’s absolute perspectivism. We must come to know how we can know reality sub specie aeternitatis.

3. The First Kind of Knowledge

Spinoza defines the first kind of knowledge as the lowest or most inadequate kind. It is also the natural way humans have knowledge. The first kind of knowledge is humanity’s perspective on reality. Spinoza, echoing Parmenides’ [https://iep.utm.edu/parmenid/] distinction between aletheia, or truth, and doxa, calls it opinion. The first kind of knowledge is also the only source of falsity (EIIP41).

3a. Imagination

 

For Spinoza, the human being is a singular thing, which means that it has a finite and determined existence (IID7). From one perspective, the human is a mind or thinking thing (IIA2). The human mind both has ideas and is itself an idea. From another perspective, the human is also an extended thing, or a finite and determined body. The human body is both composed of a great many bodies and is affected by a great many other bodies. The human mind and all its thoughts think nothing but the human body, the bodies that go to compose it, and the bodies that affect it (IIP12, 13). The human mind is the idea of the human body and it involves and expresses through all of its ideas all the bodies that compose its body and all the bodies that cause, affect, and determine it. The mind, in its naturally determined singularity, thinks nothing but its body’s affections. Affections are the states or conditions of a body’s reaction to another body’s affecting it. They are the ways both how our body reacts to being affected and how our mind thinks such reactions. From the perspective of the body, affections are usually expressions of receptivity, reactivity, passivity, and weakening on the part of the affected body. Affections are also feelings. Spinoza defines affections in terms of the physical affects, which are the ways the body becomes either stronger or weaker, or more joyful or sad (IIID3). Usually, one’s affections enslave one to a passive existence defined by a diminishing of one’s drive to persevere through forming greater and stronger compositions with other stronger bodies. From the perspective of the mind, affections are images of its affected body (and its increase or decrease in active power or freedom) and the bodies that affect it. Even though affections are things reactively received, they are also those thoughts through which the mind can posit as present the actual existence of its own affected body and all the bodies that affect it. As images, affections are still, even while passively received, essentially positive. Spinoza writes, “the affections of the human body whose ideas present external bodies as present to us, we shall call images of things…and when the mind regards bodies in this way, we shall say that it imagines” (IIP17S).

Now, for Spinoza, the human mind has knowledge of the singular existence of any body insofar as it imagines it. The problem, however, is that any knowledge based on passive affections, or images, is a partial, confused, mutilated (or fragmented), and inadequate knowledge. “Insofar as the human mind imagines an external body, it does not have an adequate knowledge of it” (IIP26C). Any idea, which is itself also an image, of an affection that is an image of an affected or affecting body inadequately expresses the true nature of such bodies. An image is inadequate, an inadequate idea, because it expresses only a confused and mutilated understanding of how a body affects another and what a body essentially is as a self-causal and affecting entity. For a body to imagine other bodies as actively, affectively, and causally determining the form of its existence is for a body to betray its own very minimal ability to be active, affective, and causal itself. Imagination is, therefore, submission to external determination. Through the imagination, a singular mind and body is defined solely by how other bodies determine its existence. The inadequacy of imagining is an expression of mental and physical weakness, for it is only a partial explanation of how bodies are essentially active and self-causally striving for an enhanced perseverance. An inadequate knowledge—a knowledge that merely posits as presently existing externally affective bodies and one’s own passively affected body—is a weak knowledge and, for Spinoza, is thus the very definition of falsity.

As long as I am merely receiving my affections and passively imagining the bodies that affect me, I express an inadequate and false knowledge of things. As long as I merely imagine bodies, I am not internally self-determining and explicitly expressive of the truly self-causal and active essence of all things and myself. Images are like the scars or traces bodies leave on me as they batter me because of my mental and physical sadness and weakness. Images are “like conclusions without premises” (IIP28D). By merely imagining bodies, I am enslaved to the common order of Nature, with its incessantly active, functioning, and self-causally moving bodies. By being so enslaved I understand Nature’s common order not in its inherently intellectual rationality, but rather as the fortuitous run of circumstance one endures through casual, vague, and random experiences (IIP40S2). It is important to emphasize, however, that the positivity implicit in false ideas cannot be the cause of their falsity, and that falsity does not involve a total privation of knowledge. Images are not non-beings devoid of all expressive content. Falsity is still an expression of the fact that all singular things exist; it is just that it is the weakest way of knowing this fact.  In other words, inadequacy is the lowest degree of actual and active knowing and existing for Spinoza. Falsity is the poorest way of knowing God or Nature, that is, the poorest way it knows itself.

Spinoza defines a few other characteristics of the falsity of the first kind of knowledge. Affections, or images, are the sensations through which singular beings think and feel their externally determined bodies. Knowledge that stems entirely from sense perception is inadequate and false. Sense perception also defines a kind of knowing that forms only fictitious ideas of things (TdIE 52-56). These fictions are uncertain ideas of what constitutes the essential and necessary existence of things. Knowledge of the first kind is also knowledge based on signs and hearsay (TdIE 19). Signs and hearsay, along with all knowledge based on memory, give us knowledge of “almost everything that is of practical use in life” (TdIE 20). The good and common sense that makes everyday experiences and relations possible involve neither the clarity and distinctness nor the internal and self-causal adequacy that the truth requires. Instead, an everyday human existence is defined by a collective opining on the part of a multitude of singular beings that do not have the rational strength to overcome their enslavement to partially expressing through fragmented and confused ideas their passivity and externally determined existence.

3b. Prejudice and Superstition

 

One of Spinoza’s favorite examples of falsity is the illusion of free will that is so often propagated by the mutilated imagination of human beings. It is a natural prejudice of humans to assume they have liberty. Spinoza writes, “men are deceived in that they think themselves free [i.e., they think that, of their own free will, they can either do a thing or forbear doing it], an opinion which consists only in this, that they are conscious of their actions and ignorant of the causes by which they are determined” (EIIP35S). Humans imagine they get to make choices because their knowledge is an inadequate expression of what actually determines them to do everything they do, which includes them imagining they have free will. Spinoza is a thinker of determinism and necessitarianism. Humans are necessarily determined to be prejudicial and not know why or how. It is natural law, for Spinoza, that “men are born ignorant of the causes of things” (IApp). Spinoza next notes that humans often turn their prejudicial assumption of free will into the dogma of divine choice. Humans take their imaginary freedom based on contingency and possibility and apply it to a transcendent creator of the entire universe. The human image of God is of a being with an omnipotent reservoir of choices. Because humans find such an image staggering they are terrified they may choose something (namely, a form of worship) that God either has not himself chosen or that he has deemed to be morally reprehensible. Humans thus allow their prejudicial free will to congeal into a superstitious obsession with the impenetrable and inexhaustible free will of God (IApp). All of this is grossly inadequate and false, for Spinoza, for it merely doubles the error of free will and enslaves singular beings to an almost complete irrationality.

3c. Miracles, Prophecy, and Revelation

 

Another example of falsity that Spinoza gives is an extension of prejudice and superstition. It is the religious instinct to believe in the miraculous and prophetic, both of which depend upon the imagined reception of the revelation of God’s free choices. In the case of miracles, the necessity of natural laws is broken by an ultimately unknowable divine decision (TTP, 6). Once again, humans explain away their ignorance of the causes that determine them by imagining a substantial interruption in the natural order of things. While a miracle is imagined to provide humans with what they perceive to be an advantage, an omen is the negative counterpart to a miracle, but it still expresses the same falsity. Certain types of humans take advantage, for political purposes, of the inadequacy of the prejudicial and superstitious nature of those who are susceptible to believing in miracles and omens—that is, the multitude—by declaring their own ability to receive directly the revelation of the immediate results of God’s choices and commands. These beings are prophets and priests, and prophecy for Spinoza is nothing but a clever way of exploiting and disciplining the multitude through the use of an agile and vivid imagination (TTP, 1). For Spinoza, “revelation has occurred through images alone” (TTP, 1), which means that all religions based on revelation are essentially false. Revelation is an utterly inadequate and inappropriate way of understanding God.

4. The Second Kind of Knowledge

In light of the passive and inadequate state of our everyday knowledge and existence, beset as we are by an external determination of our singular existence by all the bodies we confusedly imagine as affecting us, Spinoza aims to establish the ways in which we can overcome our falsity and weakness and come to have an adequate and active knowledge. The first step to becoming adequate for Spinoza is for one to actively and reflexively shift one’s perspective away from the imagination to that of the rational powers inherent to the intellect. This self-activation of the intellect occurs through the formation of common notions, which are concepts that express the universal properties of all things.

4a. Intellection

 

Spinoza never supplied a clear-cut definition of the intellect. He appears to offer three different kinds of intellects. One is simply our finite mind. Another is the immediately caused and infinite in kind modal intellect that is common to and shared by all finite intellects. And there is a third kind of intellect that is God’s absolutely infinite and indivisibly self-causal thinking of himself, or the attribute of thought itself that goes to define God’s essential existence. These three intellects are implicit in each other as they are taken from their own explicit perspectives. From the explicit perspective of the finite intellect, for example, the imagination constitutes the vast majority of one’s thoughts, even though, Spinoza argues, implicit to a finite thinking is the infinite in kind thinking of which it is a part and the indivisibly infinite thinking it truly and essentially is. In order to emend our finite intellect so that it is no longer enslaved to imagining, but instead conceives what is implicit to its thinking, Spinoza shows us how to reflect upon the very nature of our minds and find what it is about it that we know with a fair degree of certainty. By reflecting upon our imagination we cannot but notice that imagining is the way we necessarily think in our usual condition and that we, even prior to noting that we are necessarily imagining beings, also notice that we are necessarily things that think. It is through this reflection upon the natural necessity of the inadequacy of our thinking that we begin to affirm with a certain clarity and distinctness something essential about ourselves as thinking things and so shift our perspective away from only explicitly imagining. For Spinoza, it follows from the necessity of the order of Nature that human beings inadequately imagine all that affects them and thus also imagine all of what they think (EIIP36). But it is this very thought of the necessity of our being singular entities that inadequately imagine that activates the powers of our intellect. By intellectually affirming the natural necessity that we as imagining beings are determined from without and follow a natural order, we can thereby come to know and internally affirm our own essential necessity in light of this order. The activation of the finite intellect is also the self-ordering of the affections or images that usually constitute a finite mind. To intellectually order one’s affections in the way they are necessarily and naturally determined is to begin to know both the conditions for their being caused and what in fact causes them as so many modes that follow and flow from an infinite mode of God.

An active finite intellect is a mind that knows that it falsely imagines the bodies that affect it. But to know one’s falsity truly for Spinoza is for one to know the truth because the truth is the standard both of itself and falsity (IIP43S). By reflecting on such a slight enhancement of knowledge, a finite intellect can increase its activity even more by beginning to understand the necessity and natural order it now knows it follows, and now orders its affection in accordance with, as being something of which it is a part and mode. For a mind, as it begins to actively conceive of its nature as a way Nature necessarily functions and follows from itself, it can begin to use its intellective capacities to know the essence of the infinite thinking that must be common to it and that it must be a way or mode of in order to be a thinking thing at all. For a body, as it begins to actively affect and determine the bodies that were formerly affecting and determining it, it can begin to compose greater composites of other bodies with these bodies it now determines and so strengthen its own essential activity and joy. In order for both the mind and the body to do this, what is common to all singular beings must be adequately known and conceived.

4b. Common Notions

Spinoza argues that what is common to all singular things cannot constitute the essence merely of one or an indefinite amount of particular things, but rather must be “equally in the part and the whole” (IIP37) of all singular things. This is because “those things which are common to all, and which are equally in the part and in the whole, can only be conceived adequately” (IIP38). The question is then, what is common to all singular things? If the intellect is activated through an affirmation of the necessity of the natural order of determinations it is a part of, it becomes even more active if it can conceive what all intellects must constitute as the entire or whole order of thinking itself. What is common to all finite intellects is an infinite intellect of which they are all modes and parts. For a finite intellect to conceive of the whole infinite intellect that it goes to compose, and thus is a way that it modifies itself, is for it to render its thinking adequate. The adequacy of conceiving what is common to all finite thinking is an expression of truth, or clarity and distinctness, for Spinoza.

All singularly thinking things agree in certain respects. One way they all agree is that they are all determined to imagine affections. Another is the simple fact that they all think. And another is that they all modify both an infinite in kind thinking, which is the inherent unity of all thinking as it is immediately caused by God, and also an indivisibly infinite thinking, which is God’s absolute thought of himself. All intellects are modes of an infinite intellect conceivable both as an immediately caused unity of finite intellects and an indivisible identity of all intellectual activity as being one absolutely infinite and eternally self-causal thinking. Spinoza argues that the common notion of the infinite intellect—from both its infinite in kind, immediately caused and indivisibly infinite, self-causal perspectives—is “common to all men” (IIP38C), which also means that it is inherent to the finite intellects of all singular beings. Every thinking thing cannot but implicitly think what is common to it, what it shares with other thinking things, what it is a part of, what it is essentially a unity of, and what it essentially is as a way God thinks himself. The process whereby a finite intellect thinks its inherent common notions is the active becoming of its explicit expression of the truth of all thinking things. The common notion the finite intellect adequately expresses as it becomes increasing active and self-determined is the clear and distinct idea of the immediate and infinite in kind intellect it modifies by being a part of it and the attribute of thought it modifies as an indivisible way God modifies itself.

There is another common notion implicit to an activated and adequate finite intellect, and it is a conception of what is common to all singular bodies. Insofar as all thoughts are actually the bodies and affections they think because of Spinoza’s doctrine of the parallel identity of thoughts and bodies, the common notions of the infinite intellect and the attribute of thought are also clear and distinct conceptions of the immediate and infinite in kind mode of extension and extension itself. It is of the nature of bodies first of all to be extended things. Secondly, it is of the nature of all extended things to indefinitely compose with and decompose each other. All bodies agree in that they are all each both parts of a larger whole and themselves wholes with parts. The fact that all bodies are alive for Spinoza leads this compositional structure of all bodies to be constantly in flux. Therefore, what is also common to all bodies, along with being extended composites, is the fact that they are all moving at different speeds. To be a singular body is to be an indefinitely composing and decomposing extended composite that speeds up or slows down (IIP13, Ep 32). Spinoza calls the immediate and infinite in kind mode of extension “motion and rest.” Motion and rest is the whole or unity of all bodies conceived as one individual body that is all the degrees of compositional movement. All singular bodies are modes of motion and rest, which is itself the immediate and infinite in kind mode of the indivisibly infinite and absolutely self-modifying attribute of extension, or what Spinoza calls Nature naturing (natura naturans). Motion and rest parallels the infinite in kind intellect, and both are in essence the attributes they immediately modify and follow from, which is God’s indivisibly self-causal essence.

4c. Reason

 

Spinoza next needs to show us how we can conceive of these common notions through our affections. For Spinoza, we are very affected. The more we are affected the more we think, but usually imagine, what affects us. But now we know how to adequately conceive of the true nature, the essential properties, of all singular things. Through common notions we can open ourselves up to a plethora of affections without becoming enslaved to them because of our reflexive and perspectival ability to know the necessity and intellectual order of all things, that is, to know all things either as ways an infinite intellect thinks or as ways the whole of Nature compositionally moves. To be active and affirmative toward one’s affections is to use reason to understand how they determine one to exist. But reason is not merely a calm reception of affections. Through an adequate conception and utilization of the reasoning power of the common notions one can become the active cause of all of what one is affected by. The power to be affectively causal in one’s own right is reason’s ability to make us truly free. True freedom, for Spinoza, is the affirmative following of divine or natural necessity. By being rational one can control and order all of one’s affections by conceiving what it truly common to what one is affected by and thus thinks. To open oneself up to an indefinite amount of affections, and yet still rationally control one’s reactions to them, is to actually compose with all such bodies by forming a greater, stronger, and more joyful whole. Through a rational use of the implicit truth and power of the common notions inherent to the intellect one can become the very means through which the unity, and even more the absolute indivisibility, of God or Nature can be intuitively affirmed and embodied through one’s own essential existence.

5. The Third Kind of Knowledge

 

If the truth and adequacy of the common notions activate our intellectual capacity to rationally control our emotions and causally determine the bodies around us to enter into greater and stronger compositions, thereby liberating us into the absolute necessity of God’s natural and lawful order, then it is the intuition, the intuitive knowledge and embodiment, of this truth that will make us eternally wise and blessed. Blessedness consists in loving God with the love whereby he loves himself (VP36), and to intellectually love God not only gives us a blessed existence, it also gives us eternal joy. With the third kind of knowledge, knowledge is solely sub specie aeternitatis.

5a. Intuition

Spinoza defines the third kind of knowledge as a “kind of knowing that proceeds from an adequate idea of the formal essence of certain attributes of God to the adequate knowledge of the [formal] essence of things” (IIP40S2). The second kind of knowledge supplies us with the adequate idea that all singular things must be unified into something immediately caused by God (the infinite in kind and immediate modes) and that all singular things are modes of certain attributes of God (thought and extension). With the third kind of knowledge we can know an attribute not merely through a common notion, but as the essential existence itself of God’s indivisible infinity and eternal necessity. The third kind of knowledge is the knowledge that knows the essence of each and every thing as a way that God causes himself to exist. Knowing a singular thing without the explicit mediation of knowing what it composes into or is as a part of an immediate causal order and connection, is to know it intuitively as simply being a way God eternally and infinitely exists. Intuition is intellectual knowledge taken beyond the immediacy of the infinite in kind. Intuition is more immediate than immediacy; it is affirmative identification, the absolutely self-reflexive identification and knowledge of God and his modes through oneself. Intuition is the absolute affirmation of the natural and necessary eternity of God’s attributes as essentially being the singular things he expresses of himself. Intuition is the knowledge that all things are one thing that God is, that all his attributes are the modes with which he modifies himself. We can know through the essence of singular things that the certain attributes they modify are also the indivisibility of all of God’s attributes, insofar as “no attribute of substance can be truly conceived from which it follows that substance can be divided” (IP12). Intuition is what allows us to know not merely the attributes we modify, but to know both ourselves as the attributes we modify and all the attributes themselves as being the essential existence of all things that is God. In other words, intuition allows us to know all the attributes as the ways God is one indivisible and absolutely immanent entity. Through an intuition of God’s essence one can know the infinity and eternity of one’s own mind and body. To shift one’s perspective to that of God’s is to conceive of the eternal aspect of all things and to intuitively see oneself through God’s absolute perfection and power.

5b. Love and Blessedness

 

For Spinoza, to intuit God is to love God. The intuition of God is the intellectual love of his essential existence, with love being that power of intuition that makes intellection (the exercise of the intellect) more immediate than the immediacy known through the common notions of the second kind of knowledge. Love is defined, on the one hand, as “joy with the accompanying idea of an external cause” (IIIP13S), but, on the other hand, with the intellectual love of God the idea of the cause of such joy is more an internal cause than an external one because through the third kind of knowledge one knows absolutely that God constitutes one’s own essential existence. In a finite sense, joy is an increase in perfection, but the joy involved in the intellectual love of God is almost an identification of one’s love with God’s very absolute perfection, or infinite self-love. God’s absolute self-love is his indivisibly infinite and eternal self-causal power to essentially exist as all things. The third kind of knowledge, intuitive knowledge, loves this self-love in the way that it loves itself. The intellectual love of God is the absolute knowledge of all the ways one can know God and all the ways God knows himself as an infinity of ways he conceives and loves his own truth for all eternity. It is with the aid of the affective power of reason that our liberation into true necessity is affirmed even more intensely as we come to embody the freedom to conceive of the universe from its own eternally living and infinitely natural perspective of absolute perfection, power, and reality.

The third kind of knowledge endows us with a kind of immortality. It is not that we exist in our perceived or imagined finite form for all eternity, because all finite bodies and the ideas and affections of them decompose, but that we exist eternally by shifting our perspective and our knowledge to that of the infinity and eternity of God’s indivisibly physical self-conception and self-knowledge (VP29). Spinoza writes, “Insofar as our mind knows itself and the body under a species of eternity, it necessarily has knowledge of God, and knows that it is in God and is conceived through God” (VP30). To intuit God through an intellectual love of his essential existence, and thereby conceive all things from his eternal perspective, is to render our adequate knowledge and rational freedom truly divine. Blessedness is the virtue, rarity, excellence, and power of our absolute knowledge of God’s absolute knowledge. Absolute knowledge is thus divine wisdom.

6. References and Further Reading

All passages from the texts of Spinoza are taken from the translations appearing in The Collected Works of Spinoza. Vol. I. Edited and translated by Edwin Curley. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). Passages from the Ethics are cited according to Book (I – V), Definition (D), Axiom (A), Proposition (P), Corollary (C), and Scholium (S). For example, (IVP13S) refers to Ethics, Book IV, Proposition 13, Scholium. Passages from the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect are cited according to paragraph number. For example, (TdIE 35) refers to Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect, paragraph 35.

  • Curley, Edwin, “Experience in Spinoza’s Theory of Knowledge” in Spinoza: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Marjorie Grene, (Garden City, NY: Doubleday/Anchor Press, 1973), 25-59.
  • Curley, Edwin, Filippo Magnini, and W. N. A Klever (eds). Spinoza’s Epistemology, vol.2 of Studia Spinozana. (Hanover: Walther & Walther Verlag, 1986).
  • De Dijn, Herman. Spinoza: The Way to Wisdom. (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 1996).
  • Deleuze, Gilles. Spinoza: Practical Philosophy. (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1988).
  • Della Rocca, Michael. Representation and the Mind-Body Problem in Spinoza. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996).
  • Floistad, Guttorm, “Spinoza’s Theory of Knowledge in the Ethics” in Spinoza: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Marjorie Grene, (Garden City, NY: Doubleday/Anchor Press, 1973), 101-127.
  • Garret, Don, “Spinoza,” in A Companion to Epistemology, ed. Ernest Sosa and Jonathan Dancy, (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1992), 488-490.
  • Garrett, Don, “Representation and Consciousness in Spinoza’s Naturalistic Theory of the Imagination” in Interpreting Spinoza: Critical Essays, ed. Charlie Huenemann, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 4-25.
  • Huenemann, Charlie, “Epistemic Autonomy in Spinoza,” in Interpreting Spinoza: Critical Essays, ed. Charlie Huenemann, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 94-110.
  • Lloyd, Genevieve, Part of Nature: Self-Knowledge in Spinoza’s Ethics. (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994).
  • Mark, Thomas Carson. Spinoza’s Theory of Truth. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1972).
  • Parkinson, G. H. R., Spinoza’s Theory of Knowledge. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954).
  • Parkinson, G. H. R., “Language and Knowledge in Spinoza” in Spinoza: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Marjorie Grene, (Garden City, NY: Doubleday/Anchor Press, 1973), 73-100.
  • Wilson, Margaret D., “Spinoza’s Theory of Knowledge” in The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza, ed. Don Garrett, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 89-141.

Author Information

Nels Dockstader
Email: jdocksta@uwo.ca
The University of Western Ontario
Canada

Louise-Françoise de la Baume Le Blanc, marquise de La Vallière (1644—1710)

lavalliereA mistress of Louis XIV, who became a Carmelite nun, Mademoiselle de la Vallière has long fascinated historians and novelists by her picaresque life.  But only recently has the philosophical dimension of that life received attention.  During her years as royal mistress, La Vallière studied the works of Aristotle and Descartes in the literary salons of Paris.  After her religious conversion under the direction of Bossuet, she composed a treatise dealing with the mercy of God.  In this work and in her correspondence, La Vallière revealed her skill as a moraliste, a critic of the contradictions and subterfuges of the human psyche.  Her writings focus in particular on virtue theory.  La Vallière privileges the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity; she criticizes the unredeemed cardinal virtues as masks of human pride.  As a social critic, La Vallière demonstrates how the culture of the court has produced counterfeits of the theological virtues. Her writings insist on the necessary presence of grace for the emergence of authentic virtue, as well as express skepticism on the capacity of nature alone to cultivate virtue.  Rather than being abolished, the human passions undergo their own conversion in the grace-induced dynamic of repentance and reform.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Moral Philosophy
    1. Virtue Theory
    2. Nature and Grace
    3. Theory of Passions
  4. Reception and Interpretation
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Biography

On August 6, 1644, Louise-Françoise de la Baume Le Blanc de laVallière was born into an aristocratic family in Tours.  Both parents claimed a distinguished lineage.  Her father, Laurent, Seigneur de la Vallière, descended from a family noted for its military service to the French crown.  At the time of his daughter’s birth, he held the post of governor of the royal chateau of Amboise.  Descended from a noblesse de robe family known for its legal service to the throne, her mother, Françoise Le Prévost, was the widow of a prominent member of the parliament in Paris.  After the death of Louise-Françoise’s father in 1651, Jacques de Courtavel, marquis de Saint Rémy, married her newly widowed mother.  In the recurrent struggles between the absolutist French monarchy and the restive aristocracy attempting to maintain its ancient privileges, the members of the La Vallière family sided with the royalist cause.

Mademoiselle de la Vallière was raised in a militantly Catholic provincial aristocracy.  Ecclesiastical vocations were common in her immediate family.  Uncle Gilles was bishop of Nantes; Uncle Jacques was a Jesuit priest; Aunts Élisabeth and Charlotte were Ursuline nuns.  La Vallière’s formal education was primarily literary.  Under the tutelage of her Urusuline aunts, the young Louis-Françoise studied grammar, reading, composition, and public speaking.  In 1655, she moved to the chateau of Blois for her adolescent education.  The official residence of Gaston, duc d’Orléans, the brother of Louis XIII, Blois permitted La Vallière to join the Orléans daughters in the courses conducted by the house chaplain, Abbé de Rancé, a cultured theologian who would later emerge as one of France’s leading monastic reformers.  In this royal curriculum, La Vallière studied the arts of painting, music, etiquette, and equitation as well as continuing her literary studies.  Under the guidance of Rancé, she was introduced to the neo-Aristotelian elements of the catechesis mandated by the Council of Trent.

Closely tied to the royal family, La Vallière made her official debut at court in 1661 when she was appointed a lady-in-waiting to Henriette d’Angleterre, the wife of Louis, duc d’Orléans.  At the moment of her arrival, court gossips were criticizing the excessive amount of private time Louis XIV was spending with his beautiful sister-in-law.  Royal counselors encouraged the king to deflect the rumors of an incestuous affair by appearing to express romantic interest in the new member of Henriette’s entourage, La Vallière.  The royal secretary Dangeau ghostwrote a series of romantic letters allegedly written by Louis XIV and La Vallière; other courtiers arranged late-night meetings between the king and the lady-in-waiting that projected the air of a romantic tryst.  The ruse quickly became fact as Louis XIV become infatuated with the cultured new courtier.  La Vallière was recognized as the official royal mistress and bore the king four children: Charles (1663-65), Philippe (1665-66), Marie Anne de Bourbon (1666-1739), and Louis de Bourbon (1667-83).  The king later legitimized his two surviving children and ennobled them under the respective titles Mademoiselle de Blois and Comte de Vermandois.

During her years as royal mistress, La Vallière continued to pursue her artistic and literary interests.  She attended performances of Racine and Molière, read the period’s fashionable novels, and took courses in painting at the Académie Royale.  La Vallière showed a predilection for philosophical issues.  In salon circles, she was known for her well-informed discussions on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Descartes’s Discourse on Method.  Her circle of close intellectual friends was dominated by thinkers of a libertine tendency, notably Benserade and Lauzun.

In 1667, Louis XIV elevated La Vallière’s social status further by granting her the title of Duchesse de Vaujours, accompanied by the substantial estate at Vaujours.  But 1667 also marked the end of La Vallière’s ascendancy with the emergence of a rival, Madame de Montespan, who would ultimately displace La Vallière in the affection of the monarch and become the principal royal mistress.

Long troubled by scruples over her adulterous affair, La Vallière underwent a religious crisis in 1670.  After recovering from a serious illness, possibly smallpox, she made a confession of her sins and returned to the regular practice of the Catholic faith.  Under the direction of the court preacher Bossuet, La Vallière abandoned the social activities of the court and began to lead a penitential life of prayer and mortification.  Renouncing her former libertine allies, La Vallière allied herself to the parti dévot, a group of pious lay courtiers who opposed the moral decadence of the court.  In her new spiritual reading, La Vallière discovered the works of the Catholic Counter-Reformation, in particular Saint Teresa of Avila’s Path of Perfection, with its ascetical and mystical conception of virtue and beatitude.  Under the influence of Bossuet in 1671, La Vallière wrote a theological work, Reflections on the Mercy of God, which paralleled the divine attribute of mercy with the virtues proper to the repentant sinner.

The sudden conversion of a Versailles courtesan turned La Vallière into a religious celebrity but humiliated Louis XIV, whose sexual infidelities and religious hypocrisy had become public knowledge.  Only in 1674 did the monarch permit his former mistress to pursue her vocation as a nun.  On April 19, 1674, La Vallière entered the Carmelite convent in Paris, where she would henceforth be known as Soeur Louise de la Miséricorde.  Preaching to a convent packed by the capital’s religious elite, Bishop Jean-Louis de Fromentière of Aires denounced the immorality of the court at Versailles; according to the bishop, La Vallière’s entry into the austerity of Carmel amounted to a moral miracle.  On June 4, 1675, Soeur Louise pronounced her vows as a Carmelite nun.  Queen Marie-Thérèse, the wife of Louis XIV, personally headed the congregation and witnessed the apotheosis of the former courtesan who had defied Versailles.  Preaching at the ceremony of profession, Bossuet pointedly drew the lesson that even the world’s most powerful persons must repent of their sins and cease their abuses of power.

During her secluded decades in the convent, Soeur Louise de la Miséricorde lived an exemplary life as a Carmelite nun, noted for the rigor of her penitential practices.  She did, however, continue the correspondence she had begun during her conversion with the lay leader of the parti dévot, Maréchal de Bellefonds.  Her letters show the clear spiritual influence of the école française by their recurrent stress on abandonment to divine providence and on annihilation of the self.  They also contain an ongoing critique of the immorality, violent ambition, and practical atheism she had witnessed in her court years.  In the convent parlor, Soeur Louise occasionally received acquaintances from her previous life: Rancé, Bossuet, Queen Marie-Thérèse, even her old rival, Madame de Montespan, who had also fallen from her former status as royal mistress.

Mademoiselle de la Vallière died on June 6, 1710.

2. Works

La Vallière left two principal works to posterity: the treatise Reflections on the Mercy of God and her spiritual correspondence with the Maréchal de Bellefonds.  The erratic history of the commentary and publication of these two works indicate how easily the philosophical reflection of women authors has been erased from the canon.

In 1671 in the immediate aftermath of her religious conversion, La Vallière composed Reflections on the Mercy of God.  A semi-autobiographical work, this treatise studies the mercy of God for sinners, especially for courtesans who have renounced their sexual sins and sought a new penitential life in exile from the excesses of the court.  The author appeals to feminine figures of repentance and sanctity in the New Testament, notably Saint Mary Magdalene, as paradigms of the conversion which La Vallière has undergone.  The work studies how faith, hope, charity, and other theological virtues function in the life of those led to authentic moral reformation through the action of grace.  Conversely, it dissects the false variants of faith, hope, and charity produced by the court culture of ambition and avarice.  The influence of the theology of Bossuet, her spiritual director during the crisis of conversion, is apparent in the text, although the simple, limpid prose style differs markedly from the more rhetorical and periodic style of Bossuet himself.

The first print edition of Reflections on the Mercy of God appeared anonymously in 1680.  A popular work of piety, the book had undergone ten editions by the beginning of the eighteenth century.  La Vallière was always considered the author of the book, which was clearly written in her style and full of allusions to her life as a courtesan.  Many editions published in her lifetime, such as the Frankfurt and Brussels editions in 1683, explicitly named her as the author, with no demurral from Soeur Louise or her associates.  In the nineteenth-century, literary critics noted that the later editions of Reflections used a longer and somewhat more elegant version of the text than had the earlier editions.  In 1852, Damas-Hinard claimed that the true author of the book was Bossuet, for whom La Vallière had only served as an amanuensis, but other critics dismissed the claim on the grounds of stylistic differences with Bossuet’s others’ works and of the clearly gendered autobiographical experiences the author had incorporated into the work. Although Bossuet had incontestably influenced the theological opinions of La Vallière and a later editor had imposed some stylistic alterations, the text remained substantially La Vallière’s own.

In 1928, the literary critic Marcel Langlois made a more startling claim: that La Vallière had not written the book at all.  Langlois based this claim on the argument that the rationalist tone of the work indicated that it was written by a man rather than by a woman.  Furthermore, no woman of the period could have possessed the philosophical and theological culture which the author clearly displays.  “We observe that the author reads Holy Scripture in Latin and that he makes references to Aristotle and Descartes.  A careful look at the text indicates that there is no trace of a feminine style.  We know that Mademoiselle de la Vallière was very depressed at this time and that she was a shy person all her life.  On the contrary, on every page, we hear the voice of a man, of a director of conscience.”  Led by Jean-Baptiste Eriau, other literary critics immediately refuted Langlois’s claim and reattributed the authorship of the work to La Vallière.  They pointed out that La Vallière was renowned precisely for her command of Aristotle and Descartes in salon debates and that many cultured laywomen of the period possessed bilingual Latin-French psalters and New Testaments.  The recent textual analyses by Petitfils (1990) and Huertas (1998) have reconfirmed the duchess’s authorship of Reflections on the Mercy of God.

La Vallière’s other extant work, her correspondence with the Maréchal de Bellefonds, underwent a similarly tangled publication history.  The first edition of her letters (1767) was so full of errors, omissions, and interpellations as to be corrupt.  Her alleged memoirs (1829) were a fabrication.  Only Pierre Clément’s two-volume edition of her works in 1860 provided the first reliable publication of her letters to Bellefonds.  Her correspondence explores the ascetical and mystical sentiments of the soul and continues the critique of the moral corruption to which the courtier is prone.

3. Moral Philosophy

The primary philosophical interest in the works of La Vallière resides in her treatment of virtue in Reflections on the Mercy of God.  She rejects the claims of pagan antiquity to have possessed authentic moral virtues, exalts the theological virtues, and criticizes the moral values of the court as a distortion of the theological virtues, altered to suit ambitious self-interest.  Grace, rather than human merit, emerges as the cause of authentic virtue. Instead of minimizing the passions as a hindrance to the cultivation of virtue, La Vallière esteems the human emotions, especially the passion of love, as central to the moral personality of the human agent redeemed by grace.

3a. Virtue Theory

In Reflections on the Mercy of God, La Vallière develops her theory of the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity.  The treatise also diagnoses the opponents and the distortions of the theological virtues in the aristocratic society of the period.

Faith emerges as more than an assent to the truths revealed by God and proposed by the teaching authority of the Catholic Church; it entails a militant opposition to the world.  This firmness of faith brooks no compromise with worldly allurements.  “O my God, give me…a firm faith that makes me believe in Your words and makes me remember, when the world wants me to follow it, that we cannot serve two masters” (RMD no.4).  When authentic, this militant faith comports two other virtues: humility and enlightenment.  The humility of faith closely ties the believer to the imitation of Jesus crucified, the opposite of conformity to the world’s concept of glory.  A properly enlightened faith continually reminds the believer of the radical superiority of eternal God over the fleeting world in terms of glory.

In her analysis of faith, La Vallière diagnoses the enemies of faith in the cultured society of her age.  Three positions in particular earn her rebuke: conventionalism, libertinism, and rationalism.  Religious conventionalism has reduced to faith a matter of external ritual, shorn of interior moral conversion.  “These are persons who, in the midst of shadows that blind them, refuse to be enlightened by the light of these theological truths.  We could say that a soul sunk within the world, without prayer, without reflection, and without consulting God on questions of conduct, is similar to a ship with neither captain nor rudder in the midst of a storm” (RMD no. 22).  For the conventional, faith is a simple matter of social conformity.

Libertinism proposes a more explicit rejection of the virtue of faith.  Its posture is marked by contempt for the very enterprise of religion.  “I will flee with horror all those evil people who parade their libertinism, who brag about their vices, and who, as Scripture says, never consider God in their conduct….These militant libertines can only help to foster irreligion, to destroy the purest reputation, to give us an exaggerated sense of self-worth that merits Your abandonment of us, to honor evil and those who commit it” (RMD no. 15).  The libertinism censured in this passage is clearly that of the courtier.  The destruction of reputation by malicious gossip and the vanity of proximity to power are the vices of the libertine courtier who holds traditional religion and its allied virtue of humility in contempt.

More subtle than libertinism, rationalism erodes faith by subjecting what lies beyond human reason to the judgment of fallible human reason.  La Vallière defends the orthodox faith of those who resist the rationalist attacks on the supernatural.  “I speak of those who are astonished to learn that there are some people who believe the histories of Alexander and Caesar but who doubt the history of Jesus Christ…who believe the truth of the gospel preached by a dozen poor preachers and of the establishment of His Church founded on an infinite number of miracles…who believe that so many mysteries incomprehensible to the human mind are pure effects of the omnipotence of Jesus Christ and of His infinite love toward His creatures” (RMD no.22).  This critique of rationalism defends the supernatural nature of the object of Christian faith by refusing to remove the miraculous and the mysterious from the content of faith.  Tellingly, it attacks historical-critical analysis of the Scriptures, which would undercut the historical veracity of the life of Christ.  In this particular line of attack, La Vallière is clearly influenced by her spiritual director Bossuet, who in the 1670s combated the historical-critical exegesis of Richard Simon, an Oratorian scholar who challenged the traditional thesis of the Mosaic authorship of the entire Pentateuch, the five opening books of the Bible.

In her treatment of hope, La Vallière similarly distinguishes between the authentic virtue and its counterfeits in the milieu of the court.  True hope emerges as trust in the redemptive power of God. “I implore you, Lord, by the merit of this precious blood that flows from Your sacred wounds that You offer to the eternal Father as the price of my redemption, a true confidence in Your mercies” (RMD no.7).  Hope can easily deteriorate into presumption when the sinner forgets divine justice and uses divine mercy as an excuse to delay repentance and moral reform.  “If You are a God full of compassion for sinners who return to You with all their hearts with hope in Your mercy, You are a terrifying God toward those who trust in You only to multiply their own offenses and who, having tasted the sweetness of your graces, only mock and hold them in contempt” (RMD no. 7).

In court society, theological hope has been eclipsed by the predominance of a purely secular hope for political and economic advancement.  The egocentric hopes of ambition have crowded out the authentic hope of eternal life in Christ.  “May this solid hope, showing me the nothingness and fragility of everything we call here below position, fortune, wealth, and grandeur, make me no longer esteem them as most people esteem them.  They act as if no other happiness and no other life exist after this one” (RMD no.16).  The danger of such a careerist hope is that it ignores rather than explicitly opposes the theological hope of immortality.  In such a purely terrestrial version of hope, the promise of eternity simply vanishes from concern.

Like other Christian writers, La Vallière accords primacy to the virtue of charity among the theological virtues.  Authentic charity is tempered by courage, the willingness to accept the world’s mockery out of fidelity to God.  “Create a new heart in me: a humble, firm, constant, and courageous heart, free from the world and its creatures─a truly Christian heart, whereby I will love You when I must sacrifice my life and fortune in witness to Your name and pay homage to the folly of the cross at the heart of a country and of a nation that consider it a scandal” (RMD no.11).  La Vallière’s concept of charity is not one of simple affection toward God and neighbor; it is contextualized as the love of God manifested in a society whose pride and self-esteem hold the cross, the central symbol of God’s love, in contempt.

The opposition to authentic charity is not generic hatred or indifference; it is specifically the contempt of others manifest by an ambitious aristocracy.  The malicious gossip of the courtier and of the salonnière is a prominent symptom of the contempt by which the neighbor is humiliated in court society.  “We only prize these gross sarcastic remarks and personal attacks, unworthy even for a pagan.  We consider as of no consequence words which attack the very soul of our neighbors, which mockingly dissect their faults and which make them appear ridiculous….We dismiss as nothing the destruction of their happiness and reputation as long as we do it with an entertaining laugh” (RMD no.17).  In this passage, the aristocratic society of wit is unmasked as the determined enemy of authentic charity, which finds its apotheosis in the humble sacrifice of the cross.

3b. Nature and Grace

For La Vallière, nature itself cannot cause moral virtue to exist, since nature exists in a state of postlapsarian corruption.  All moral virtue, and not only the theological virtues, requires God’s grace to emerge and mature.

Reflections on the Mercy of God argues that traditional moral virtues, even the cardinal virtues, are only masks for various vices.  The alleged virtue of prudence, for example, dissembles the human desire for security.  “God did not take flesh and die for us in order to grant our salvation through a comfortable life, according to the prudence of the sense and of the flesh….These moral virtues have no merit whatsoever before You if they are not animated by the merits and virtues of Jesus Christ” (RMD no.6).  Freed from the ingrained self-centeredness of human nature, authentic moral virtues constitute variations of the theological virtues, which are in turn the unmerited gift of God’s grace rather than products of human initiative.

This disjunction between apparent natural virtue and authentic supernatural virtue extends to the realm of intellectual virtue.  La Vallière sharply opposes the natural wisdom of the world, prized by philosophers, to the wisdom of the cross, revealed only by divine grace.  “Give me…less human and natural lights, out of fear that by following them rather than the lights of Your grace, I would lose myself.  By following them, instead of being a humble Christian, my self-love would turn me into a socialite philosopher, filled more with false maxims than with the science of the cross….This is the wisdom God hides from the haughty and reveals to the humble.  This is the wisdom which overturns prudence and which follows the movements of grace from Jesus Christ” (RMD no.5).  Rather than building on the wisdom of the world, the grace-inspired wisdom of the cross reveals the falsehood of the world’s account of what is true and valuable.  In the exercises of the intellect as in those of the will, only grace can permit the human agent to embrace actual, rather than counterfeit, goods.

3c. Theory of Passions

Whereas other moral philosophers of the period discounted or dismissed the passions in their account of the moral life, La Vallière places a positive value upon them in her ethical theory. Rather than being suppressed, the human passions should be presented to God for transformation in the itinerary of religious and moral conversion.  “Is it right that having found everything possible to satisfy my passions, which only had idols for their object, I find it difficult or impossible when I have to resurrect the passions and love You with all my heart?” (RMD no.12)  Just as the intellect and will must be transformed by grace through the acquisition of authentic wisdom and moral virtue, the emotions must be transformed by God into new sentiments of reverence and devotion.  It is love above all that must be altered from the self-centered quest for human esteem into the self-sacrificial adoration of God’s very self.

Prayerful meditation constitutes the privileged locus for the human agent to undergo this grace-inspired emotional transformation.  Rather than abolishing the human quest for pleasure, contemplation substitutes spiritual pleasure for the physical pleasures once sought by the sinful.  “There [in meditation] You make us find a holy and sovereign pleasure to love You above all things and to come often to speak to You, not only as our father and our God, but as the most tender friend we could ever have.  We come to lament before You about all of these passions that tyrannize us, about all these worries that upset us, and about all this sadness that exhausts us.  In the sweet exchange of prayer, we may show You the bottom of our hearts” (RMD no.19).  In this dialogical form of meditation, the meditant may present his or her emotional distresses before God for healing, just as he or she presents sins for forgiveness.  The mature fruit of such meditation is an unconditional love for God that slowly integrates once disordered passions into authentic charity for one’s neighbor.

4. Reception and Interpretation

The reception of the writings of Mademoiselle de La Vallière roughly follows three distinct phases: the devotional, the literary, and the philosophical.  In the late seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth centuries, La Vallière’s Reflections on the Mercy of God constituted a staple of French Catholic devotional literature.  Many commentators celebrated her as the French Magdalene and compared her to earlier examples of courtesans who had become public penitents, such as Saint Mary of Alexandria.  Madame de Genlis’s popular biography of La Vallière (1818) reflects this devotional image of the royal mistress who miraculously became a cloistered nun.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, commentators focused more on the literary dimensions of La Vallière.  Illustrated by the works of Cornut (1857), Langlois (1932), and Eriau (1961), the protracted quarrel over the authorship of Reflections on the Mercy of God reflects this literary approach.  Petitfils (1990) has continued this scholarly concern for textual questions concerning La Vallière.

Recently, in such commentaries as those of Huertas (1998) and of Conley (2002), a greater emphasis has been given to the intellectual formation and philosophical theories of La Vallière.  Recent interest in virtue theory of moral philosophy and the development of a more sectarian ethics in recent Christian moral theology has highlighted the interest of La Vallière’s thesis that authentic moral and intellectual virtue is grounded in grace rather than in nature.  The recent feminist expansion of the canon of humanities has also underscored the claims of La Vallière to philosophical status, given her study of canonical philosophers such as Aristotle and Descartes, and also given her contributions to moral psychology through her treatise and correspondence.

5. References and Further Reading

All French to English translations above are by the author of this article.

a. Primary Sources

  • La Vallière, Françoise-Louise de la Baume Le Blanc, duchesse de. Réfléxions sur la Miséricorde de Dieu, suivies de ses lettres et des sermons pour sa vêture et sa profession, par messieurs d’Aires et de Condom, 2 vols., ed. Pierre Clément. Paris: J. Techner, 1860.
    • Despite its dated scholarship, Clément’s edition constitutes the most extensive print collection of writings by and concerning La Vallière.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Conley, John. The Suspicion of Virtue: Women Philosophers in Neoclassical France. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002), 97-123.
    • The chapter studies the moral and social philosophy of La Vallière.
  • Conley, John. “Suppressing Women Philosophers: The Case of the Early Modern Canon,” Early Modern Women: An Interdisciplinary Journal 2006 1: 99-114.
    • The article examines the denial of attribution of authorship to La Vallière and other women philosophers of the period.
  • Cornut, Romain. Les Réflexions de Madame de la Vallière répentante écrite par elle-même et corrigées par Bossuet, 2nd ed. Paris: Didier, 1857.
    • Although Cornut exaggerates the role of Bossuet in the writing of Reflections, the degree and nature of Bossuet’s influence on La Vallière remains a topic of scholarly dispute.
  • Eriau, Jean-Baptiste. La Madeleine française: Louise de la Vallière dans sa famille, à la cour, au Carmel. Paris: Nouvelles éditions latines, 1961.
    • Eriau refutes Langlois’s misattribution of authorship of Reflections and restores the rightful attribution to La Vallière.
  • Genlis, Stéphanie, comtesse de. La Duchesse de la Vallière. Paris: Maradan, 1818.
    • This romanticized biography of La Vallière reflects the image of the repentant courtesan which had captivated the French Catholic public.
  • Huertas, Monique de. Louise de la Vallière: De Versailles au Carmel. Paris:Pygmalion/Watelet, 1998.
    • This biography of La Vallière discusses her participation in the philosophical salons of the period.
  • Langlois, Marcel. La conversion de Mlle de la Vallière et l’auteur véritable des Réflexions.  Paris: Plon, 1932.
    • Langlois’s denial of La Vallière’s authorship of Reflections was immediately refuted by other literary critics.
  • Petitfils, Jean-Christian. Louise de la Vallière. Paris: Perrin, 1990.
    • Petifils’s scholarly biography contains a critical edition of an early version of La Vallière’s Reflections on the Mercy of God.

Author Information

John J. Conley
E-mail: jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola University in Maryland
U. S. A.

Anne-Thérèse Marguenat de Courcelles, marquise de Lambert (1647—1733)

LambertA prominent salonnière in the France of Louis XIV and the Regency, Madame de Lambert authored numerous essays dealing with philosophical issues.  Her most famous works, twin sets of instructions to her son and daughter, analyze the virtues to be cultivated by each gender in the aristocracy.  Men pursue glory while women focus on humility.  During the literary querelle de la femme, Lambert defends the dignity of women against misogynist stereotypes advanced by opponents of gender equality.  In her political writings, she criticizes the vices typical of the hierarchical society of the period, especially the unequal distribution of material goods.  The era’s distortion of friendship and mistreatment of the elderly also receive critical scrutiny.  Her religious philosophy leans toward the God of deism: a Supreme Being who should be honored for the works of creation but whose attributes do not transcend the categories of human reason.  Several works in aesthetics treat the subjective problem of taste and sensibility.  Throughout her writings, Lambert manifests her allegiance to a Cartesian understanding of the nature of philosophical analysis.  The French Enlightenment recognized the philosophical value of her works, most of which were published posthumously.  Fontenelle, Montesquieu, and Voltaire are the most prominent of the Enlightenment thinkers who lauded the philosophical acumen of Lambert.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Philosophical Themes
    1. Virtue Theory
    2. Gender and Dignity
    3. Ethics of Love
    4. Social Criticism
    5. Religious Philosophy
    6. Aesthetics
    7. Cartesianism
  4. Reception and Interpretation
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Biography

On September 25, 1647, Anne-Thérèse Marguenat de Courcelles was born in Paris to a provincial aristocratic family from the region of Troyes.  Both the paternal and maternal sides of the family had acquired substantial wealth from commercial transactions.  An administrator in the Chambre des Comptes, her father Étienne died on May 22, 1650.  Her mother Monique Passart then secretly married François Le Coigneux, seigneur de la Roche Turpin et de Bachaumont.  Anne-Thérèse received formal instruction at the convent of the Annonciades in Meulan, but it was her stepfather who cultivated the young Ann-Thérèse’s philosophical opinions.  A respected poet and memorialist, Bachamount introduced his stepdaughter to the neo-Epicurean philosophy he espoused in his writings.  He guided her study of the classics and helped to shape her limpid writing style in French.

On February 22, 1666, Anne-Thérèse married Henri de Lambert, marquis de Saint-Bris en Auxerrois, baron de Chitry et Augy.  Henceforth, she will be addressed as Marquise de Lambert or simply Madame de Lambert.  Descended from a provincial aristocratic family in Perigord, Henri de Lambert was a military officer who at the time of the marriage served as the captain of the First Company of the Royal Regiment of the Cavalry.  The marriage produced four children, one of whom died shortly after birth.

On June 12, 1684, Henri de Lambert reached the pinnacle of his political career when he was named governor of the duchy of Luxembourg.    He died suddenly on August 1, 1686.  His death was quickly followed by the death of their eleven-year old daughter, Monique.  The bereaved Madame de Lambert faced imminent impoverishment since she was locked in a lawsuit with her mother over the estate of her deceased father.  Estimated at over five-hundred thousand pounds in worth, the estate had been left entirely to Madame de Lambert’s mother by virtue of a will signed by her father.  The bitter adjudication of the will and the conflicting claims of mother and daughter did not end even with the mother’s death in 1692.  A royal pension permitted Madame de Lambert to survive and her two remaining children to pursue their education until the juridical controversy was settled largely in Lambert’s favor in the late 1690s.

In 1698 an economically secure Madame de Lambert opened her new residence in the Hôtel de Nevers in Paris.  Starting in 1710, she conducted a salon in the drawing room of her residence; it soon became the most intellectually distinguished salon in the capital.  She became noted for her contrasting “Tuesday” and “Wednesday” salons.  Tuesdays were devoted to men and women of letters.  Participants were expected to read aloud their works in progress and to debate the literary issues of the moment.  Wednesdays were devoted to more social receptions for the aristocracy living in the capital.

Prominent salon members included the philosophers Fontenelle and Montesquieu, the dramatist Marivaux, the classicist Anne Dacier, the poet Catherine Bernard, the theologian Fénelon, the tale-writer Marie-Catherine d’Aulnoy, and the mathematician Dortous de Mairan.  The intellectual distinction of Lambert’s salon earned it the sobriquet of bureau d’esprit (the business office of wit.)  The salon also earned a reputation as a place of literary intrigue, especially for lobbying for positions in the prestigious Académie française.  Lambert herself was credited with successfully lobbying for the appointment of Montesquieu from her “antechamber to the Académie.”  Although Lambert banned political and religious discussions from the salon sessions, her salon enjoyed a mildly libertine reputation.  She defended Montesquieu’s controversial Persian Letters, censured for its alleged religious skepticism, and supported Antoine Houdar de la Motte’s attacks on the neoclassical veneration of Homer and of the three unities in drama.

In the salon Madame Lambert shared her own writings with her guests.  Her early works were moral exhortations to her son and daughter respectively as they entered adulthood.  Later writings dealt with friendship, old age, and aesthetics.  Her writings were usually written in the form of a brief essay, modeled after her beloved Montaigne, and often incorporated the miniature literary genres then popular in the salons: maxim, literary portrait, literary dialogue, edifying tale.  Madame Lambert’s writings were written uniquely for diffusion in manuscript copies to members of her salon.  When a pirated edition of her Counsels of a Mother to her Son appeared in print in 1726, she vehemently protested and bought out what remained of the edition.  Publication of a book for public sale in the bookstalls of France was considered inappropriate for an aristocratic woman of the period; furthermore, the intimate details of family life revealed in these essays addressed to her children were not meant to be shared with the general public.  Despite Lambert’s protests, pirated print editions of her essays continued to sell briskly and quickly led to unauthorized translations into English.

Although her salon continued to flourish, the last years of Lambert’s life were darkened by the death of her daughter Monique-Thérèse in 1731 and by recurrent bouts of illness.  Madame de Lambert died on July 12, 1733.

2. Works

The works of Madame de Lambert attracted a broad European public from the time of the first pirated editions published during her lifetime: Counsels of a Mother to her Son (1726), New Reflections on Women (1727), and Counsels of a Mother to Her Editor (1728).  Her collected works enjoyed numerous editions throughout the eighteenth century (1747, 1748, 1750, 1751, 1758, 1761, 1766, 1774, 1785).  The English translation of her collected works enjoyed similar popularity in multiple editions (1749, 1756, 1769, 1770, 1781).  A German translation of the works appeared in 1750, a Spanish edition in 1781.

Most of Lambert’s extant works are written in the form of a brief essay, with occasional exercises in literary dialogue and literary portraiture.  The following works treat philosophical issues.  Counsels of a Mother to her Son analyzes the moral virtues an aristocratic man must develop; Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter examines the moral virtues essential for the aristocratic woman.  Treatise on Friendship studies the power and difficulty of ethical friendship.  Treatise on Old Age laments the neglect of the elderly in contemporary society.  Reflections on Wealth decries materialism.  Reflections on Taste and Discourse on the Delicacy of Mind and of Sentiment examine aesthetic judgment.  Psyche analyzes the nature of the human soul.  Dialogue between Alexander and Diogenes criticizes the false glory represented by warriors such as Alexander the Great.

The philosophical influences on Lambert are not difficult to identify.  Since her childhood, Lambert carefully noted striking phrases from her reading.  In many of her writings, she uses quotations to justify her argument.  Two groups of thinkers predominate.  The first are classical authors with a marked Stoic orientation: Plutarch, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, and Cicero.  The second are contemporary French authors often considered moralistes, because of their exploration of moral psychology, especially the deceptions of the human mind.  Prominent in this second group are Montaigne, La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, Pascal, Fénelon and Saint-Evremond.  So frequent is Lambert’s use of quotation that some critics have dismissed her writings as a tissue of paraphrases.  But Lambert transforms her sources to accommodate her own concerns, notably her concern about the status of women.  Lambert cites Cicero’s dissertation on old age but her own essay contains considerations on the impoverishment of aging women that are absent in Cicero.  Similarly, the marquise admits the debt of her Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter to Fénelon’s Education of Girls but nowhere does Fénelon develop the argument for the philosophical education of women which Lambert pursues in her own text.

3. Philosophical Themes

 

Madame Lambert’s writings focus on philosophical themes that preoccupied the more intellectual Parisian salons of the period.  In her discussion of the virtues, she makes careful distinctions on the various types of moral virtue, with particular interest in the aristocratic virtue of glory.  Like other salonnières, she analyzes the gradations of love and constructs an apology for chaste, intellectual love between adults of the opposite sex.  Lambert’s interest in pedagogy springs from the conviction that formation in virtue constitutes the chief purpose of education.  Despite her loyalty to the French throne, she criticizes the social injustices of French society, especially its unequal distribution of material wealth, and condemns what she considers the major vices of her own social class.  Her philosophical reflections on art focus primarily on the subjective issue of aesthetic appreciation, notably taste and delicacy.  A practicing Catholic, she develops a religious philosophy more attuned to the emerging deism of the period.  God is the Supreme Being affirmed by rational reflection on the cosmos rather than the personal redeemer known through revelation and grace.  Relatively secondary, the virtues of religion are assimilated to the more generic moral virtues of moderation, prudence, and integrity.  Lambert’s works develop a gendered philosophy not only because they defend the dignity of women against the misogyny of the period, but because they treat such issues as friendship, education, and old age through the lens of gender differentiation.

a. Virtue Theory

Lambert’s intertwined theories of virtue and education emerge in her two most popular works, Counsels of a Mother to her Son and Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter.  In both works, Lambert exhorts her children to grow in virtue as they leave adolescence and begin the commitments of adulthood.  She praises the moral habits they have already acquired through their earlier formal education and advises them on the moral dispositions they must obtain in the future.  But the virtues central for men are not the same as those vital for women.  Like other men, especially those of the nobility destined for military service, her son must pursue glory and its associated public virtues.  Like other women, destined primarily for household duties, her daughter should cultivate the more hidden virtues clustered around humility.

For men, the acquisition of the virtue of glory constitutes their highest aspiration.  According to Lambert, society has rightly named military valor as the chief title to this virtue.  “The glory of heroes is the most brilliant.  True marks of honor and acclaim are attached to it.  Renown seems personally designed for these men.”  In pursuing such glory, men must refuse to limit their ambition through a constraining personal modesty.  In fact, such ambition is necessary for gentlemen pursuing glory as long as they refrain from unfair attacks on their enemies or rivals.  Lambert conceives the virtue of glory as central to political as well as personal masculine development.  Political order is founded on a social contract using the aspiration to glory as a guarantor of civic cohesion.  “Men found that it was necessary and useful for them to unite together for the sake of the common good.  They made laws to punish the evil.  They agreed among themselves what constituted the basic duties of society and attached the idea of glory to the proper practice of these duties.”

The pursuit of grandeur in the military and broader civic forum requires men to develop other social virtues.  Like other salonnières of the period, Lambert emphasizes the virtue of honesty (honnêteté), a personal integrity that permits the gentleman to witness the needs of others and to serve them without excessive preoccupation.  “If you want to be a perfectly honest man, consider disciplining your self-love and give it a good object.  Honesty consists in emptying oneself of focusing on one’s own rights and in respecting the rights of others.”  Unlike true glory, with its attendant concern for others, false glory encourages self-gratification and ignores the misery of the other.  “Why is it that in this infinite number of desires fabricated by voluptuousness and indulgence one never finds the desire to provide relief for the unfortunate?  Doesn’t simple humanity make one feel the need to aid one’s fellow humans?  Moral hearts feel more greatly the obligation to do good than they do the other necessities of life.”  For Lambert, the cultivation of this altruistic honesty naturally entails the pursuit of other similarly discreet social virtues: politeness, tact, delicacy, and wisdom. Such honesty preserves the gentleman from the typical moral vices of the courtier: envy and avarice.

Unlike men, women are not called to cultivate the social virtues proper to the political sphere; they should develop virtues more appropriate to the domestic sphere of the household.  “Women are not called to partake in visible and brilliant virtues; rather, they pursue simple and quiet virtues.”  Glory, the central virtue of men, has no role in the retired life of women.  “The virtues of women are difficult because glory does not help to practice them.  These virtues are hidden: living with oneself; limiting one’s government to one’s family; being simple, just, and modest.”  Among other virtues of self-effacement, women are called to pursue humility and temperance.  Like the opposite sex, women must cultivate the virtues of honesty and politeness, but their participation in the civic sphere remains more circumscribed than that assigned by Lambert to men.

Despite this limitation of female moral culture to the province of the household, Lambert argues that women must develop a substantial set of intellectual virtues.  She insists that women should maintain an intellectual curiosity that leads to a lifetime of learning.  “Curiosity is knowledge that has already begun; it will make one go faster and further in the path of truth.  It is a natural inclination which goes beyond formal instruction.  It must not be stopped by sloth or soft living.” The educational program commended by Lambert for her daughter indicates the substantial intellectual culture Lambert considers desirable for aristocratic women.  The program includes the study of Greek, Roman, and French history; the study of ethics through the writings of Cicero and Pliny; the study of literature, especially the tragedies of Corneille; and the study of Latin.  Lambert adds a Cartesian note to this ambitious neoclassical curriculum by her approval of the study of philosophy.  “[I commend] especially the new sort [of philosophy], if one is capable of it; it will cultivate precision in one’s mind, clarify one’s thoughts, and teach one to think correctly.”  This apology for serious intellectual, specifically philosophical, formation for women is allied to the critique of the neglect of women’s education with which she opens Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter.  “Throughout time we have neglected the education of women; we only paid attention to that of men.  We acted as if women were a different kind of species.  We abandoned them to themselves without any assistance and without the slightest consideration that they constitute half of the world.”

Despite this gendered differentiation in the treatment of the moral virtues, men and women are summoned to develop one virtue in common: the capacity to live by oneself and to rely on one’s own rational judgment.  This neo-Stoic ability to find interior rational peace is the key to mature happiness for both sexes.  Counsels of a Mother to her Son describes this virtue as “the happiness of knowing how to live with oneself, to find oneself with pleasure, to leave oneself with regret.”  In Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter, Lambert exhorts her daughter to “learn that the greatest science is to know how to be alone with yourself….Provide yourself with an interior place of retreat or asylum.  There you can always return to yourself and find yourself.”  In this contemplative self-possession, wherein the passions are subordinated to reason, both men and women discover the interior resources to combat the vicissitudes of existence, especially of reversal of fortune.

b. Gender and Dignity

In New Reflections On Women, Lambert provides an apology for the dignity and rights of women.  The essay criticizes the misogyny which has denied women a proper education.  “Can’t women say to men, ‘What right do you have to forbid us to study the sciences and fine arts?  Haven’t women who have devoted themselves to these disciplines produced both sublime and useful objects?’”  As contemporary examples of such success, the essay cites Madame de la Sablière, an astronomer, and the many recent women novelists.  Lambert laments the decline of the salons which had earlier contributed to the artistic and philosophical formation of women.  “In other times there were houses where it was permitted to speak and to think, where the Muses held company with the Graces….These houses were like the Banquet of Plato.”  The social constitution which reduces women to inferiors and denies them the possibility of scientific culture does not reflect nature or rights; it is simply a corporate act of violence by men to retain their supremacy and to maintain the domestic services of women without appropriate compensation.  “By force rather than by natural right, men have usurped authority over women.”  The period’s art, notably Molière’s parody of the précieuses in Women Scholars, conspires to persuade women that their legal subjection and exclusion from serious education is a product of nature rather than of culpable oppression.

Despite her critique of the period’s subjection of women, Lambert accepts the common argument that the difference between the genders is psychological and not only biological.  In particular, she accepts the argument advanced by Malebranche that women have a more active faculty of imagination than do men.  But whereas Malebranche and others had drawn the conclusion that this hyperactive imagination prevents women from exercising reason (and concomitantly from governing others), Lambert draws the opposite conclusion.  The essay claims that women’s natural vivacity of imagination and sentiment actually perfects the operations of reason.  Rather than being the antagonist of reason, imagination incites reason to undertake great projects and makes the fruits of reasoning more persuasive to the public.  “I do not think that sentiment weakens the mind; on the contrary, it provides new spiritual powers which illuminate the mind.  It makes the ideas present in the mind livelier, clearer, and more distinct….Persuasion of the heart is higher than that of the mind alone because our conduct often depends on the former.  It is to our imagination and to our heart that nature has committed the conduct of our actions and of its motives.”  Rather than being inferior to men, women appear to possess a certain mental superiority.  The success of ancient and contemporary women in the arts and sciences indicates that they are as capable as are men in pursuing intellectual activities.  Only social prejudice, expressed through the denial of appropriate education, explains the comparative paucity of women who have distinguished themselves in these fields.  The alleged greater attachment of women to the exercise of the imagination and of the sentiments in their decision-making only indicates that in an atmosphere free of gender prejudice women will exercise reason with a greater complement of imagery and of passion than do most men.

c. Ethics of Love

In several works, Lambert focuses on the central issue of salon debate: the nature of love.  She insists on the moral qualities necessary for authentic love and decries the descent into sexual debauchery that has characterized several prominent salons of the Regency.  The chaste love of mature friendship is both more desirable and more difficult to attain than is the passion-based love of romance.  Intellectual love between adults of the opposite sex constitutes the apex of this ideal moral friendship.

New Reflections on Women defines love as the central sentiment of human life.  Due to its interiority and its power, love enjoys a primacy among human sentiments.  “The difference between love and other pleasures is easy to detect for those who have been touched by it.  In order to be felt, most pleasures require the presence of the proper external object.  Music, cuisine, and theater are examples of pleasures that must have their immediate object in order to make their impressions, to call the soul to them and to hold the soul attentive….It is not the same with love.  It is within us, it is a part of ourselves.  It does not only exist in tandem with its corresponding object; we can experience love without the presence of the object.”  The superiority of love over other desires springs from the capacity of its sentiments to dominate the moral agent even in the absence of the beloved other person.  Memory and imagination deepen the force of a sentimental state that can captivate the human subject on the basis of fantasy alone.

Despite Lambert’s correlation of love with pleasure, Treatise on Friendship underscores that the highest form of love is disinterested friendship among peers rather than romantic affection.  Such mature friendship is based on virtue rather than passion.  “The first merit we must seek in our friends is virtue.  This is what assures us that they are capable and worthy of friendship.  We should expect nothing from our relationships which lack this foundation.”  Focused on the needs of the other, authentic friendship frees one from self-preoccupation and encourages altruistic service of the beloved.  “Friendship is a relationship, a contract, or a type of reciprocal commitment where one demands nothing, where the most worthy person gives more than is expected and is happy to do so in advance.  One shares one’s fortune with one’s friend: wealth, credit, concern, services, everything except one’s honor.”  Only in this virtuous friendship is the human person freed from the calculation of conquest and approval which characterizes most interpersonal affection.

Departing from its classical precedents, Treatise on Friendship argues that such a virtuous, altruistic friendship is not limited to peers of the same sex.  Chaste, intellectual friendship between members of the opposite sex constitutes the highest embodiment of such a meritorious relationship since it demands strict discipline of one’s personal passions.  “They ask if friendship can endure among members of different sex.   Although it is rare and difficult, this is the most delightful of friendships.  It is the most difficult because it requires more virtue and more restraint.”  At its apogee in altruistic friendship, the sentiment of love is so thoroughly refined by the rational will that the passions can no longer distort it.

d. Social Criticism

Like other moralistes of the period, Lambert criticizes the injustices of French society.  Economic inequality constitutes one of the principal injustices of this highly stratified society.  Avarice constitutes the major vice of an aristocracy transformed into avid courtiers.

Reflections on Wealth describes the rapacious efforts to acquire material wealth as a distortion of the human quest for happiness.  Whereas human beings can only find authentic happiness in the intellectual and moral goods of the soul, the social elite seeks an illusory happiness in the amassment of ever-increasing fortunes.  Such wealth may procure social approval and temporary pleasure, but the illusory nature of this unstable pleasure inevitably manifests itself.  “Riches are vain in their use and insatiable in their possession of us.  They are vain because of the false idea they give of themselves.  This idea is founded not on our real being but on our imaginary being.  Everything surrounding those favored with wealth serves their illusions.”  This illusion magnifies the egocentrism of a humanity marked by the fall.  Other people, even the earth itself (with its deposits of precious metals), become objects which exist to be exploited by and to adorn an aristocracy poisoned by avarice.

Despite its moral tares, this human avidity possesses a certain public utility.  The desire to be admired for one’s wealth-related grandeur drives many of the wealthy to provide a material assistance toward the poor which they would not otherwise give.  “Nothing is so great and nothing gives us such an illustrious position in the imagination of others as does the contribution of our wealth to the public weal.  Making one’s wealth flow to so many unfortunates is to give them a new type of existence which pulls them out of their desperate state.”  Like many social thinkers of the eighteenth-century, Lambert identifies material self-interest as the motor of public philanthropy.

Lambert’s critique of the intolerable lot of the poor in contemporary French society becomes explicitly gendered in her Treatise of Old Age.  It is women who bear the brunt of the material impoverishment and psychological isolation of old age.  “Throughout their lives, we have given men all the assistance necessary to perfect their reason and to teach them the great science of happiness.  Cicero composed a treatise on old age to help them draw benefits from an age where everything seems to leave us.  We do this work only for men.  For women in all ages, on the contrary, we simply abandon them to themselves.  We neglect their education in their youth.  During the rest of their lives, we deprive them of the support they need for their old age.  As a result, the majority of women live without care and without the ability to reflect on their state.  In their youth they are vain and dissipated; in their old age, frail and disheveled.”  It is the deprivation of education, especially of the methodical formation of reason and of the capacity for personal reflection, which provokes the material and psychological impoverishment of women, once their romantic and maternal utility has vanished.  The result of neither nature nor accident, this impoverishment of aging women reflects the gender imbalance of a society centered around the needs of men.

e. Religious Philosophy

Lambert’s writings exhibit the nascent deism of the period.  Although she repeatedly praises the virtue of piety, Lambert accords religious virtues a palpably secondary role in the constellation of moral virtues she commends to her readers.  Religion provides a cornerstone for the moral virtues the human person must cultivate, but the deity presiding over this religious theology is the deist Supreme Being rather than the biblical God of redemption and grace.

The deistic character of Lambert’s religious philosophy appears clearly in her Counsels of a Mother to her Son.  Although she insists that the greatest duty of the son is to “render worship to the Supreme Being,” this religious sentiment is markedly constricted.  The purpose of religion is to inspire the moral agent to fulfill his or her duties.  Prayer is an occasion to compare oneself with the moral order God has manifested in the cosmos.  “Moral virtues are in danger without the Christian ones.  I do not ask from you a piety full of weaknesses and superstition; I only ask that a love of moral order would submit to God your inclinations and your sentiments and that the same love of order would spill over on your conduct.  That will give you justice and the presence of justice will guarantee the existence of all the virtues.”  Religion is instrumentalized as an efficacious tool of moral formation and motivation.  Communion with God is based not on grace but on rational scrutiny of one’s conformity to the moral order detectable in nature.  It is the natural virtue of justice, and not the supernatural virtues of faith, hope, and charity, which constitutes the apex of the moral virtues fostered by an enlightened religiosity shorn of irrationality and superstition.

The religious virtue praised by Lambert is generic in nature.  Respect for religion entails respect for the particular religion established by the sovereign of the state.  “One does not attack religion when one has no interest in attacking it.  Nothing makes one happier than having the mind convinced and the heart touched by religion.  That is a good in all times.  Even those who are not fortunate enough to believe as they choose should submit to the established religion.  They know that what is called ‘prejudice’ has great standing in society and that it must be respected.”   The treatment of religious truth in this passage is markedly skeptical.  The assimilation of religion to a popular ‘prejudice’ is not refuted; it is simply useful to respect such a widespread belief, even if it is tainted by custom and bias.  The particular religion to be respected and embraced varies from one society to another, since it is the religious confession established by the state.  In France, this is Catholicism defended by the monarchy, but in other cultures this can easily be another religious confession whose tenets are enforced by a different type of political sovereignty.

Other writings, notably Counsels of a Mother to Daughter and Treatise on Old Age, commend the virtue of piety to women.  But despite the occasional Christian references, the religious sentiment lauded by Lambert remains closer to rationalist deism than to the Catholic sentiment of adoration and submission rooted in grace.

f. Aesthetics

In several works, Lambert studies the subjective dimension of aesthetics.  She explores how the taste for beauty develops in the human mind.  She also studies the related mental qualities of delicacy and refinement, which permit the human person to recognize beauty in nature or in artifacts.

Reflections on Taste concedes an irreducible subjectivity to the phenomenon of taste.  Whereas discursive reasoning inevitably leads to certain conclusions according to the rules of logic and of evidence, judgments of taste often evince irresolvable contradictions.  “Taste is the first movement and a type of instinct which draws us and guides us more surely than all the work of reason.  There is no necessary agreement among tastes.  This is not the same thing as among truths.  It is obvious that whoever concedes my premises will also agree with the consequences I draw.  In this way one may lead an intelligent person to accept one’s opinion, but one is never sure that one can lead a sensitive person to one’s judgment of taste.  There are no links or enticements to make someone else agree with this judgment.  Nothing is certain in the domain of taste; everything springs from the disposition of one’s interior organs and the relationship established between them and external objects.”  Despite its power over the human person’s judgment, taste delivers subjective judgments inasmuch as it depends on the physiology and the psychology unique to each person in the exercise of aesthetic perception.

Despite this subjective dimension, the essay insists that some judgments of taste are more justified than are others.   Although taste eludes analytic definition, it can be evoked intuitively for those who have experienced the difference in quality of aesthetic judgments.  “Right taste delivers a proper judgment on everything we call pleasing, satisfying, fitting, fine, or, so to speak, the flora of the soul.  It is this je ne sais quoi of wisdom and of skillfulness, which knows what is appropriate and which senses in each object the correct proportion it must possess.”  Although judgments of taste do not follow the strict logic of discursive reason, they are not arbitrary.  Irreducible to a formula, experience indicates that certain minds excel in the recognition of the obscure formal qualities that constitute the beauty of an external object.

Against emotivism and relativism, Lambert argues that the faculty of taste possesses a partial intellectual dimension.  “Up to the present, good taste has been defined as ‘a custom established for the members of high society who are sophisticated and discriminating.’  I think that good taste depends on two things: a sentiment of great delicacy in the heart and a great correctness in the mind.”  If Lambertian taste begins as a subjective movement of instinct and feeling, it only reaches its mature term when the intellect has refined this initial impression through a scrutiny of the formal qualities, especially the harmony and balance, of the external object under consideration.

g. Cartesianism

Lambert’s writings make few explicit references to Descartes, but her writings are suffused with Cartesian philosophy.  Although the degree of her personal knowledge of the texts of Descartes remains unclear, Lambert clearly imbibed the pervasive Cartesianism of the salons, militantly diffused in her own salon by Fontenelle.

The literary portrait Monsieur de la Motte provides a Cartesian definition of philosophy.  “To philosophize is to render to reason all its dignity and to make it enter into its rights.  It is to relate each object to its proper principles.  It is to shake off the yoke of opinion and of authority.”  In its attack on public opinion and appeals to authority as the antonym of right reason, this rationalist concept of philosophy clearly follows the path of Cartesianism.

In several works, this Cartesian apology for reason warns the reader of the dangers of reliance on public opinion.  Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter emphasizes the necessity to abandon prejudice, custom, and public opinion if one seeks to reason properly.  “Give yourself a true idea of things.  Don’t judge like the common people do.  Don’t yield your judgment to that of public opinion.  Throw off the prejudices of childhood.”  Similarly, the Dialogue between Alexander and Diogenes on the Equality of Goods condemns Alexander the Great’s reliance on the esteem of the public.  “I know very well that you [Alexander] have the masses for you.  The number of the wise is very small.  As much as you are a prince, you are still a man of the common people in your way of thinking.  Always dependant on the opinion of other people, you place your happiness in the judgments of others.”   It is Diogenes, the representative of the intellectual elite which relies on reason rather than on fluctuating public opinion, who has access to the truth.

Lambert’s Cartesian orientation often emerges in her treatment of specific areas of human endeavor.  Counsels of a Mother to Her Son considers history, focused on human passions and chance events, as inferior to the study of metaphysics, where the student can discover universal, immutable principles.  “Your ordinary reading must be history, but you must join reflection to it.  Don’t think of filling your memory with facts, of decorating your mind with the thoughts and opinions of authors.  This would only turn your mind into a store filled with the ideas of other people.  A quarter of an hour of reflection does more to deepen and form the mind than do hours of reading.  You should not fear a lack of knowledge; rather, you should fear error and false judgments.  Reflection is the guide leading to truth.”  Counsels of a Mother to her Daughter closely follows Descartes’s Discourse on Method in its exemption of religion from the rationalist censure of appeals to authority.  “In the area of religion, one must yield to authorities, but on every other subject, one must only accept the authority of reason and of evidence.”  As a result of this split in warrants between religious and non-religious knowledge, theological belief becomes a matter of arational assent.  “As a great man [Malebranche] said, ‘To be a Christian, one must believe blindly; to be wise, one must see the evidence.”  In this Cartesian framework, reason is not only to be exercised in metaphysics and science to discover indubitable, immutable principles; it is be used in other areas of human life to eliminate or at least to temper the weight of authority and custom on human judgment.

4. Reception and Interpretation

The reception of Madame de Lambert’s writings and philosophy has been checkered.  In the eighteenth century a large, cultivated European public purchased numerous editions of her works in French, English, German, and Spanish.  French Enlightenment philosophers, notably Bayle, Fontenelle, Montesquieu, and Voltaire, praised her contribution to moral philosophy.  By the late nineteenth century, however, Lambert was little read.  It is significant that the first twentieth-century edition of Lambert’s works occurred only at the very end of the century (1990) with Granderoute’s critical edition.

Several factors explain the eclipse of Lambert’s philosophy.  First, the marquise wrote in the style of literary miniatures that were popular in the salons of the period.  She often expressed her philosophy in the genre of the essay, the literary dialogue, the maxim, or the literary portrait.  Genres that appeared charming in the boudoirs of the Regency often appeared precious to a later literary public.  Written outside the framework of the systematic treatise, the essays’ arguments on virtue or politics or aesthetics often seemed unphilosophical to a later philosophical public accustomed to university norms of academic argument.

Second, Madame de Lambert wrote from and for a philosophical culture which has vanished.  She could presume that her listeners had studied the Stoicism of Plutarch and Cicero in their schooldays as she had.  Even indirect references to the classical authors would be immediately grasped.  Paraphrases of Montaigne or Pascal required no further explanation.  Any educated Frenchman or Frenchwoman in the early eighteenth century would possess at least a hazy outline of the skepticism represented by each of these masters of modern French prose.

The recent renaissance of philosophical interest in Lambert is tied to the neo-feminist expansion of the cannon of the humanities in early modernity.  Several recent studies focus on the question of gender and the status of women in Lambert.  The interpretations offered by Fassiotto (1984) and Beasely (1992) illustrate this tendency.  Other contributions by Lambert to moral philosophy, such as her virtue theory and her critique of the influence of popular opinion on moral judgment, await further research.

5. References and Further Reading

All translations from French to English above are by the author of this article.

a. Primary Sources

  • Lambert, Anne-Thérèse de Marguenat de Courcelles, marquise de. Oeuvres complètes de madame la marquise de Lambert. Paris: L. Collin, 1808.
    • A digital version of this edition of the works of Madame de Lambert is available at Gallica: bibliothèque numérique on the website of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.
  • Lambert, Anne-Thérèse de Marguenat de Courcelles, marquise de. Oeuvres, ed. Robert Granderoute. Paris: Librairie Honoré Champion, 1990.
    • This excellent critical edition of the works of Madame de Lambert has become the standard scholarly edition.
  • Lambert, Ann-Thérèse de Marguenat de Courcelles, marquise de. The Works of the Marchionesse de Lambert. Containing Thoughts on various entertaining and useful Subjects, Reflections on Education, on the writings of Homer and on various public Events of the Time. Carefully Translated from the French. London: William Owen, 1749.
    • This first English translation of the collected works of Madame de Lambert underwent four re-editions in the eighteenth century.  Digital texts of the English versions of several of Lambert’s works can be found at the following Internet sites: American Libraries Internet Archive and Google Book Search.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Barth-Cao Danh, Michèle. La philosophie cognitive et morale d’Anne-Thérèse de Lambert, 1647-1733: La volonté d’être. New York: Peter Lang, 2002.
    • This original monograph studies the epistemology of Madame de Lambert.
  • Beasely, Faith. “Anne-Thérèse de Lambert and the Politics of Taste,” Papers on French Seventeenth Century Literature, 1992, Vol. 19; no.37: 337-44.
    • The article focuses on gender in its analysis of aesthetic judgment and politics in Lambert.
  • Daniélou, Catherine. “L’amour-propre éclairé: Madame de Lambert et Pierre Nicole,” Papers on French Seventeenth Century Literature, 1995, Vol. 22, no. 42: 171-83.
    • [Daniélou contrasts the link between self-love and social utility in the philosophies of Lambert and of the Jansenist Nicole
  • Fassiotto, Marie-José. Madame de Lambert (1644-1733), ou, Le féminism moral. New York: Peter Lang, 1984.
    • Fassiotto explores gender issues in Lambert but the attribution of feminism is anachronistic.
  • Granderoute, Robert. “Madame de Lambert et Montaigne,” Bulletin de la Société des Amis de Montaigne, 1981, nos. 7-8: 97-106.
    • Granderoute demonstrates the dependence of Lambert on the thought and texts of Montaigne.
  • Granderoute, Robert. “De l’Education des filles aux Avis d’une mère à une fille: Fénelon et madame de Lambert,” Revue d’Histoire littéraire de la France,” 1987, no. 1: 15-30.
    • Granderoute examines the influence of Fénelon on Lambert’s educational philosophy.
  • Hine, Ellen McNiven. Madame de Lambert, her Sources and her Circle. Oxford: The Voltaire Foundation, 1973.
    • Hine studies Lambert’s ancient and contemporary intellectual sources.
  • Hoffman, Paul. “Madame de Lambert et l’exigence de dignité,” Travaux de linguistique et de littérature, 1973, vol. 11, no. 2: 19-32.
    • Hoffman analyzes the central concept of dignity in the ethics and political thought of Lambert.
  • Kryssing-Berg, Ginette, “La marquise de Lambert ou l’ambivalence de la vertu,” Revue Romane, 1982, Vol. 17: 35-45.
    • Kryssing-Berg studies the tension between virtue and social utility in Lambert’s ethics.
  • Marchal, Roger. Madame de Lambert et son milieu. Oxford: The Voltaire Foundation, 1991.
    • Marchal examines the aristocratic and salon context of Lambert’s thought.

Author Information

John J. Conley
E-mail: jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola University in Maryland
U. S. A.

Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon (1635—1719)

maintenonThe second wife of King Louis XIV of France, Madame de Maintenon has long fascinated historians and novelists by her improbable life.  Born into an impoverished, criminal family, Maintenon conquered salon society as the wife of the poet Paul Scarron. During her salon years, she studied the philosophical currents of the period, notably libertinism and Cartesianism.  Maintenon then conquered court society as the governess of the illegitimate children of King Louis XIV and finally as the wife of the widowed King. The controversies surrounding her social ascent have long obscured the contributions of Maintenon to educational and moral philosophy. The founder and director of the celebrated school for women at Saint-Cyr, Maintenon defended her theories of education for women in a series of addresses to the Saint-Cyr faculty. In her pedagogical philosophy, practical moral formation rather than intellectual cultivation emerges as the primary goal of schooling.  Her dramatic dialogues and addresses to students developed her distinctive moral philosophy, based on detailed analysis of the moral virtues to be cultivated by the pupils.  In her account of the cardinal virtues, temperance holds pride of place. Addressing Saint-Cyr’s student body of aristocratic girls and women, Maintenon devoted particular attention to the virtues of civility essential for polite society. Her philosophy of virtues is a gendered one inasmuch as Maintenon attempted to redefine traditionally masculine virtues in terms of current female experience.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Philosophical Themes
    1. Philosophy of Education
    2. Virtue Theory
    3. Virtue and Gender
    4. Virtue and Class
  4. Reception and Interpretation
  5. References and Further Reading

1. Biography

Françoise d’Augbigné was born on November 27-28, 1635, allegedly in the prison of Niort in central France.  Her father Constant d’Aubigné was a career criminal who had received jail terms for murder, kidnapping, treason, and debt.  Disowned by his father Agrippa d’Aubigné, a prominent Huguenot military officer and poet, Constant d’Aubigné had married Jeanne de Cardhilac, daughter of Niort’s prison warden, in 1627.  Françoise’s harrowing childhood included a stay in Martinique (1645-1647) during one of her father’s failed political adventures; a bitter stay with a distant relative who used her as a domestic servant (1648); tempestuous periods at Ursuline convent schools in Niort and Paris (1648); and a painful return to her impoverished mother (1649-1652), during which time the young Françoise was forced to beg in the streets.  A personal witness to the religious divisions of the period, she was baptized Catholic by her mother at birth, raised as a Protestant by her kindly aunt, Madame de Villette, and then converted to Catholicism by her Ursuline teachers.  The adolescent study of Plutarch introduced her to the period’s vogue for Stoicism and cultivated her lifelong taste for the literature of moral edification.

In 1652 Françoise d’Aubigné married her only suitor: the poet Paul Scarron.  The odd match became an object of ridicule in the Parisian salons.  Twenty-five years her senior, Scarron was a paralyzed, impotent satirist renowned for the vitriol of his verse burlesques.  Despite its unpromising origins, the marriage proved a reasonable success.  Madame Scarron patiently nursed a sickly husband who visibly esteemed his beautiful and intelligent young wife.  The tiny apartment of the Scarrons quickly became a salon for Parisian authors of a libertine bent.  Madame Scarron acquired a philosophical culture from the salon habitués: Benserade, Chapelain, Vivonne, Saint-Aignan, Costar, and Ménage.  She was especially influenced by George Brossin, chevalier de Méré, the essayist who argued that the honnête homme, the temperate person who exercised restraint in arriving at judgments, should be the moral ideal of an age exhausted by religious fanaticism.  During these salon sessions Madame Scarron also read and debated the works of Descartes.

At the death of her husband in 1660, Madame Scarron faced a precarious future, but her salon contacts permitted her to find some financial support and to continue her pursuit of literary and philosophical culture.  In 1669 she accepted a delicate mission: to serve as the governess for the illegitimate children of Louis XIV and her fellow salonnière, Madame de Montespan.  Her skillful education of the children impressed the king and his stormy mistress.  Her expert nursing of their son, the Duke of Maine, during a serious illness appeared to them miraculous.  In 1674, a grateful Louis XIV granted the devoted governess the lands and title of the fief of Maintenon.  Newly ennobled and financially secure, Madame de Maintenon now took her own place as a titled aristocrat among the courtiers of Versailles.  When the affair between Louis XIV and Madame de Montespan collapsed, Maintenon encouraged the king to reconcile with his estranged wife, Marie-Thérèse of Austria.  The successful reconciliation between the spouses enhanced Maintenon’s standing in court but earned her the enmity of her old patron, Madame de Montespan.

After the sudden death of Queen Marie-Thérèse on July 9, 1683, the king drew closer to Maintenon.  On October 9, 1683, the archbishop of Paris married the couple in a private ceremony.  The bride’s modest social origins raised a problem, since Louis XIV had insisted on dynastic marriages for other members of his family.  The marriage was never publicly announced, although the court quickly perceived that Madame de Maintenon had assumed the role and duties of Louis XIV’s legitimate wife.  The private marriage was also morganatic; Maintenon would never assume the title of queen and no relative of hers could claim the right to the throne.

In 1684 Maintenon began her life’s work: the construction of a school for the education of daughters of the impoverished nobility.  Situated in 1686 at Saint-Cyr, the Institute of Saint Louis was generously subsidized by Louis XIV.  Maintenon personally supervised the direction of the school, designed to serve two hundred and fifty students.  The school possessed a comparatively sophisticated curriculum, featuring courses in religion, reading, writing, mathematics, Latin, music, painting, dancing, needlework, and home economics.  Dissatisfied with the narrowly religious education provided by the convent schools of the period, Maintenon founded her own lay group of teachers, the Dames of Saint-Louis, to provide instruction.  Maintenon insisted that dialogue rather than lecture was to be the primary means of education in the Saint-Cyr classroom.

Saint-Cyr underwent three distinct periods in its pedagogical development.  In its artistic period (1686-1689), the school emphasized cultural achievement by its students.  Sophisticated concerts, plays, debates, and liturgical services soon attracted a prestigious Parisian public.  The artistic period achieved its culmination in the world premiere of Jean Racine’s Esther on January 26, 1689.  The cultural triumph of the school, however, created educational problems.  Dazzled by the applause of the court, students began to neglect their studies; class time began to shrink in favor of rehearsals for the elaborate school performances.

During its mystical period (1690-97), Maintenon sought to combat the worldliness of the earlier artistic phase by promoting piety in the school.  The faculty and students soon fell under the influence of Madame de Guyon, a controversial religious leader and friend of Maintenon.  The Quietism promoted by Guyon stressed simplicity in prayer, confidence in God, and retirement from the world.  Maintenon grew disenchanted with a piety that seemed to undercut the acquisition of virtue and ardor in one’s studies and future work.  By the middle of the decade, Maintenon encouraged Louis XIV’s campaign against Quietism and the expulsion of faculty sympathetic to Quietism.

By the end of the seventeenth century, Maintenon had guided Saint-Cyr toward the pedagogical model she would support until her death.  This approach to education stressed the acquisition of moral virtues by the students and development of the practical skills these impoverished women would need in their future lives as wives of provincial aristocrats in straitened financial circumstances.  This practical mode of education, with its distinctive moralistic coloration, would remain the guiding ethos of Saint-Cyr until its dissolution by revolutionaries in 1793.

Given the secret nature of her marriage, Maintenon’s influence on the court of Louis XIV remained a discreet one.  She clearly counseled her husband on religious matters, especially the appointment of bishops and abbots, but her role in the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes and the intensification of anti-Protestant measures by Louis XIV has been exaggerated by later critics.  Her primary interest remained the direction of the school at Saint-Cyr, to which she retired in 1715, shortly after the death of Louis XIV.

Madame de Maintenon died at Saint-Cyr on April 17, 1719.

2. Works

The majority of the works left by Madame de Maintenon originated during her tenure at the Institute of Saint Louis (1686-1719).  The Dames of Saint-Louis carefully transcribed the many addresses Maintenon delivered to the faculty and student body.  Maintenon would then correct and revise the transcriptions.  In addition, she composed dramatic monologues to be performed in class.  The Dames collected these various texts of Madame de Maintenon into a series of manuscript collections, the last and largest of which date from 1740.  In addition, a massive correspondence of over five thousand letters written by Maintenon has survived.  Théophile Lavallée’s multi-volume edition of Maintenon’s writings (1854-66) remains the most thorough print edition of Maintenon, but we remain far from a complete – let alone a critical – edition of her works.

Of particular philosophical importance are the writings where Maintenon treats ethical issues, especially the nature of virtue and vice.  Her Entretiens are conferences with the Saint-Cyr faculty in which Maintenon emphasizes the formation in virtue that is the principal end of education at the school.  Her Instructions are addresses to the students in which she censures the typical vices and exalts the ideal virtues of the student body.  Her Conversations (dialogues) are brief morality plays that define and illustrate the major virtues the student must inculcate.  Maintenon’s approach to ethics is gendered inasmuch as she redefines the virtues and vices, originally defined in terms of male experience, in the framework of typical women’s experience.  Her approach is also class-conscious, since she attempts to redefine the virtues in the perspective of women who are simultaneously aristocratic and impoverished.

3. Philosophical Themes

The primary philosophical interest of Maintenon’s works lies in its treatment of two related topics: educational theory and virtue theory.  For Maintenon, the primary goal of education is the formation of the moral character of the pupil, interpreted according to the canons of Counter-reformational Catholicism.  The secondary goal is vocational formation.  In the case of Saint-Cyr, it is the development of the skills and the moral habits of the pupil who faces the future as a member of the impoverished, provincial nobility.  Maintenon transforms the nature of moral virtue according to the demands of gender and social class.  Traditionally masculine virtues, such as courage, are redefined to serve as the ideal ethical traits of the industrious wife largely confined to the domestic sphere.  Virtues typical of the aristocratic class, notably politeness and civility, are raised to the status of primary moral dispositions.

a. Philosophy of Education

In her addresses to the faculty of Saint-Cyr, Maintenon sketches her philosophy of education.  The ends of education are traditional: the formation of moral character for a Catholic member of the provincial aristocracy.  But the dialogical methods of pedagogy championed by Maintenon exhibit a distinctive modernity.

Of Solid Education explains the educational end of Saint-Cyr for the faculty: “You [the teachers] apply yourself to developing the piety, the reason, and the morals of your girls.  You inspire in them the love and practices of all virtues proper to them now and in the future.”  Maintenon insists that the virtue to be cultivated and the means used to achieve this ethical culture must always be “reasonable,” but this reasonableness is of a practical rather than speculative nature.  Of the Education of Young Ladies specifies how this practical reasonableness differs from erudition or aesthetic achievement: “You [the teachers] should concern yourself less with furnishing their mind than with forming their reason.  Obviously, this approach provides less occasion for the knowledge and skill of the schoolmistress to sparkle.  A young woman who has memorized a thousand things impresses her family and friends more than does a girl who simply knows how to exercise her judgment, when to be silent, how to be modest and reserved, how to avoid rushing into showing what she thinks about something.”  This pedagogical ideal of practical reasonableness underscores the primacy Maintenon accords the virtues of discretion and restraint for aristocratic women, who are often plunged into dangerous political controversies.  It also expresses the mature Maintenon’s disillusionment with the aesthetic and mystical ideals that had earlier served as the educational end of Saint-Cyr.

To maintain the moral atmosphere of the school, Maintenon insists on a strict regime of censorship.  In Of the Danger of Profane Books, she condemns the use of all books that lack explicit religious or moral utility.  “I call profane all books that are not religious, even if they seem innocent, as soon as it is clear that they have no real usefulness.  Teach your pupils to be extremely cautious in their reading.  They should always prefer their needlework, housework, or their duties in their state of life to it.  If they really want to read, ensure that they use carefully chosen books apt to nourish their faith, to cultivate their judgment, and to guide their morals.”  Of the Proper Choice of Theatrical Pieces underlines the risk of heresy as well as of moral corruption run by too lenient a regime of literary surveillance: “Don’t you [the teachers] realize the ease with which you grant entry to these little booklets without preliminary approval exposes your pupils to the greatest dangers?  If the Jansenists and the Quietists knew this weakness, they would immediately find the secret in order to spread their errors.  They would flood you with pamphlets containing the maxims, phrases, and songs which they sell for practically nothing.”  Theoretical instruction in the demands of virtue is insufficient for the actual cultivation of it.  The personal moral modeling by the faculty and the strictly moral and religiously orthodox atmosphere maintained by the faculty in the school are essential for the successful maturation of the Saint-Cyr pupil along the lines of Maintenon’s practical reasonableness.

If character formation is the central goal of education, the teacher must engage in regular dialogue with her pupils.  In her faculty addresses, Maintenon criticizes the tendency of teachers to use lectures and to overvalue the cultivation of the memory of their pupils.  To assist in the perfection of moral character, the schoolmistress should regularly engage in conversation with her pupils.  Of the Education of Ladies argues that teacher-pupil dialogue should occur outside as well as inside the classroom: “On occasion you [the teachers] should be ready to chat informally with your pupils.  This will help the pupils to love and trust you.  You can acquire an influence over them that will prove beneficial.”  The pupil is not to remain passive in this dialogue.  The teacher can function as an accurate spiritual director only if the pupil discloses her actual moral struggles and achievements: “Sometimes you [the teachers] should let them express their will so that you may understand their basic dispositions.  You then more accurately teach them the differences between the good, the evil, and the morally indifferent.”  Maintenon’s insistence on a dialogical method of instruction reflects the value placed on refined conversation in the aristocratic circles of the period; it also expresses the conviction that the pedagogy of moral formation cannot succeed if the moral tutor has not gauged the actual moral temperament of the pupil as the tutor guides her to the school’s ideal of ethical maturity.

b. Virtue Theory

In several works Maintenon analyzes the four cardinal virtues: justice, fortitude, prudence, and temperance.  Strikingly, whereas most philosophers would name justice as the most important virtue, Maintenon prizes temperance as the central virtue in a moral character.  Without the restraining hand of temperance, the other virtues would quickly deteriorate into rigorism, foolhardiness, or fearfulness.

In the dialogue On the Cardinal Virtues, Maintenon defends this primacy of temperance in the ensemble of virtues.  At the beginning of the dialogue, Justice presents its traditional claim as the preeminent virtue: “There is nothing as beautiful as Justice.  It always has truth beside it.  It judges without bias.  It puts everything into order.  It knows how to condemn its friends and to honor the rights of its enemies.  It can even condemn itself.  It only honors what is worthy of honor.”  But the other cardinal virtues soon manifest their eminence over justice by demonstrating why and how the virtue of justice must be subordinated to them in order for justice to actually achieve its social ends.  Prudence prevents justice from acting in too brusque a manner.  “I [prudence] regulate its [justice’s] operations, prevent it from precipitation, make it take its time.”  Similarly, fortitude strengthens justice when justice hesitates to execute proper punishment on a friend.  “You [justice] need me [fortitude] because your sense of affection makes you find it difficult to inflict any pain on a friend.”  While justice can determine where to assign just dessert, the execution of this determination requires the conjugated virtues of prudence and fortitude to avoid the distortions of severity or pusillanimity.

Standing above prudence and fortitude is the virtue of temperance.  It imposes itself as the central virtue inasmuch as it prevents the other virtues from deteriorating into their customary excesses.  “I destroy gluttony and excess.  I tolerate no outbursts. Not only am I opposed to all evil; I moderate all good.  Without me, Justice would be intolerable to human weakness, Fortitude would drive us to despair, Prudence would often prevent us from taking the actions we should and make waste our time weighing every option.  But with me, Justice acquires a capacity for circumspection, Fortitude acquires suppleness, and Prudence continues to provide advice, but now without undue hesitation, without too much or too little haste.  In a word, I am the remedy to all forms of extremism.”  The primacy accorded temperance in the hierarchy of virtue parallels the emphasis accorded the values of discretion and good reputation in the education provided at Saint-Cyr.

Even the virtues of religion must subordinate themselves to the empire of temperance.  Exercises of piety are to be commended only to the extent that they reflect the moderation and sobriety typical of the virtue of temperance.  “I [temperance] must temper a religious zeal that is too busy, too emotional, and indiscreet.  I have to encourage conduct that avoids extremes.  I moderate both the inclination to give alms and the inclination to hoard money.  I moderate the length of prayer, ascetical practices, recollection, silence, and good works.  I shorten a sermon, a spiritual dialogue, or an examination of conscience.”  Echoing Méré’s portrait of the honnête homme, Maintenon’s moral ideal of the student is the woman who subjects all thought and action to the moderating influence of temperance.  Neither the mystic nor the activist represents Maintenon’s ideal of the moral agent who distinguishes herself through the modesty and emotional restraint with which she serves her neighbor.

c. Virtue and Gender

Given her exclusively feminine public of students and faculty, Maintenon often transforms the nature of the virtues in order to accommodate the sex-specific experience of women of the period.  Her gendered transformation of virtue is apparent in her analysis of three particular virtues: courage, glory, and eminence.

The dramatic dialogue On Courage demonstrates how women as well as men are required to cultivate the virtue of courage.  At the beginning of the dialogue, Faustine insists that courage is not proper for women. “Courage is not having any fear.  This type of achievement is not for our sex.”  Victoria counters that, although women are not called to cultivate the martial courage proper to men, there are other types of courage necessary to women.  “Certainly courage is opposed to fear.  But there is more than one kind of fear.  It is not necessary for us to cultivate the courage that makes someone go to war or be willing to risk his life.”  It is precisely the pupils and alumnae of Saint-Cyr who illustrate the type of courage proper to women.  Courage within the school manifests itself in the diligence with which one executes the duties of the school day.  “There are those who joyfully fulfill all their duties and who are first in everything.  They love work, they want to please their teachers, and they want to do even more than one asks of them.”  Saint-Cyr alumnae express this gendered courage by enduring the constraints of the impoverished life of the provincial aristocracy.  Emily muses about “the poverty we may find in the future and the foul character of those with whom we will have to deal.  They very well might criticize without the moderation we are accustomed to here [at Saint-Cyr].”  Distinct from the courage of the warrior, the courage of women presents itself as the capacity to endure academic and domestic obstacles in the patient pursuit of one’s personal vocation as student or mistress of the manor.

Similarly, glory is redefined away from its traditionally masculine framework of military prowess or political preeminence.  For Maintenon, glory is a matter of personal integrity that could manifest itself as easily in domestic work as in military or political achievement.  The address On True Glory defines glory as a species of personal honor:  “I believe that true glory consists in loving one’s honor and in never performing any base action.”  Maintenonian glory is clearly gendered.  It not only includes the refusal of any major sin; it encompasses the refusal of typical female indiscretions, such as flirtation, receiving gifts from men, or accepting letters from men unknown to the addressee.  The address insists that glory is not a biological category, reposing on one’s familial descent; it is a type of integrity and self-reliance allied to hard work.  “There is much more nobility in living from one’s work and from one’s savings than in being a burden to one’s friends….I wouldn’t tell rich people to sell their needlework, but I would tell those who aren’t so rich to do so.”  Rather than being tied to distinguished public achievement, glory emerges as a simple preeminence in the practice of sacrificial virtues of service.  “We ordinarily recognize glory by its honesty and even by its humility, by its concern to give pleasure to others, to relieve pain, to avoid giving offense, and to render service.”  Freed from its traditional accoutrements of wealth, military valor, and social prominence, the redefined virtue of glory can now be cultivated as easily by impoverished women as it is by others.

In the dialogue On Eminence, Maintenon redefines the aristocratic virtue of eminence to include the experience of impoverished but industrious women.  The dialogue denies that eminence consists in social rank or economic fortune; on the contrary, authentic eminence consists in an unusual degree of self-mastery.  “True eminence consists in esteeming virtue alone, in knowing how to distance ourselves from fortune when it turns against us and how to avoid being intoxicated by fortune when it turns our way.  It consists in sharing the destiny of the unfortunate and in never holding them in contempt.”  In this fusion of neo-Stoic and Christian theories of virtue, eminence denotes both volitional equilibrium and sacrificial love of the suffering neighbor.  The dialogue also insists that authentic eminence must be acquired through personal merit and struggle, not conferred by family descent or inherited wealth.  “There are different types of nobility.  We have to see ourselves as we are.  We should only raise ourselves up through our own merit.  That is where we find true eminence.”  Paralleling her own controversial career in the French court, Maintenonian eminence subverts a social hierarchy of rank based on biological inheritance and exalts moral and social distinction acquired through tenacious personal endeavor.

d. Virtue and Class

Addressing an aristocratic public, Maintenon devotes particular attention to two virtues prized by court society: politeness and civility.

The address On Politeness insists on the central value of good manners to be cultivated by the pupils at Saint-Cyr.  “Since God has made you ladies by birth, have a lady’s manners.  May those of you who have been properly raised by your parents retain these manners and may the others soon acquire them.”  Maintenon details the components of noble comportment: refined language, upright posture, discreet gestures.  But Maintenon politeness does not limit itself to a code of external conduct; it is ultimately an interior disposition of respect toward all persons whom the mature aristocrat encounters: “Whatever you say or do, be careful to avoid giving offense or embarrassment to anyone.”  The purpose of external polite conduct is to express sensitivity toward the feelings and dignity of others.  Maintenon repeatedly reminds her pupils that this posture of reverence includes one’s servants and social inferiors as well as one’s peers and social superiors.

Complementing the virtue of politeness, the virtue of civility entails a spirit of sacrificial service toward all those with whom one interacts.  The address On Civility presents this virtue as an ascetical attention to the interests and needs of others.  “Civility involves freeing oneself in order to be busy about the needs of other people, in paying attention to what can help or hinder them, in order to do the former and to avoid the latter.  Civility entails not talking about oneself, not making others listen too long to oneself, listening carefully to others, avoiding making conversation focus on oneself and one’s tastes, and permitting the conversation to move naturally toward the accommodation of other people’s interests.”  Although civility includes the salon art of refined conversation, Maintenon presents the virtue as a refined species of humility, in which the concerns of others trump one’s own.

To clarify the nature of authentic civility, Maintenon appeals to the evangelical golden rule.  “The Gospel firmly accords with the duties of a civil life.  You know that Our Lord tells us that we should not do to others what we do not want others to do to us.  This must be our great rule, which does not rule out certain customs traditional in our native lands.”  Civility entails reciprocity, a recognition of the other persons one meets as one’s equal in dignity and in need.  Although On Civility admits that the fluctuating customs of a particular culture may require one to show special deference toward those considered socially superior, Maintenonian civility is built on an egalitarian ethics of mutual respect.

4. Reception and Interpretation

The immediate posthumous reputation of Madame de Maintenon was a largely negative one.  The memoirs of the courtier Louis de Rouvroy, duc de Saint-Simon (1675-1755), and the letters of Charlotte-Elisabeth of Bavaria, duchesse d’ Orléans (1652-1722), depicted Maintenon as a schemer who manipulated Louis XIV’s emotions of grief to achiever her power and then used that power to intensify the anti-Protestant policies of the throne.  The publication of Maintenon’s alleged letters (1752) by the Huguenot writer Laurent Angliviel de La Beaumelle presented Maintenon as the hidden architect of Louis XIV’s Revocation of the Edict of Nantes and other persecutory measures.  Subsequent discovery of the forged nature of the most incriminating letters in La Beaumelle’s collection did little to soften the image of Maintenon as a manipulative bigot, an image still present in Patricia Mazuy’s film Saint-Cyr (2000).

In the nineteenth-century, Théophile Lavallée’s multi-volume edition of the works of Maintenon (1854-66) presented the breadth and complexity of Maintenon’s extensive writings.  Commentators began to note Maintenon’s skill as a moraliste, an analyst of the conflicting interplay of virtue and vice in the human constitution.  In the late nineteenth-century, educational officials of the French Third Republic attempted to foster public high school education for women through the new institution of the lycée. Maintenon’s addresses and dialogues seemed perfectly suited for an adolescent female public cultivating the virtues necessary for citizenship.  The anthologies of Maintenon’s texts assembled by Cadet (1885), Faguet (1885), Geoffroy (1887), and Jacquinet (1888) were textbooks designed for the new lycée.  But these anthologies presented an oddly areligious Maintenon, carefully denatured by the anti-clerical Third Republic.  References to God, religion, and piety were often censored out of her texts; only the more secular virtues survived.

Recent studies of Maintenon have attempted to present a more positive evaluation of Maintenon as a philosopher.  Madeleine Daniélou’s study of Maintenon’s educational theories and practices (1948) underscores her innovations as an educational philosopher and the theological foundations of that philosophy.  John Conley’s English translation of and commentary on Maintenon (2004) describes the complexity of her moral psychology, especially in her account of virtue and freedom.  Other commentators, however, notably Carolyn Lougee (1976) and Carlo François (1987), lament that Maintenon’s educational experiments and theories still confined women to the spheres of the household and of the convent.

5. References and Further Reading

All French to English translations were made by the author of this article.

  1. Primary Sources
  • Maintenon, Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon. Conseils et instructions aux demoiselles pour leur conduite dans le monde. Ed. Théophile Lavallée. 2 vols. Paris: Charpentier, 1857.
    • [Still the standard edition of the major works of Maintenon composed for pupils at Saint-Cyr.]
  • Maintenon, Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon . Lettres et entretiens sur l’éducation des filles. Ed. Théophile Lavallée. 2 vols. Paris: Charpentier, 1854.
    • [A collection of letters and addresses dealing with issues of education.]
  • Maintenon, Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon. Extraits de ses Lettres, Avis, Entretiens, Conversations et Proverbes. 4th ed. Ed. Octave Gréard. Paris: Hachette, 1886.
    • [This anthology of Maintenon’s texts is available online at Gallica, bibliothéque numérique, on the website of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.]
  • Maintenon, Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon. Comment la sagesse vient aux filles. Eds. Pierre-E. Leroy and Marcel Loyau.  Etrepilly: Batrillat, 1998.
    • [Extensive contemporary anthology of Maintenon texts dealing with education.]
  • Maintenon, Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon. Dialogues and Addresses. Trans. and ed. John Conley. Other Voice Series. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004.
    • [Contemporary English translation of Maintenon’s major educational texts, accompanied by philosophical commentary.]
  1. Secondary Sources
  • Castelot, André. Madame de Maintenon: La reine secrète. Paris: Perrin, 1996.
    • [A sympathetic study of the political role of Maintenon.]
  • Conley, John. The Suspicion of Virtue: Women Philosophers in Neoclassical France. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002. pp. 124-56.
    • [A philosophical analysis of Maintenon’s educational and moral theories.]
  • Daniélou, Madeleine. Madame de Maintenon, éducatrice. Paris: Bloud & Gay, 1946.
    • [A sympathetic rehabilitation of the educational philosophy and theology of Maintenon.]
  • François, Carlo. Précieuses et autres indociles: Aspects du féminisme dans la littérature française du XVIIe siècle. Birmingham, AL: Summa Publications, 1987.
    • [A critical treatment of Maintenon’s work as antifeminist.]
  • Le Nabour, Eric. La Porteuse d’ombre: Madame de Maintenon et le Roi-Soleil. Paris: Tallandier, 1999.
    • [A biography focusing on the role of Maintenon in the court politics at Versailles.]
  • Lougee, Carolyn. Le paradis des femmes: Women, Salons, and Social Stratification in Seventeenth-Century France. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1976.
    • [A critical study of Maintenon’s school at Saint-Cyr compared with other period experiments in education of women.]

Author information

John J. Conley
jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola University of Maryland

Incarnation

In the Bible‘s fourth gospel, John tells us “the Word [God the Son] became flesh [incarnate] and dwelt among us” (John 1: 14). The central claim of Christianity is that Jesus of Nazareth was none other than God the Son, who while remaining fully divine, took on a human nature for the sake of our salvation. Philosophical puzzles and problems arise as soon as we begin to unpack these notions. The humans we know best, ourselves, make moral mistakes, have trouble bench pressing three hundred pounds, and lose their car keys. We are morally flawed beings lacking in both power and knowledge. God, on the other hand, is typically understood to be morally perfect, all-knowing and all-powerful. If being truly human includes moral failure and limitations in knowledge and power, and being truly divine requires moral perfection, along with perfect knowledge and power, then the incarnation runs afoul of the law of non-contradiction. This law, which Aristotle calls the most certain principle, states that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect (Metaphysics, Bk. IV, Part 3). And so, neither Jesus of Nazareth, nor anyone or anything else, can simultaneously have a property (for example, be all-powerful) and lack it (for example, be limited in power).

The apparent conflict between the law of non-contradiction and the metaphysical claim that one person, Jesus of Nazareth, is both human and divine is not news to philosophers of religion. Some of the best philosophical minds in the past and present have wrestled with this problem. Four approaches stand out. Beginning with the most radical approach, some simply reject the law of non-contradiction. If the incarnation runs afoul of the law non-contradiction, so much the worse for that law. Less radically, one might argue that identity is not an all-or-nothing affair, and hold that there is a significant sense in which Jesus of Nazareth and God the Son could be identical without having all of the same properties. In technical terms, making this move requires giving up a principle called the indiscernibility of identicals in favor of a relative account of identity. If, by affirming relative identity, one could hold that Jesus of Nazareth is identical to God the Son, even though they do not have all the same properties, one could affirm both the incarnation and the law of non-contradiction.

Many philosophers have argued that one need not appeal to relative identity to reconcile the incarnation with the law of non-contradiction. Here there are two approaches to consider. First, some argue that the incarnation appears to flout this law because we have misunderstood the kinds of properties required for being truly human and/or truly divine. Second, some hold that the incarnation seems to run afoul of the law of non-contradiction because we have failed to see the way in which God the Son Incarnate possesses properties and their complements. Only if the incarnation required that God the Son Incarnate both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect, would it be incompatible with the law of non-contradiction.  The doctrine does not require this, and therefore is completely compatible with the law of non-contradiction. This article considers these various responses to the philosophical problem of incarnation.

Table of Contents

  1. The Historical Framework
  2. The Incompatibility Problem
  3. Responses to the Incompatibility Problem
    1. Rejecting the Law of Non-contradiction
    2. Rejecting the All-or-Nothing Account of Identity in Favor of Relative Identity
    3. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Human and/or Truly Divine
      1. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Human
        1. Thomas V. Morris’s Distinctions Between Essential and Common Properties, and Full and Mere Humanity
        2. Richard Swinburne’s Rejection of a Human Mind/Soul in Favor of a Human Range of Consciousness
      2. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Divine: the Kenotic Approach
      3. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Divine and Truly Human: Marilyn Adams’ Qualified-Property Approach
    4. Showing that God the Son Incarnate Does Not Possess Any Property and its Complement “in the same respect”: Eleonore Stump’s Borrowed-Property View
  4. Conclusion
  5. References and Further Reading

1. The Historical Framework

The word “Incarnation” derives from the Latin (in + carnis), which means “in the flesh.” Philosophers writing on the incarnation invariably refer to the classical or orthodox view of the incarnation, and here they have in mind the Chalcedonian Creed (451 [MP1]). Stephen T. Davis is typical: “This is the dogma (the Chalcedonian Creed) I have been calling the classical doctrine of the incarnation. It constituted something of a consensus in Christendom from the time of Chalcedon until recently” (Davis, 2006, 99). The creed defines what it means for God the Son to be incarnate, but does so in a way that allows for considerable metaphysical latitude. In the words of C. Stephen Evans, “This formulation at Chalcedon does not attempt a theoretical understanding of what it means for Jesus of Nazareth to be God Incarnate; it simply lays down some boundaries for what is to count as an orthodox Christian understanding of Jesus’ status” (Evans, 2006a,1 ).

In order to stay within the confines of orthodoxy, metaphysical accounts of the incarnation must preserve Jesus Christ’s divinity, humanity, and identity with God the Son. In other words, they must be compatible with three theses:

1) Jesus Christ is truly divine; in the language of Chalcedon: “. . . the same perfect in Godhead . . . truly God . . . consubstantial with the Father in Godhead” (Olson, 1999, 231).

2) Jesus Christ is truly human; in the words of the creed: “. . . the same in perfect manhood . . . truly man, the same of a rational soul and body. . .consubstantial with us in manhood; like us in all things except sin. . . ” (Olson, 1999, 231).

3) Jesus Christ is a single individual identical to God the Son; in the words of Chalcedon: “. . . made known in two natures without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the difference of the natures being by no means removed because of the union but rather the property of each nature being preserved, and coalescing in one person (prosopon) and one hypostasis, not parted or divided into two persons, but one and the same Son, only-begotten, the divine Word, the Lord Jesus Christ . . . ” (Olson, 1999, 231-232).

We would do well to keep these three theses in mind as we consider “Responses to the Incompatibility Problem.” Insofar as a response emphasizes the distinction between the human and divine, the third thesis will be most relevant for its evaluation. For responses that emphasize a reconsideration of the properties required for being truly human, the second thesis will be most pertinent for an assessment of it. And, as an approach focuses on a reconsideration of the constitutive properties of divinity, the first thesis is the most important one for its evaluation.

Finally, it is important to note some of the views these theses rule out. Arius (250-336), bishop of Alexandria, taught that the Son is “God’s perfect creature” (Olson, 146) and therefore a lesser being than God the Father. Arian views deny the full divinity of God the Son and therefore are incompatible with the first thesis. Apollinarius, a 4th-century bishop of Laodicea, denied that God the Son Incarnate possessed a human mind as well as a human body. Apollinarian views deny the full humanity of God the Son Incarnate and therefore are incompatible with the second thesis. Nestorianism, taking its name from Nestorius, a 5th-century bishop of Constantinople, holds that in God the Son Incarnate there are two persons, one human and one divine, and is therefore incompatible with the third thesis.

2. The Incompatibility Problem

According to the classical account of the incarnation, Jesus Christ is truly human, truly divine, and a single individual who is identical to God the Son. Suppose that, as a matter of fact, Jesus of Nazareth worked as a carpenter, went fishing on the Sea of Galilee, and was unpopular with some civil and religious leaders. Things could have gone differently. Conceivably, Jesus might have been a potter who never set foot on the beaches of Galilee, and was unknown to the movers and shakers of his time. Either way he would have been truly human.

Characteristics or properties relating to employment, popularity, trips to the sea, and the like are compatible with being human but not essential for having that status. Just what properties are essential for being truly human is, as we shall see, a topic of considerable debate.

John Hick counts limited power and knowledge among the plausible candidates and argues that this spells trouble for the adherent of the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation, for the complements of these properties, unlimited knowledge and power, are essential for being truly divine.

. . . there is an obvious puzzle as to how the same being can jointly
embody those attributes of God and of humanity that are apparently
incompatible. God is eternal, whilst humans have a beginning in time;
God is infinite, humans finite; God is the creator of the universe,
including humanity, whilst humans are part of God’s creation; God is
omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, whilst humans are limited in power
and knowledge and have a bounded location; and so on. Let us call this
the incompatible-attributes problem (Hick, 1993,102).

The worry, then, is that the classic account of the incarnation is flawed in the most fundamental sense; it runs counter to what Aristotle called the most certain principle: nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect (Metaphysics, Bk. IV, Part 3). If being truly human and being truly divine are indeed incompatible, then Jesus could no more have fulfilled the conditions of the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation than he could have been a spherical cube.

3. Responses to the Incompatibility Problem

a. Rejecting the Law of Non-contradiction

Toward the end of his journal, A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis asks “Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?” and readily replies in the affirmative.

Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable.
How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? Probably
half of the questions we ask─half our great theological and metaphysical
problems─are like that (Lewis, 1961, 81).

Though there is no reason to think that Lewis had questions about the incarnation in mind, one could respond to the objection that the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation runs counter to the law of non-contradiction, by arguing that this law no more applies to the incarnation than geometric properties do to colors. Asking if God the Son’s human nature is compatible with his divine nature, would be like asking if purple is perpendicular. It is what philosophers call ‘a category mistake,’ the error of applying concepts and distinctions to subjects where they have no purchase. In this regard, Thomas V. Morris cites H. M. Relton as asserting that “the person of Christ is the bankruptcy of human logic;” Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855) as holding that the incarnation is “a breach with all thinking,” and notes Gareth Moore’s reference to those for whom “The doctrine of the incarnation expressed a divine mystery which we mere mortals could not expect to understand, and it was bordering on the blasphemous for any feeble, logic-chopping human intellect to attack it” (Morris, 1986, 24-25).

To evaluate rejecting the law of non-contradiction, as a response to the charge that some essential human and divine properties are incompatible, let’s assume, for the sake of the argument, that the law does not apply to the incarnation. Since it tells us that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect, making our assumption amounts to holding that God the Son could possess any property (for example, having unlimited power) and its complement (for example, having limited power).

If this were so, there could not be any problem with God the Son being truly human and truly divine, no matter how we understand ‘humanity’ and ‘divinity.’ But the same problem-free possibility would also go for God the Son being truly divine and incarnate as a doorknob, the number seven or a piece of toast. Furthermore, apart from the law of non-contradiction, God the Son Incarnate could both have any property (for example, being human) and its complement (for example, not being human), at the same time and in the same respect.  However, if having a property does not rule out its absence, then all property distinctions (for example, being incarnate and not being incarnate) break down. As such, doing away with the law of non-contradiction, in order to defend the doctrine of the incarnation, leads to the loss all meaningful property distinctions, and the significance of theological assertions. What we need is a way to work within the metaphysical constraints of Chalcedon, not a way to shake them off altogether.

b. Rejecting the All-or-Nothing Account of Identity in Favor of Relative Identity

Our first attempt to address the incompatibility problem plaguing the Chalcedonian account of the incarnation rejecting the law of  non-contradiction led to the breakdown of meaningful property distinctions. A less radical approach for responding to the incompatibility problem requires a fresh look at the concept of identity. So far, in our reasoning, we have assumed that Jesus of Nazareth could be identical to God the Son only if Jesus possessed every property had by God the Son, and vice versa. In doing so, we have supposed that identity is an all-or-nothing affair. This view of identity is expressed in a principle Leibniz called the indiscernibility of identicals:

For any property P and any persons X and Y, if X is identical with Y then X has P if and only if Y has P (cf. Plantinga, 1976, 15).

Given both the law of non-contradiction and the indiscernibility of identicals, it is difficult indeed to see how Jesus of Nazereth could be identical to God the Son. Suppose Jesus is limited in power and God the Son is essentially all-powerful. The law of non-contradiction rules out the possibility of Jesus having both unlimited and limited power, and also the possibility of God the Son having both limited and unlimited power. But, the indiscernibility of identicals requires Jesus to have unlimited power in order to be identical to God the Son, and God the Son to have limited power in order to be identical to Jesus. It seems, then, that an acceptance of both the law of non-contradiction and the indiscernibility of identicals rules out the Chalcedonian view that a single individual can be both truly divine and truly human. So, if we want to affirm Chalcedon and retain the law of non-contradiction, it makes sense to consider rejecting the all-or-nothing account of identity expressed by the indiscernibility of identicals.

Some suggest that instead of thinking of identity as sameness in all respects, as in the indiscernibility of identicals, we should think of it as sameness in just some respects. On this account of identity, relative identity, two things, X and Y, can be identical in some respects but not others. So, for example, Senator Barack Obama and President Barack Obama are the same person but not the same official. As an official, Senator Barack Obama is a member of the legislative branch of government, while President Barack Obama, as an official, is a member of the executive branch of government.

The qualifiers in the Obama example, “person” and “official,” are count nouns, nouns we can modify numerically. It makes sense to speak of two persons or officials, but not of two courages or honesties. It follows, then, that while “person” and “official” are count nouns, “courage” and “honesty” are not.

For our present purposes, let’s suppose that Jesus of Nazareth is the same person as God the Son, but the two differ relative to X, where X does duty for some count noun. Let’s suppose that, relative to this count noun, Jesus is limited in knowledge and power and the like, and therefore not all-powerful and all-knowing, while God the Son is all-powerful and all-knowing and the like, and so not limited in power and knowledge.

Such an interpretation seems to be necessary if an appeal to relative identity is to show that Jesus of Nazareth and God the Son can be identical, notwithstanding property differences. However, it requires attributing essential human properties, like limited power, to Jesus but not God the Son, and essential divine properties, like unlimited knowledge, to God the Son but not Jesus of Nazareth. As a result, it is hard to see how an appeal to relative identity can be compatible with Chalcedon’s requirement that the divine and human natures be “. . . without division, without separation . . . coalescing in one person (prosopon) and one hypostasis. . . “(Olson, 1999, 231), in keeping with the third Chalcedonian thesis.

c. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Human and/or Truly Divine

It is easy to assume, along with John Hick, that to be truly human God the Son had to be limited in knowledge and power, and, in general, possess the complements of essential divine properties. However, if Hick’s assumptions were unwarranted, then the doctrine of the incarnation would be perfectly compatible with the law of non-contradiction. We should then at least entertain the possibility that incompatibility problems show that our assumptions about the essential properties of humanity and/or divinity are incorrect.

i. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Human

1) Thomas V. Morris’s Distinctions Between Essential and Common Properties, and Full and Mere Humanity

Thomas V. Morris challenges our assumptions regarding the properties necessary for being truly human. He does so, by drawing our attention to two crucialbut commonly overlookeddistinctions. First, Morris asks us to consider the distinction between being fully but not merely X, and being fully and merely X. For example, a cube, like a two-dimensional square, is fully a rectangle, as each one of the cube’s faces is a parallelogram with four right angles. However, a cube is not merely a rectangle, for it possesses a higher-level property; it is three-dimensional. A diamond-backed rattlesnake, like a diamond, is fully physical; it has a spatiotemporal location. But, a rattlesnake is not merely physical for it possesses higher-level properties diamonds lack, for example, cellular composition and voluntary motion. Similarly, God the Son Incarnate is fully but not merely human. He has all of the properties individually necessary and jointly sufficient for being human, but also higher-level divine properties.

Second, Morris draws our attention to the distinction between properties commonly possessed by humans and properties essential to humanity. By definition, if a property is essential for being human, all humans must have it. So, essential human properties are necessarily common human properties. However, the reverse does not hold. A property can be common without being essential. Breaking promises is a common human property but is not thereby an essential human property. God the Son’s genuine humanity would not have been jeopardized by his faithfully fulfilling all of his promises.

Further, if we neglect these distinctions, we may incorrectly assume that properties commonly possessed by those who are merely human are necessary for being fully human. Morris thinks that this is exactly what we have done. We have assumed that the properties commonly possessed by mere humans, for example, limited knowledge and power, are necessary for being fully human. Once we see that this is not so, the incarnation is no longer an affront to the law of non-contradiction.

Morris’s approach is bold and intriguing. Whether or not it is ultimately satisfactory, depends upon the strength of responses to the concerns it raises. First, if we allow, for the sake of the argument, that properties like limited knowledge and power are not essential for being fully human, we might  well ask, “What are essential?” In response, Morris takes a wait-and-see approach, “What essentially constitutes a human body and a human mind we wait upon a perfected science or a more complete revelation to say. We have neither a very full-blown nor a very fine-grained understanding of either at this point” (Morris, 1991, 166).

Second, we might ask “if properties like limited power and knowledge are not essential for being fully human, why are they so common?” Morris suggests that what makes these properties so common is either that they are included in our individual human natures, or they are the result of being merely human, that is, not possessing some additional nature (Morris, 1991, 165). Thus, the reason why Thomas V. Morris and the rest of us is limited in power and knowledge is either that his human nature is not possessed along with some higher nature, or because his individual nature the properties essential for being the particular human that is Thomas V. Morris includes limitations in power and knowledge.

There is a third concern. Morris rightly recognizes that an internally consistent account of the incarnation is not the only desideratum; he also wants an account that squares with the New Testament portrait of Jesus of  Nazareth. Morris must explain how it is that God the Son Incarnate could be, as described in the gospels, limited in power and knowledge (for example, Mark 13:32; John 4:6), even though he remained omnipotent and omniscient. Morris’s answer is that God the Son Incarnate had both a divine and human mind, and sometimes chose to rely only upon the resources of his human mind.

. . .  in the case of God Incarnate we must recognize something like two distinct minds or systems of mentality. There is first what we can call the eternal mind of God the Son, with its distinctively divine consciousness . . . encompassing the full scope of omniscience, empowered by the resources of  omnipotence, and present in power and knowledge throughout the entirety of the creation. And, in addition to this divine mind, there is a distinctly earthly mind with its consciousness that came into existence and developed with the conception, human birth and growth of Christ’s earthly form of   existence. . . . By living out his earthly life from on the resources of the human body and mind, he took on the form of our existence and shared the plight of our   condition (Morris, 1991, 169).

Talk of two minds inevitably raises the specter of two persons and Nestorianism. On a Cartesian view of persons, a human mind is a human person. From this perspective, if the incarnation required both a divine mind and human mind, then in God the Son Incarnate there were two persons, one human and one divine. Morris is aware of the concern and grants that in the case of mere humans, a human mind is a human person, “What we can refer to as my mental system was intended by God to define a person” (Morris, 1991, 174). However, for God incarnate, one who is fully human, but not merely human, having a human mind is not sufficient for being a human person. That individual’s personhood depends upon his ultimate metaphysical status, in this case divinity (Morris, 1991, 174).

2) Richard Swinburne’s Rejection of a Human Mind/Soul in Favor of a Human Range of Consciousness

At the core of Richard Swinburne’s account of the incarnation is the claim that God the Son Incarnate has both a human range of consciousness and a divine range of consciousness. In this way his view is akin to Thomas V. Morris’s. However, there is a crucial difference between their accounts. Morris holds that God the Son Incarnate has two minds, a divine mind and a human mind, each with its own range of consciousness.

Swinburne argues that God the Son Incarnate has a single mind with two ranges of consciousness. Instead of Morris’s two-minds view of the incarnation, Swinburne offers a divided-mind account of the incarnation.

To understand what Swinburne’s divided-mind view amounts to and why he prefers it to Morris’s two-minds view, we need to consider his understanding of humanity. In general, a mental substance, that is, a soul/mind, is human if it has a human body and is capable of “acting, acquiring beliefs, sensations and desires through it” (Swinburne, 1994, 196). Note that on this view, a mental substance is human only if it has a human body.

Richard Swinburne and the rest of us are human. But, by Swinburne’s reckoning, we are not essentially so. This follows from the fact that having a human body is a necessary condition for being human, and it is conceivable that we exist either without a body or with a very different sort of body. But, while no soul is essentially human, one soul became human by choice.

In taking on a human body and acquiring a human range of consciousness, God the Son did not lose omnipotence or omniscience. Indeed, he could not do so, for he is essentially divine, and omnipotence and omniscience belong to the divine nature. Instead, by becoming human, God the Son acquired additional ways of accessing the world; he took on “a way of operating which is limited and feels limited” (Swinburne, 1989, 66). So, we can explain references in the gospels to God the Son’s ignorance and powerlessness, as the results of the Son only relying on his human range of consciousness and abilities.

Because of his divided-mind account of the incarnation, Richard Swinburne steers clear of Nestorianism, for without two minds there cannot be two persons. That said, some may worry that without two minds, there cannot be two natures. If this is so, then Swinburne’s divided-mind view of the incarnation avoids Nestorianism only by taking an Apollinarian position in which God the Son incarnate has a human body but lacks a human mind.

Swinburne is well aware of the apparent problem and has a ready response. His view would be Apollinarian, if, in their talk about taking on a “reasonable soul,” the Fathers of Chalcedon had wished to affirm that God the Son took on an immaterial substance, a Cartesian soul so to speak. But that could not have been their view for then they would have been committed to a position they expressly denied, namely, that in the incarnation there are two beings. Instead, we should understand “soul” in the creed’s reference to “reasonable soul,” in an Aristotelian sense. So understood, to say that God the Son took on a human soul is to claim that he acquired “a human way of thinking and acting” (Swinburne, 1989, 61, note 12). If this reading of Chalcedon is correct, then Swinburne’s account does not entail Apollinarianism.

ii. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Divine: the Kenotic Approach

The counterpart to reconsidering what properties are essential to humanity is a reexamination of the properties essential to divinity. If we have reason to believe contrary to Thomas V. Morris’s suggestion that limited knowledge and power are not just common human properties but essential ones, consistency requires that we no longer count omnipotence and omniscience as essential divine properties. There is data in the New Testament that would support revising the list of essential divine properties. The New Testament records tell us that God the Son was sometimes tired (John 4:6) and that he grew in wisdom (Luke 2:52). When these descriptions are considered along side of Philippians 2:7, which tells us that God the Son “emptied himself” in order to become incarnate, it is reasonable to suppose that God the Son Incarnate relinquished properties such as omnipotence and omniscience. This approach to the incarnation is known as the kenotic view, in keeping with the Greek verb keneo, “to empty,” found in Philippians 2:7.

In order for God the Son to be able to give up properties like omnipotence and omniscience, two things need to be true. First, none of these properties could be essential properties of divinity, for God the Son is, by his very nature, divine, and no being can lose an essential property and continue to exist. Second, all of these properties, if possessed by God the Son, or another member of the Trinity, must be compatible with the essential properties of divinity, for God the Son can relinquish only what he can possess, and can possess only properties compatible with his divine nature.

It is important to distinguish God the Son’s relinquishing of properties like omniscience and omnipotence in the kenotic view, with the views of Morris and Swinburne on which God the Son chose not to avail himself of these properties for a period of time. For Morris and Swinburne, omnipotence and omniscience are essential divine properties and therefore ones that God the Son must always have. On the kenotic view these properties are accidental and therefore properties that God the Son can lose. On the kenotic view, there was a period of time during which God the Son could not possibly avail himself of omnipotence and omniscience (Evans, 2006b, 200).

If properties like omnipotence and omniscience are not essential divine properties, one might well ask: in what sense are power and knowledge essential to divinity? The kenotic response is that, it is not omnipotence but omnipotence unless freely given up, not omniscience but omniscience unless freely given up, that are essential properties of divinity. On the kenotic view, God the Son gives up the “omni properties” in order to become incarnate, while retaining the “unless properties.”

If “omni properties” are not essential for divinity, then God the Father and God the Holy Spirit could also give up omnipotence and omniscience. If all three persons of the Trinity did so simultaneously ─ and to the extent God the Son did at the beginning of the incarnation ─ there would be a time when many ordinary humans would surpass God in knowledge and power. This seems sufficient for a reductio ad absurdum of the kenotic view.

Ronald J. Feenstra sees the problematic nature of a complete Trinitarian kenosis, and so suggests a further refinement of essential divine properties, replacing omnipotence unless freely given up with omnipotence unless freely given up for the sake of reconciliation and omniscience unless freely given up with omniscience unless freely given up for the sake of reconciliation. Given this fine-tuning and an assumption that God the Son has accomplished the work of redemption, it would no longer be possible to have an absurd scenario in which many humans surpass all three members of the Trinity in knowledge and power (Feenstra, 2006, 153).

There would, however, be another problem: the kenotic approach would appear ad hoc, inviting the following question: “Apart from rescuing a Chalcedonian account of the incarnation, is there any reason to suppose that God has these fine-tuned kenotic properties?” In response, the kenotic theologian might argue, in keeping with Alvin Plantinga’s “Advice to Christian Philosophers” (Plantinga, 1984), that it is perfectly appropriate to begin with what we know about the incarnation and revise our concepts of God and humanity accordingly (Feenstra, 2006, 159).

By the same token, if there is a conflict between special revelation and the kenotic account of the incarnation, the latter must go. C. Stephen Evans, a defender of the kenotic approach, draws our attention to just such an apparent conflict concerning the glorification of God the Son Incarnate and expresses it in the form of a dilemma (Evans 2002, 263-264).

  • ŸEither the glorified God the Son Incarnate reassumes the properties he set aside or not.
  • ŸIf so, these properties are compatible with God the Son’s incarnation, contrary to the kenotic view.
  • ŸIf not, the kenotic view has a deficient account of the glorification of God the Son Incarnate.
  • ŸSo, either the kenotic approach is incorrect in supposing that God the Son’s incarnation requires setting aside certain properties or it is committed to a deficient account of God the Son’s glorification.

In response to this dilemma, a kenotic defender could distinguish between incarnation and kenosis, and argue that while kenosis entails incarnation, the reverse is not true. It may be that kenosis was the means by which God the Son became incarnate and subsequently shared our trials and temptations (Feenstra 1989, 148-150). However, kenosis and incarnation are not co-extensive for, while God the Son’s kenosis ends at his glorification, his incarnation does not. Evans suggests that “. . . Christ’s Incarnation in an ordinary body may have required a kenosis, but the kind of body he possesses in his glorified state may be compatible with the reassumption of all of the traditional theistic properties” (Evans 206b., 201-202). If this is right, then limited power and knowledge are not essential human properties after all. The relevant essential properties are more fine-grained: being limited in power while having an ordinary (unglorified) human body, being limited in knowledge while having an ordinary (ungloried) human body and so forth. So, God the Son gave up the properties like omnipotence and omniscience, not because he had to do so to be truly human─or else the glorified Son of God would not be truly human─but because our redemption required it.

iii. Reconsidering the Properties Required for Being Truly Divine and  Truly Human: Marilyn Adams’ Qualified-Property Approach

Marilyn Adams holds that, barring a miracle, every human individual is  essentially human. In the miracle of the incarnation God the Son, who is essentially divine, acquires a human nature. As a result, God the Son is not only truly divine, but also truly human. However, since God the Son is not essentially human, none of the properties included in his human nature are among his essential properties.

In virtue of possessing a divine nature, God the Son has the property of being uncreated, while in virtue of having a human nature, he possesses the property of being created. Possessing both of these properties appears to be a violation of the law of non-contradiction, which tells us that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect. Adams, however, taking her cue from Duns Scotus (1266-1308) (Adams, 2006, 133), argues that there is no incompatibility with the law of non-contradiction. As she sees it, strictly speaking, God the Son Incarnate does not possess the property pair: being created and being uncreated, but rather the pair: uncreated as (qua) divine and created as (qua) human. Further, since God the Son Incarnate is essentially divine and contingently human, he possesses the property of being uncreated, without qualification (simpliciter) and the property of being created, with qualification. Either way we choose to describe the difference between God the Son’s essential possession of his divine properties and contingent possession of his human properties, God the Son does not possess them in the same sense. Therefore there is no violation of the law of non-contradiction.

Adams goes on to note that Richard Cross (Cross, 2002, 204-205) “remains dubious” about this approach (Adams, 2006, 133). Chalcedon requires that God the Son Incarnate be “consubstantial with us in manhood; like us in all things except sin” (Olson, 1999, 231). However, what we possess is the property of being created, simpliciter, a property that God the Son Incarnate cannot possess as he has the property of being uncreated, simpliciter. It seems then that the distinction between properties God the Son Incarnate possesses with and without qualification, keeps the incarnation in line with the law of non-contradiction only by denying a core Chalcedonian claim – God the Son Incarnate is like us, save for sin. In response, Adams argues that the difficulty is only apparent, for the content of God the Son Incarnate’s human nature is the same as our nature; what differs is the way the content is attributed to him.

Commentators needlessly worry that if the Divine Word does not possess human nature in the way we do . . . in such a way that we could not exist without being human ─ then the Divine Word isn’t fully or perfectly human ─ i.e., doesn’t really possess all of what goes into being a human being. What the doctrine requires is that the Divine Word while essentially Divine contingently come to possess human nature in such a way as to be characterized by such features. So far as I know, no one . . . has envisioned the Divine Word possessing human nature essentially in such a way that the Divine Word couldn’t exist without being human (Adams, 2006, 134).

d. Showing that God the Son Incarnate Does Not Possess Any Property and its Complement “in the same respect”: Eleonore Stump’s Borrowed-Property View

Given the law of non-contradiction, God the Son Incarnate cannot both have and lack a property at the same time and in the same respect. To see how God the Son might have a property in one respect, but lack it in another, it is helpful to consider some everyday examples of this sort of thing. An apple, with respect to its skin, has the property of being red, but, with respect to its whitish inside, lacks that property. So, the apple has and lacks the property of being red, but there is no incoherence here because the apple has that property in one respect and lacks it in another (Leftow, 1992, 288). Similarly, a knife, with respect to its cutting edge, has the property of being sharp, but with respect to its handle, lacks that property. So, the knife has and lacks the property of being sharp, but there is no incoherence here for the knife has this property in one respect, but lacks it in another.

On the classical view of the incarnation, God the Son Incarnate is truly human and truly divine. Some, John Hick for example, hold that there cannot be a truly human and truly divine individual because, for example, such a being would have to possess omnipotence, to be fully divine, and lack it, to be fully human. This would indeed be problematic if God the Son Incarnate had to have and lack omnipotence at the same time and in the same respect. However, given that God the Son Incarnate has two natures, he can have some properties with respect to one nature and lack them with respect to the other nature. God Incarnate, with respect to his divine nature, is omnipotent, but with respect to his human nature, is not. God Incarnate, with respect to his human nature, is ignorant of some things, but, with respect to his divine nature, is not.

There is a significant objection to this way of reconciling the classical account of the incarnation with the law of non-contradiction; it only avoids running afoul of the law of non-contradiction by, contrary to Chalcedon, “dividing the natures” of God Incarnate. If one must treat God Incarnate’s human and divine natures as watertight compartments in order to avoid contradiction, then one must also give up the Chalcedonian claim that the two natures combine in one person. Or, to put a positive spin on it, if one is going to appeal to God the Son’s natures to show that he can possess a property with respect to one nature but not another ─ and stay within the bounds of Chalcedon ─ one will need to show how a property can be had relative to a nature, without being had only by that nature. By way of example, one will need to show that God the Son himself, not just his divine nature, can have the property of omnipotence, even though he is omnipotent only because that property belongs to his divine nature. Also, one would need to show that God the Son himself, can have the property of lacking strength, even though he has that property only because it is a part of his human nature. Though this description of the requisite demonstration has the appearance of an impossibility, Eleonore Stump  argues that with the notion of a “borrowed property” ─ a concept she finds implicit in Thomas Aquinas’s (1225-1274) work on the incarnation (Stump, 2002, 205-206) ─ it is possible to steer clear of contradiction and stay within the confines of Chalcedon.

For an explicit account of borrowed property, Eleonore Stump draws on the work of Lynne Rudder Baker:

Borrowing walks a fine line. On the one hand, if x borrows H from y, then x really has H-piggyback, so to speak . . . If I cut my hand, then I really bleed . . . I borrow the property of bleeding from my body, but I really bleed. But the fact that I am bleeding is none other than the fact that I am constituted by a body that is bleeding. So, not only does x really have H by borrowing it, but also ─ and this is the other hand ─ if x borrows H from y, there are not two independent instances of H: if x borrows H, then x’s having H is entirely a matter of having constitution elations to something that has H non-derivatively. [quoted in (Stump 2002), p. 205]

Stump provides an illustration of borrowed properties. She notes that Mark Twain’s Letters From the Earth is both comic and serious; as a biting critique of Christianity it is serious and as a satire it is comic. The work as a whole borrows the property of seriousness from its overall aim, while borrowing its comic property from Twain’s sarcasm and humor. So, Letters From the Earth is serious, with respect to its attack on Christianity, and comic, with respect to Twain’s use of humor. In a like manner, God the Son is omniscient with respect to his divine nature, and limited in knowledge with respect to his human nature. Just as the apparently incompatible properties, being comic and being serious, can be predicated of Letters From the Earth as a whole, when they are taken to be borrowed properties, so property pairs like unlimited knowledge and limited knowledge can be predicated of the person, God the Son, when they are understood as borrowed properties. The person, God the Son, borrows the property of omniscience from his divine nature and the property of limited knowledge from his human nature. As such, God the Son as (qua) divine is omniscient and as (qua) human is limited in knowledge.

4. Conclusion

The claim that God the Son Incarnate is truly human and truly divine appears to run afoul of the law of non-contradiction, which states that nothing can both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect. Four approaches to this incompatibility problem stand out: giving up the law of non-contradiction; adopting a relative account of identity; reconsidering the properties required for being truly human and/or divine; showing that God Incarnate does not possess any property and its complement in the same respect. Versions of the third and fourth approaches include Thomas V. Morris’s two-minds view, Richard Swinburne’s divided-mind account, Ronald J. Feenstra’s kenotic view, Marilyn Adams’ qualified-property perspective, and Eleonore Stump’s borrowed-property account. Significantly, all of these philosophers argue that their positions are compatible with the Chalcedonian Creed.

5. References and Further Reading

  • Adams, Marilyn McCord. 2006. Christ and Horrors. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Cross, Richard. 2002. The Metaphysics of God Incarnate. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Davis, Stephen T. 2006. Christian Philosophical Theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Evans, C. Stephen. 2002. “The Self-Emptying of Love: Some Thoughts on Kenotic Christology” in Davis, Stephen T.; Kendall, Daniel, SJ; O’Collins, Gerald, S.J. eds. The Incarnation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 246-272.
  • Evans, C. Stephen. 2006a. “Introduction” in C. Stephen Evans ed. Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 1-24.
  • Evans, C. Stephen. 2006b. “Kenotic Christology and the Nature of God” in C. Stephen Evans ed. Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 190-217.
  • Feenstra, Ronald J. 1989. “Reconsidering Kenotic Christology” in Feenstra, Ronald J. and Plantinga, Cornelius, Jr. eds. Trinity Incarnation and Atonement. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
  • Feenstra, Ronald J. 2006 “A Kenotic Christological Method for Understanding the Divine Attributes” in C. Stephen Evans ed. Exploring Kenotic Christology: The Self-Emptying of God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 139-164.
  • Hick, John. 1993. The Metaphor of God Incarnate. Louisville, KY: Westminster Press.
  • Leftow, Brian. 1992. “A Timeless God Incarnate ” in eds. Davis, Stephen T.; Kendall, Daniel, SJ; O’Collins, Gerald, S.J. eds. The Incarnation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 273-299.
  • Lewis, C.S. 1961. A Grief Observed. New York: Bantam Books.
  • Morris, Thomas V. 1986. The Logic of God Incarnate. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.
  • Morris, Thomas V. 1991. Our Idea of God. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
  • Olson, Roger E. 1999. The Story of Christian Theology. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1976. The Nature of Necessity. Oxford, Oxford University Press.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1984. “Advice to Christian Philosophers” in Faith and Philosophy, Vol. 1, Number 3. pp. 253-271.
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Author information

David Werther
Email: dwerther@dcs.wisc.edu
University of Wisconsin, Madison
U. s. A.

Reliabilism

Reliabilism encompasses a broad range of epistemological theories that try to explain knowledge or justification in terms of the truth-conduciveness of the process by which an agent forms a true belief. Process reliabilism is the most common type of reliabilism. The simplest form of process reliabilism regarding knowledge of some proposition p implies that agent S knows that p if and only if S believes that p,  p is true, and S’s belief that p is formed by a reliable process. A truth-conducive or reliable process is sometimes described as a belief-forming process that produces either mostly true beliefs or a high ratio of true to false beliefs. Process reliabilism regarding justification, rather than knowledge, says that S’s belief that p is justified if and only if S’s belief that p is formed by a reliable process.  This article discusses process reliabilism, including its background, motivations, and well-known problems. Although the article primarily emphasizes justification, it also discusses knowledge, followed by brief descriptions of other versions of reliabilism such as proper function theory, agent and virtue reliabilism, and tracking theories.

Table of Contents

  1. Background and Anti-Luck Predecessors of Process Reliabilism
    1. Brief Background
    2. Anti-Luck Predecessors of Process Reliabilism
  2. Process Reliabilist Theories of Justification and Knowledge
    1. Goldman’s “What Is Justified Belief?”
    2. Some Unresolved Issues
    3. Some Theoretical Commitments of Reliabilism
  3. Objections and Replies
    1. Reliably Formed True Belief Is Insufficient for Justification
    2. Reliably Formed True Belief Is Not Necessary for Justification
    3. The Problem of Easy Knowledge
    4. The Value Problem for Reliabilism
    5. The Generality Problem
  4. Proper Function and Agent and Virtue Reliabilism
    1. Plantinga’s Proper Function Account
    2. Agent and Virtue Reliabilism
  5. Tracking and Anti-Luck Theories
    1. Sensitivity
    2. Safety
  6. Conclusion
  7. References and Further Reading

1. Background and Anti-Luck Predecessors of Process Reliabilism

a. Brief Background

The nature of the knowledge-constituting link between truth and belief is a principal issue in epistemology.  Nearly all philosophers accept that a person, S, knows that p (where p is a proposition), only if S believes that p and p is true.  But true belief alone is insufficient for knowledge because S may believe that p without adequate or perhaps any grounds or evidence.  If, for example, S believes that p merely because he or she guesses that p, then the connection between S’s belief that p and the truth that p is too flimsy to count as knowledge.  S might just as easily have guessed that not-p and thus have been wrong.

Dating back to Plato’s Theaetetus, philosophical tradition held that knowledge is justified true belief (although it is debatable whether Plato’s ‘logos’, often translated simply as account, corresponds to the contemporary idea of justification, and Plato himself found the true belief with logos explication of knowledge wanting).   Although the nature of justification is a matter of considerable debate, a central idea is that when a belief is justified it is far likelier to be true than when it is not justified.  Reliabilists put this notion of truth-conduciveness front-and-center in their accounts of justification and knowledge.

F.P. Ramsey (1931) is often credited with the first articulation of a reliabilist account of knowledge.  He claimed that knowledge is true belief that is certain and obtained by a reliable process.  That idea lay more-or-less dormant until the 1960s, when reliabilist theories emerged in earnest.  A crucial development occurred when Edmund Gettier (1963) demonstrated that even justified true belief is insufficient for knowledge.  The diagnosis of the counterexamples Gettier provided is that an agent can obtain true beliefs with very solid grounds and yet the agent could still easily have been wrong.  It is only by luck or coincidence that the agent’s source of justification leads to true belief.  That is, the agent’s true belief is infected by knowledge-precluding “epistemic luck. It is difficult to say just how much Gettier’s paper motivated reliabilist accounts of justification and knowledge, especially since, as discussed below, process reliabilism regarding justification is somewhat detached from concerns about epistemic luck.  It is nonetheless clear that Gettier’s counterexamples led to fresh thinking about the knowledge-constituting link between belief and truth, and that process reliabilism emerged as a theory-type from some of the responses to Gettier.  This section briefly addresses precursors to process reliabilism that aim to eliminate luck, with the aim of giving a partial, reconstructed genealogy of process reliabilism.  Section 5 discusses other versions of reliabilism that explicitly address epistemic luck.

b. Anti-Luck Predecessors of Process Reliabilism

Alvin Goldman is perhaps the most influential proponent of reliabilism.  Goldman (1967) responded to Gettier by arguing that knowledge is true belief caused in an appropriate way. Goldman left the notion of “appropriate” open-ended, awaiting scientific discovery of causal mechanisms that reliably yield true belief.  To see how Goldman’s causal theory attempts to eliminate epistemic luck, consider the following Gettier counterexample.  Smith has very good evidence that Jones owns a Ford, but has no idea of the whereabouts of his friend, Brown.  Smith forms the belief, via competent deduction from the justified premise that Jones owns a Ford, that either Jones owns a Ford or Brown is in Barcelona.  It turns out that Jones does not own a Ford—perhaps Jones showed Smith a fake title while giving Smith a ride home in the Ford—but Brown is, by coincidence, in Barcelona.  Smith’s disjunctive belief is true and justified, but clearly not a case of knowledge.  Goldman’s causal theory correctly diagnoses this case, because the specific fact that makes Smith’s disjunctive belief true—that Brown is in Barcelona—is not a causal antecedent of Smith’s belief.  Rather, Smith believes what he does because he has evidence that Jones owns a Ford.

Goldman recognized that his causal theory still permitted knowledge-precluding epistemic luck (Goldman, 1976).  A crucial counterexample to the causal theory (and to many others) is the famous barn facsimile case.  Driving through the countryside, Henry points out a barn to his son, saying, “That’s a barn.”  It so happens that all the other “barns” in the area are mere façades meant to look exactly like barns from the road.  Does Henry know that the ostended object is a barn?  On Goldman’s causal theory, the answer is “yes,” since perception of the actual barn causes Henry to believe that it is a barn.  But Henry just got lucky.  He could very easily have pointed to a façade and formed the false belief that it is a barn, and therefore Henry does not know that the object he pointed to is a barn.

Although the fake barn example does not fit the precise mold of Gettier’s cases, it is nonetheless a case of epistemic luck, whose common feature is that the agent has a true belief that could easily have been false—the link between belief and truth is too weak to constitute knowledge.  To shore up that link, Goldman (1976) introduced his discrimination account of perceptual knowledge.  Goldman says, “S has perceptual knowledge if and only if not only does his perceptual mechanism produce true belief, but there are no relevant counterfactual situations in which the same belief would be produced via an equivalent percept and in which the belief would be false” (Goldman 1976, 786).  In the fake barns case, because the countryside is filled with barn façades that Henry cannot distinguish from actual barns, there is a relevant counterfactual situation where what Henry sees matches his perception of the real barn, leading him to believe falsely that he sees a barn.  Because Henry’s belief thereby fails to satisfy Goldman’s discrimination requirement, Henry does not know that what he sees is a barn.

Goldman’s discrimination theory makes reference to the notion of a relevant alternative, which is now a staple of epistemological theorizing.  Usually, when a theorist exploits the idea of relevant alternatives, it signals a commitment to fallibilism.  In many cases, an agent knows that p because she can distinguish the state of affairs where p is true from possibilities where p is false—she can “rule out” those other possibilities.  For example, S knows the cat is on the mat when she sees that it is, because if the cat were not on the mat she would see that it is not and would not believe that the cat is on the mat.  But S cannot and, on many relevant alternatives accounts, need not rule out all logical counter-possibilities, such as a scenario where S is a brain-in-a-vat (BIV), having her experiences “fed” to her by a mad scientist through electrodes connected to the brain, in which case all her beliefs about the external world would be false.  S knows (says the fallibilist) but she is not infallible.

A full discussion of the myriad ways in which philosophers construe relevant alternatives is beyond the scope of this article.  On Goldman’s discrimination account, an alternative is relevant if it is a situation that occurs in a nearby possible world.  Though appeals to possible worlds are controversial—Which worlds are possible?  How do we know which are nearby and which are distant?—intuitively, a possible world where the cat is not on the mat but is on her bird-watching perch is closer to the actual world than one where S is a BIV having cat-on-the-mat images fed directly to her brain.  This may sound question-begging against the skeptic who insists that, for all S knows, the actual world could be one where S is a BIV, and so S cannot achieve any empirical knowledge because she cannot rule out that possibility.  However, it is uncontroversial that S knows that p only if p is true.  So when analyzing ‘S knows that p’—that is, when explicating the conditions in which ‘S knows that p’ is true—the actual world is one where p is true; where, for example, the cat is on the mat.  (More on the distinction between formulating necessary and sufficient conditions for ‘S knows that p’ and arguing that human agents in fact have knowledge, below.)  Given that it is true that the cat is on the mat, the possibility that the cat is on her perch is far closer to the actual world than the possibility that there are no cats, mats or perches and that S is just a BIV being fed such images.

To this point, there has been little discussion of process reliabilism.  But the preceding description of Goldman’s early views is useful because it provides the background to his well-known reliabilist theory of justification.  In addition, when the previous discussion is coupled with the following section on reliabilism regarding justification, a broader picture of the basic theoretical commitments of process reliabilism emerges.  The following section looks first at process reliabilism (2a) and then, after canvassing some of its unresolved issues (2b), aims to unpack some of its basic theoretical commitments (2c).  Section 5 of this article discusses tracking theories, often seen as versions of reliabilism that are close in spirit to, and aim to eliminate the kind of epistemic luck revealed in, Goldman’s discrimination account.

2. Process Reliabilist Theories of Justification and Knowledge

Goldman’s process reliabilism is a descendant of his earlier causal and discrimination accounts of knowledge, but constitutes a major change of focus.  For one thing, neither of the earlier theories is explicitly intended as an account of epistemic justification, whereas providing such an account is a central project of Goldman’s process reliabilism.  For another, the requisite knowledge-constituting link between belief and truth, whether or not conceived of as a form of justification, is radically reconstrued.  The causal account asks whether the specific cause of a true belief is sufficient for knowledge.  The discrimination account asks whether there are relevant counterfactual situations in which the percept upon which the given true belief is based would lead S to form a false belief, in which case S does not know that p in the actual case.  Because both accounts focus on specific features of a particular belief , they are versions of local reliabilism.  Process reliabilism, by contrast, asks whether the general belief-forming process by which S formed the belief that p would produce a high ratio of true beliefs to false beliefs.  As with the causal and discrimination accounts, the central question is whether the belief at issue is reliably formed.  But here the answer is determined not by the belief’s unique causal ancestry, or by the nature of the specific percept upon which the belief is based, but by appeal to the truth-conduciveness of the general cognitive process by which it was formed.  This is sometimes called global reliabilism.  It should be noted, however, that Goldman gestures in the direction of process reliabilism, of a global account, in his discrimination paper when he says: “a cognitive mechanism or process is reliable if it not only produces true beliefs in actual situations, but would produce true beliefs…in relevant counterfactual situations” (1976, 771).

a. Goldman’s “What Is Justified Belief?”

Goldman proposed an account of process (or global) reliabilist justification in “What Is Justified Belief?” (1979). In the causal and discrimination accounts discussed above, Goldman demurred from describing the knowledge-constituting link between belief and truth as justification.  In summarizing  his discrimination theory, Goldman said, “If one wishes, one can so employ the term ‘justification’ [such] that belief causation of [the discriminatory] kind counts as justification.  In this sense, of course, my theory does require justification.  But this is entirely different from the sort of justification demanded by Cartesianism” (1979, 790).  At least since Descartes, philosophers have traditionally thought of justification internalistically, such that S’s belief is justified only if S is in a position to produce reasons or evidence to support her belief.  Goldman balked at the claim that he was offering a theory of justification because his theories do not require justification as traditionally conceived.  On the other hand, what one calls “justification” is a matter of debate, so it is not implausible to think of any theory aiming to explicate the knowledge-constituting link between truth and belief as a theory of justification.  If, however, one insists that the very idea of justification demands being in a position to offer grounds for belief, one will refrain from calling Goldman’s causal and discrimination accounts theories of justification.  That leaves open the possibility that one could accept some version of a causal or discrimination account of the belief-truth link as a theory of knowledge, and simply deny that knowledge requires justification.  (See Kornblith (2008).  Internalists about knowledge will still be unsatisfied, as they will demand that knowledge itself requires being in a position to offer grounds for belief.  An early and influential version of reliabilism about knowledge is David Armstrong’s Belief, Truth and Knowledge.)

The main point of contention here revolves around how one understands the word “justification”.  The term connotes having good reasons or even the act of giving good reasons.  Thus it is not surprising that many philosophers would reject a theory of justification that did not require an agent at least to be able to give reasons for her belief.  But if one thinks of epistemic justification as whatever sufficiently ties an agent’s belief to the truth, externalist accounts like Goldman’s will count as theories of justification.  The debate about justification is why some reliabilists, local and/or global, eschew justification altogether, aiming to directly explicate “knowledge” as true belief with an appropriate link between belief and truth.  These are reliabilist theories of knowledge as opposed to accounts of justification.

(The preceding discussion may seem to suggest that debates about justification are merely terminological, based solely on whether the term “justified” is applicable to a belief when the agent lacks cognitive access to the factors that tie her belief to the truth.  That is, perhaps, too simplistic.  See, for example, Bergmann’s Justification Without Awareness for an extended study and defense of externalism that directly engages internalist arguments and positions.)

Goldman (1979) sets out to provide substantive conditions for when a belief is justified (hence this version is explicitly a reliabilist theory of justification as a necessary condition for knowledge).  Now, “justified” is both an epistemic and an evaluative term, and presumably evaluative because epistemic.  If knowledge is justified true belief, the only epistemic constituent of knowledge is justification.  Belief is a psychological notion, and truth is a metaphysical or semantic— at any rate not epistemic— concept.  In addition, the concepts of belief and truth are not evaluative—to believe that p is by itself neither good nor bad, and the truth by itself is neither good nor bad.  (One might think, though, that true belief (or having a true belief) is good.  But as we have seen, an agent can acquire a true belief in all kinds of bad ways—guessing, wishful thinking, hasty generalization, and the like.  There may of course be some instrumental value in having a true belief through some such means—it may help the agent achieve some end—but acquiring a true belief in some such deficient way warrants a negative appraisal of the agent’s belief.  In addition, even if it makes sense to say that true belief is good, it does not follow that truth  or belief  themselves are good; thus of the three constituents of knowledge, only ‘justification’ is by itself an evaluative term, and it is also the only epistemic one.)

Why must a substantive (or illuminating) account of justification eschew epistemic-cum-evaluative terms?  Consider a couple rudimentary alternatives.  1) A belief that p is justified for an agent S if and only if S has good reasons to believe that p.  2) A belief that p is justified for an agent S if and only if S has solid evidence that p.  In both cases there is an obvious next question: Q1) What are good reasons?  Q2) What is solid evidence?  Because the notions of “good reasons” and “solid evidence” are similarly evaluative, they do not cast much light on the epistemic and evaluative concept of justification.  Goldman canvasses several possible theories of justification to show that, when construed as free of epistemic terms, they do not plausibly explicate the notion of justification, and when construed as containing epistemic terms, they leave open the central questions about justification, as seen in our two questions above.

Goldman diagnoses the failure of putative theories or analyses of justification that are properly cashed out in non-epistemic terms.  Though he does not use this terminology (in this paper, but see Goldman (2008)), it will be helpful to introduce the distinct concepts of propositional and doxastic justification.  Suppose we have an analysis of justification which says that a belief that p is justified for S if and only if (some condition) x obtains.  We can then say that a proposition p is justified for S if and only if, whether or not S believes that p, x obtains.  Here, S may not believe that p but may be considering whether p.  Now suppose that S does believe that p.  Then, S is doxastically justified in believing that p if and only if p is propositionally justified for S and S believes that p because x obtains.  Suppose, for example, that Jones sees a blue jay in her back yard and is thus justified in believing there is a blue jay in the back yard.  The existence of a blue jay in the back yard entails that there is at least one animal in the back yard.  Whether or not Jones draws that inference, the proposition that there is at least one animal in the back yard is propositionally justified for Jones.  Now suppose Jones believes that there is at least one animal in the back yard.  Is that belief doxastically justified?  Not if Jones believes it because a notorious liar asserted it.  That there exists propositional justification for an agent does not entail that the agent is doxastically justified in believing the proposition.  Goldman’s insight is that doxastic justification requires that the belief has an appropriate cause, and he goes on to characterize “appropriate cause” as having been produced by a reliable belief-forming process— that is, a process that produces mostly true beliefs or a high ratio of true to false beliefs.  Guessing, wishful thinking, and hasty generalization are unreliable, whereas believing on the basis of a distinct memory, attentive viewing, or valid deduction is reliable.

Philosophers sometimes use other terminology to draw a distinction similar to the one between propositional and doxastic justification.  Feldman and Conee (1985) distinguish justification from “well-foundedness”, where the latter requires not only that the agent have (propositional) justification, but also that the agent’s belief is based on that justification.  Others (for example, Moser (1989)) employ the notion of a basing relation to distinguish between an agent’s (merely) having a reason to believe and an agent’s believing because of that reason.  Knowledge requires doxastic justification, or well-founded belief, or belief based on reasons or formed on the basis of a reliable process.

Goldman also distinguishes between basic beliefs and non-basic beliefs.  Basic beliefs are not justified by reference to other beliefs, whereas non-basic beliefs are so justified.  Basic beliefs are justified if and only if they result from (are causal outputs of) an unconditionally reliable process—a process none of whose inputs consist of other beliefs (perceptual beliefs are plausible candidates here).  Non-basic beliefs are justified if and only if they result from a belief-dependent process that is conditionally reliable— that is, a process whose inputs consist partially of other beliefs and which, given that the inputs are true, produces beliefs that are likely to be true.  Memory, which is based on previously formed beliefs, induction on a large and varied base, and deduction might be considered reliable belief-dependent processes.

Because basic beliefs do not have other beliefs as sources of justification, they invite no regress of reasons or justification.  The traditional internalist who insists that justification requires that the agent be in a position to give reasons in support of her belief encounters trouble here.  Where does the justification end?  If an agent offers her belief that q in support of her belief that p, the obvious question is: Why believe that q?  If the answer is, “because r“, a potential regress threatens.  It may be infinite, and one might wonder whether an embodied human agent can make use of such an infinite chain to justify her beliefs, or whether such a regress is vicious.  (For a defense of infinitism, see Klein (1999).)  Alternatively, the chain of justification might go round in a circle, where no single belief is independently justified, which raises the concern that the circle is vicious.  Toy version: S believes that p on the basis of q, q on the basis of r, and r on the basis of p.  Third, all of one’s beliefs might be deemed justified because they properly cohere in the sense that they are interdependent and mutually supporting.  But one can have interdependent and mutually supporting beliefs all of which are false.  Whatever else justification is, we noted above that a common thread in epistemological discussions is that a justified belief is more likely to be true than one that is not justified, whereas coherence is compatible with one’s having all false beliefs.  The reliabilist externalist simply opts out of the requirement that reasons are reflectively accessible to the agent by identifying justified beliefs with those that are the outputs of reliable processes, whether or not the process itself includes other beliefs.  If it does not, then the process is belief-independent and the beliefs produced by it are basic.  Put differently, reliabilism makes plausible a form of structural foundationalism which stops the regress of justification, whereas it is difficult for the internalist to cite regress-stopping basic beliefs that are justified but not by other beliefs.

BonJour (1985, chapter 2) presents a master argument against foundationalism in general, and then (chapter 4) presents a dilemma faced by internalist foundationalists who appeal to “the given” as foundational.  The latter goes something like this.  If the given, as what constitutes the justificatory foundation, itself has propositional content, then for that reason it may provide rational justification for the beliefs based on it, but then one wants to know how the foundation is justified, and the regress begins.  If, on the other hand, the given does not have propositional content, then it’s not the sort of thing that needs justification, but then how can it be a reason at all?  How can it justify other beliefs?  This dilemma is part of Bonjour’s larger argument against foundationalism in general, because he recognizes that one could avoid the dilemma faced by internalists by ‘going externalist’— that is, by not requiring that all beliefs must be supported by reflectively accessible reasons (by other justified beliefs) to be justified, so long as they are the result of a reliable process.  BonJour rejects this maneuver because he thinks the very ideas of knowledge and justification require reflectively accessible reasons.

A feature of this account that Goldman himself touts is that process reliabilism is an historical theory.  Whereas traditional Cartesian justification and many other theories construe justification as a function of only current mental states of an agent, Goldman emphasizes the belief’s causal history.  An historical account is naturally coupled with externalism because on the traditional internalist theory of justification one’s reasons must be reflectively accessible at the time of belief.  If the latter requirement is rejected, it opens the possibility that a belief may be partly justified by past events in the causal chain leading to belief.  And if those justificatory factors were reflectively accessible at the time of belief, that they occurred in the past would be irrelevant.  Thus reflective accessibility (internalism) naturally pairs with what Goldman calls “current time-slice” theories, whereas externalism naturally pairs with an historical theory.

When naturally coupled with externalism, an historical conception of justification makes intelligible some intuitive cases of knowledge that an internalist conception fails to capture. For example, suppose S read years ago about a certain fact in a reliable source.  S now recalls that fact, but cannot remember the source from which she obtained it.  S is not in a position to offer reasons for her belief— in response to a challenge about why she believes what she does, she may say, “I just do”—but, if her memory is reliable, then the belief might plausibly be considered justified.

As mentioned briefly in §1, Goldman’s process reliabilism is not designed to handle some forms of epistemic luck, such as Gettier cases.  It is conceived, rather, as an alternative to (and improvement over) traditional theories of justification, and we saw above how a belief can be true and justified but not a case of knowledge because of luck.  Thus Goldman: “Justified beliefs…have appropriate causal histories; but they may fail to be knowledge either because they are false or because they founder on some other requirement for knowing of the kind discussed in the post-Gettier knowledge-trade” (1979, 15).

In sum, Goldman proposes a theory of justification according to which a belief is doxastically justified for an agent S just in case S’s belief is formed from a reliable, that is truth-conducive, belief-independent process (for basic beliefs) or from a conditionally reliable belief-dependent process (for non-basic beliefs).  Further details need to be filled in, but on some of these issues Goldman offers suggestions but remains agnostic.

b. Some Unresolved Issues

First, what exactly does one mean by a process that is “truth-conducive” or “has a tendency to produce true belief”?  Does it mean that, in the long run, the process actually produces mostly true beliefs?  Or does it mean that it would produce mostly true beliefs if it were used?  For example, suppose that Jones, blind from birth, undergoes  new eye surgery that provides him with 20-20 vision.  He wakes up, sees a very realistic-looking  stuffed cat, hears a creature “meowing”  nearby, and forms the false belief that the stuffed cat is a real cat.  Deathly afraid of cats, he goes into cardiac arrest and dies.  He has formed one belief based on vision, but it is false.  Ought we to conclude that his vision is unreliable because it produced only false belief?  Presumably not, and so reliability should not be construed in terms of the actual outputs of a process.  Goldman sees this and says: “For the most part, we simply assume that the ‘observed’ frequency of truth versus error would be approximately replicated in the actual long-run, and also in relevant counterfactual situations, i.e. ones that are highly ‘realistic’, or conform closely to circumstances of the actual world” (1979, 11).  Is the suggestion, then, that we use observed frequency as a guide to what would happen in the long run, or in worlds similar to the actual world?  This won’t work in the case just described.  Or is the suggestion that we can dispense with observed frequency and think instead in terms of how the process would perform in the long run or in close possible worlds?  And if so, what is the basis of our understanding of how it would perform?  Reliabilists owe answers to these questions, but so far no one set of answers is generally accepted.

Second, which are the worlds in which a process must be reliable to constitute justification?  Suppose there is a possible world where a benevolent demon arranges things such that beliefs based on wishful-thinking always turn out to be true.  Wishful-thinking would be truth-conducive, but we would hesitate to say that those beliefs are justified.  One way to repair this defect is to say that a belief in a possible world w is justified if and only if it is formed from a process that is reliable in the actual world.  But what if, unbeknownst to us, wishful-thinking is reliable in the actual world?  Goldman’s suggestion here is that what we seek is an explanation of why we deem some beliefs justified and others not, and what we deem justified depends not on actual facts about reliability but on what we believe about reliability.  So even if wishful-thinking were in fact reliable, because we do not believe it to be, it would not count as a basis for justification.

It is worth pausing here to note a consequence of the distinction between reliabilist theories of justification and reliabilist theories of knowledge.  The consequence is not a logical one, but it appears real enough.  Goldman wants to improve upon the traditional notion of justification, and as a result he must take seriously basic judgments about when a belief is justified.  Because it seems counterintuitive to deem wishful-thinking a basis for justification (even in a benevolent demon world), Goldman suggests a shift from actual reliability to what we believe about reliability as the basis for justification.  But in so doing, the original novel insight that justification depends on facts, some historical, about reliability loses its grip.  If, on the other hand, a theorist were not concerned to elucidate “justification” in a reliabilist theory of knowledge, she would be less inclined to feel the pull of intuitions about justification.  She could say that knowledge is reliably formed true belief and leave it at that.  If some cases of knowledge lacked features typically associated with justification, so be it.

Third, what is a process?  Fundamentally, it simply takes inputs (such as percepts or other beliefs) and yields belief outputs.  But how are processes individuated?  Is vision a process?  Vision in good lighting conditions might well be reliable, but vision in the dark is not.  The point is that processes can be individuated coarsely, such as a process by which beliefs are formed on the basis of vision, or finely, such as where beliefs are formed on the basis of vision in good lighting at close range, and so forth.  Such questions about process individuation must be settled in advance of answers to questions about justification.  This is, again, because process reliabilism is intended to be a substantive account of justification, such that whether a belief is justified is determined by whether the process is reliable.  Because processes can be individuated in myriad ways, one could always cite some suitably refined reliable process to answer to the antecedent judgment that a belief is justified.  But this gets things backwards, since the reliabilist wants to derive facts about justification from antecedent understanding of when a belief is reliably produced.  This is the heart of the generality problem for reliabilism, which will be discussed further in the following section.

c. Some Theoretical Commitments of Reliabilism

Having described both process reliabilism and its historical predecessors, some theoretical commitments common to both come to light.

First, it was noted earlier (1a) that Goldman’s early appeal to relevant alternatives signals a commitment to fallibilism.  Process reliabilism is also fallibilist.  So long as a belief-forming process produces mostly true beliefs, it is a source of justification and knowledge that p, even if the process does not provide the agent with the ability to rule out all counter-possibilities where not-p.  On this view, a belief can be justified but false (which is generally accepted), and, more importantly, S can know that p even when S is susceptible to error because she cannot rule out all the possibilities in which not-p.

Second, closely related to the commitment to fallibilism is a strategy to undermine the skeptic.  The skeptic says that, because S cannot rule out the possibility that she is a BIV (or is dreaming or is deceived by an evil demon), S cannot know even mundane truths about her environment, for example that the cat is on the mat.  But if it is correct that the BIV scenario is an irrelevant alternative, and that one need rule out only relevant alternatives to know that p, it follows that one can know ordinary empirical truths even though the skeptic may be right that one cannot know that one is not a BIV.

Reliabilists need not be committed to the claim that one cannot know that radical skeptical hypotheses, like the BIV scenario, are false, and there are strong theoretical considerations for rejecting it.  Suppose S knows (on some or other reliable grounds) that the cat is on the mat.  Upon reflection, S will also know that if the cat is on the mat, then S is not a BIV (because, ex hypothesi, there are no real cats and mats in the BIV world).  And it would seem that S could easily know, by deduction from known premises, which is a paradigm reliable process, that she is not a BIV.  To claim that there are cases where S cannot achieve knowledge through valid logical deduction from known premises is to deny the principle that knowledge is closed under known entailment, which strikes many as preposterous.  And accepting the closure principle appears to imply either that we can know that radical skeptical hypotheses are false, which strikes many as intuitively incorrect, or that we know nothing about the external world, because if we did, we could logically infer that radical skeptical hypotheses are false.  This issue arises again in section 5 when the discussion turns to particular reliabilist tracking theories that explicitly deny closure.

Third, it is important to understand that the reliabilist primarily aims to produce an account of the nature of knowledge, whereas it is a secondary objective to show that human agents in fact have knowledge.  The skeptical appeal to the BIV scenario is meant as the basis of an a priori argument that knowledge is impossible: S knows a priori that she cannot rule out the BIV possibility because any perceptual experience she could have is compatible with the BIV scenario, and the skeptic argues a priori that S therefore cannot even know that the cat is on the mat, because for all S knows she is a BIV.  Goldman’s causal and discrimination accounts and his subsequent process reliabilist theory counter the skeptic’s claim by saying that if, as a matter of fact, S’s belief that p is caused in the right way (or S can discriminate p from close counter-possibilities or S’s belief is formed from a reliable process), then S knows that p.  Surely any or all of these conditions might hold for S’s belief, and no a priori skeptical argument can demonstrate otherwise.  This is a significant advance against skepticism, because the skeptic must adopt the more defensive position of having to show that these conditions never hold, which is not something that can be proved a priori.  On the other hand, when the reliabilist goes further and tries to show that empirical knowledge is not only possible but actual, she needs to show that her favored conditions for knowledge in fact obtain, and that is a far more difficult task.  This also raises a concern about bootstrapping—where one uses some or other reliable process to infer that her belief-forming processes are in fact reliable—and this smacks of question-begging.  (See “the problem of easy knowledge,” section 3.)

Fourth, and perhaps most importantly, reliabilism is typically construed as a paradigm version of epistemological externalism, which is the thesis that not all aspects of the knowledge-constituting link between belief and truth need be cognitively available to the agent.  (See Steup (2003) for a defense of the claim that any factors that justify belief or constitute the requisite link between belief and truth must be cognitively available to the agent, or “recognizable on reflection”.)  When the skeptic claims that S cannot know that p because, for all S knows, she might be a BIV, the externalist replies that, if in fact the relevant causal, discriminatory, or process reliabilist conditions obtain, whether or not the agent is able to recognize on reflection that they do, and in general whether or not facts about their obtaining are cognitively available to her, S knows that p.  Internalists are often seen as playing into the hands of the skeptic because the cognitively available factors that confer justification on one’s empirical beliefs, such as perceptual evidence, are compatible with the BIV scenario.  Because there are no further means cognitively available to rule out the BIV scenario, the skeptic’s claim that one cannot achieve even ordinary empirical knowledge appears to be more damaging to the internalist than to the externalist.

The points about anti-skepticism and externalism can be brought out in another way.  Because internalists typically demand reflectively accessible reasons for justification, they encounter more difficulty in accounting for cases of unreflective knowledge in adults, and of the kind of knowledge had by unsophisticated or unreflective persons, or perhaps even animals.  A stock example is the chicken-sexer, a person who can reliably determine the sex of a young chick, but does not know how she does it.  If asked, “How do you know that one is male?” the chicken-sexer can offer no reasons.  Still, for many it is quite plausible to say that the chicken-sexer knows the sex of the chick simply because, somehow, she is very successful in distinguishing males from females.  The point generalizes.  Many true beliefs held by very young people, who are less reflective than adults, and basic perceptually based beliefs even in adults, plausibly count as cases of knowledge because the processes from which those beliefs are formed allow the believer to distinguish what is true (for example, that the chick is male) from what is false (that the chick is female).  The externalist can account for these more easily than the internalist can, and such cases suggest that both the skeptic and the internalist may be setting the bar for knowledge too high.  For fuller discussion, see “Grandma, Timmy, and Lassie.”

Finally, it is worthwhile to note further theoretical inspirations for process reliabilism.  One inspiration is epistemological naturalism— very roughly, the view that finding answers to epistemological questions requires more than just armchair inquiry, but also empirical investigation.  Some naturalists, for instance Quine (1969), will find this characterization too weak-kneed, arguing that armchair epistemological inquiry should be replaced by scientific investigation into what actually produces true beliefs.  Present purposes allow us to construe naturalism more broadly, because the crucial idea is that science can inform philosophy, which undermines the “traditional” idea of philosophy as providing the foundation of science.  (“Traditional” is in scare quotes because the history of philosophy prior to the twentieth century shows that the relationship between philosophy and science has not always been conceived of as that between foundation and superstructure.)  In particular, reliabilists look to cognitive science to understand the nature of our belief-forming processes and to tell us which among them are reliable.  Goldman himself is a leading figure in naturalistic epistemology, and has held joint appointments in philosophy and cognitive science.  Reliabilism intimately connects what previously were considered two distinct inquiries—the nature of cognition and the nature of knowledge.

3. Objections and Replies

a. Reliably Formed True Belief Is Insufficient for Justification

Perhaps the most basic objection to reliabilism is that reliably formed belief is not sufficient for justification.  Laurence BonJour (1980) has famously argued this point by way of counterexample.  Suppose S is reliably clairvoyant but has reason to believe there is no such thing as clairvoyance.  Still, on the basis of her clairvoyant powers, she believes truly that the President is in New York City.  Bonjour argues that S’s belief is not justified because S is being irrational—believing on the basis of a power she believes not to exist.  Goldman (1979) “replies” to this sort of problem (though Goldman’s paper came first) by tweaking his account of reliability.  For S’s belief that p to be justified, not only must it be produced by a reliable process, but there must be no other reliable process available to S such that, had S used that process, S would not believe that p.  Suppose S has scientific evidence that clairvoyance does not exist, scientific evidence typically being a reliable source of knowledge.  Had S based her belief on that evidence, it would override her clairvoyance-based belief, hence she would not believe that the President is in New York, supporting the conclusion that her actual belief is not in fact justified.

But what if, BonJour asks, S has no evidence in support of or against the existence of clairvoyance?  Then, there would be no other reliable process available to her such that, had her belief been based on it, she would not believe what she does.  In that case, S seems to believe blindly where, unlike typical perceptually based beliefs, she has no reason to think her clairvoyant powers are real.  A similar case is provided by Keith Lehrer (1990).  Mr. Truetemp has had a device implanted in his head, a “tempucomp”, which is an accurate thermometer “hooked up” to his brain in such a way that he automatically forms true beliefs about the ambient temperature but does not know anything about the thermometer.  Imagine that it was implanted while he was in the hospital for some other procedure.  Truetemp has reliably formed beliefs about the temperature, but does he know the temperature?  Here again, he appears to believe blindly, which seems irrational, hence unjustified.  A thoroughgoing externalist about knowledge may be willing to bite this bullet and say that S knows that the President is in New York (and that Truetemp knows the temperature), citing the reliability of the basis of the belief.  An externalist about justification might also bite this bullet and say that S’s belief is justified, but this seems to some a bit harder to swallow, since blind belief appears to undermine justification.

In Epistemology and Cognition (Goldman, 1986), Goldman suggested that a belief is justified if and only if it is reliable in normal worlds.  Normal worlds are those that are consistent with our most “general beliefs about the sorts of objects, events, and changes that occur in” the actual world (Goldman 1986, 107).  The suggestion addresses the benevolent demon and clairvoyance objections, and perhaps too the Truetemp objection, because none of those scenarios is consistent with our general beliefs about the actual world (though this is less clear for the Truetemp case).  Thus on the normal worlds approach, beliefs based on help from the demon, on clairvoyance, and on a thermometer implanted in one’s head “feeding” temperature data directly into one’s cognition would not count as genuinely reliable, and so are not justified.

As an account of when we would deem a belief justified, the normal worlds approach is promising, but one might wonder whether it is a plausible account of when one is actually justified.  After all, if our general beliefs about the actual world are not themselves justified, it would seem that beliefs formed against that backdrop are unjustified.  (See Pollock and Cruz (1999).)

Sensitive to this kind of objection, Goldman proposed yet another version of process reliabilism in his “Strong and Weak Justification” (Goldman, 1988).  The basic idea is that a belief is strongly justified when formed from a process that is actually reliable, but weakly justified when formed by a process that is deemed reliable (say, by one’s community). As we have seen, the two kinds of justification can come apart.  Imagine a community where astrology is deemed reliable and where an agent has no reason to believe that his community’s beliefs about which processes typically yield true beliefs are false or misguided.  Because the agent’s beliefs are blameless—she would not be faulted by her community peers for forming her astrology-based beliefs—there is a sense in which her beliefs are justified.  This is weak justification and is a plausible basis for when justification is properly attributed to an agent’s belief or believing.  But because astrology is not in fact reliable, she is not strongly justified.  On the other hand, reliably formed beliefs in the benevolent demon world, and beliefs formed from clairvoyance or from a tempucomp implanted in one’s head, are strongly justified.  However, because our community does not recognize such processes as actually reliable (or existent), such beliefs are not weakly justified.  In addition, one could view weak justification as an account of when it is proper to attribute justification, and strong justification as an account of when one is actually justified.  (Or, one could say that a belief is fully justified only if it is both strongly and weakly justified.)

Goldman subsequently offers another theory of justification attribution in “Epistemic Folkways and Scientific Epistemology” (Goldman, 1992), which proceeds in two stages.  In the first stage, an agent constructs a mental list based on her community’s beliefs about which processes are reliable.  Processes deemed reliable are thought of as virtuous, others as vicious.  In the second stage, the agent attributes justification only if a belief is virtuously formed— that is, formed according to whether the belief-forming process is on her list of virtues.  Most of us do not have clairvoyance or benevolent-helper-demon processes on our list of virtues, which explains why we do not attribute justification to beliefs formed on those bases.  Analogous to Goldman’s earlier strong and weak distinction, here a belief is deemed justified only if formed from a process that appears on one’s list of virtues, but is actually justified only if formed from a process that is in fact reliable.  This discussion of the non-sufficiency objection to reliabilism reveals how accounting for de facto reliability and believed reliability make different demands on the theorist, requiring her to distinguish actual world reliable processes from processes that may not actually be reliable, but because they answer to our basic beliefs about what is reliable, they form the basis of our practices of attributing justification.

b. Reliably Formed True Belief Is Not Necessary for Justification

A second objection to reliabilism holds that reliably formed belief is not even necessary for justification.  Suppose there is a world where an evil demon furnishes people with false perceptions, such that their senses are unreliable bases of belief (Cohen, 1984; sometimes called ‘the New Evil Demon problem’).  In the actual world, many of our beliefs are justified on the basis of perception, and in the evil demon world, people’s perceptions are just like ours.  It would seem to follow that their beliefs are justified to the same extent as ours, in which case reliability is not necessary for justification.  Here again one can see the pressure exerted on reliabilist attempts to capture the intuitive notion of justification within an externalist framework.

Though the first and second objections to reliabilism are clearly distinct, the former challenging the sufficiency of reliably formed belief for justification, the latter the necessity of reliably formed belief, one or another of the strategies countenanced above to reply to the sufficiency objection may also help here.  Once one distinguishes the grounds for how we attribute justification from the grounds for when a belief is actually justified—believed reliability from factual reliability—one could say that in the new evil demon world, attributions of justification are appropriate because perception is believed to be reliable.  Goldman’s distinction between strong and weak justification can help here, as can his proposal in “Epistemic Folkways,” and perhaps even the normal worlds approach, because even in the demon world, we attribute justification to perceptually grounded beliefs because it is consistent with our general beliefs about that world.

c. The Problem of Easy Knowledge

A third problem which has stimulated much recent discussion charges reliabilism with illicit bootstrapping (or circularity), allowing knowledge (and justification) to be achieved too easily—the “problem of easy knowledge”.  (See, for example, Jonathan Vogel (2000) and Stewart Cohen (2002).)  Cohen is explicit that the concern about “easy knowledge” reaches beyond reliabilism; in fact, in the paper cited, he presents it as a worry for evidentialism as well.  Because the problem arises, according to Cohen, for any view with a basic knowledge structure—that is, in Cohen’s usage, any view which denies that one must know that one’s source of belief is reliable in order to obtain knowledge from that source—it is unclear to what extent reliabilism in particular is threatened by it.  (Cohen’s overall strategy is to force a dilemma: If one denies basic knowledge, insisting that a belief source must be known to be reliable in order for one to achieve knowledge from that source, skepticism becomes a threat.  This motivates a consideration of basic knowledge, which leads to the problem of easy knowledge.)

Cohen presents two versions of the problem.  One begins with the closure principle—that if S knows that p and S knows that p entails q, then S is in a position to know that q, via competent deduction from what she knows.  If a theorist makes space for basic knowledge, here’s an illustration of the problem.  S knows that the table is red on the (reliable) basis of its looking red and without having certified that what looks red usually is red—again, we begin with basic knowledge.  But S also knows that if the table is red, then it is not merely white and illuminated by red light, creating the red appearance, and by closure S knows the latter.  And if S knows that, it’s a short step from there to concluding that visual appearances are reliable indicators of the truth.  So from basic knowledge that does not require knowledge of the reliability of its source, we somehow obtain knowledge of the reliability of the source.  Could it really be that easy?  (No, it would seem.)

Here is Cohen’s other version, which echoes presentations of the problem by Vogel (2000) and Richard Fumerton (1995):

Suppose I have reliable color vision. Then I can come to know e.g. that the table is red, even though I do not know that my color vision is reliable. But then I can note that my belief that the table is red was produced by my color vision.  Combining this knowledge with my knowledge that the table is red, I can infer that in this instance, my color vision worked correctly.  By repeating this process enough times, I would seem to be able to amass considerable evidence that my color vision is reliable, enough for me to come to know my color vision is reliable (316).

This smacks of illicit bootstrapping because one’s only grounds for concluding that one’s color vision is reliable are basic beliefs that, while by hypothesis de facto reliable, were never certified as such.  See Cohen’s paper and Peter Markie (2005) for two proposed solutions that incorporate basic knowledge.

d. The Value Problem for Reliabilism

A fourth problem for reliabilism has also received a lot of attention recently, namely, the value problem for reliabilism.  What the many forms of reliabilism have in common, as noted at the outset, is a concern to explicate the way in which knowledge and/or justification requires that beliefs are formed on a truth-conducive basis, highlighting the crucial link between belief and truth that constitutes knowledge.  The value problem begins with the thought, expressed in Plato’s Meno, that knowledge, whatever it is, is surely more valuable than mere true belief.  But given reliabilism’s exclusive focus on truth-conduciveness, it seems hard-pressed to explain why knowledge is more valuable than true belief.  After all, if one has a true belief, one already has what matters to the reliabilist, so how could it matter whether the belief is reliably formed?  How could that add any value?  Linda Zagzebski (2003) offers the following analogy.  If what you care about is a good cup of espresso (/truth), it does not matter to you, once you have it, whether it was made from a reliable espresso maker (/belief forming process) or not.  A good cup of espresso is not made better by having been reliably produced.

Here again, this problem plausibly extends to any theory of justification (or knowledge) where the crucial knowledge-constituting link between truth and belief is cast in truth-conducivist terms.  Zagzebski (2003, 16) argues this point, citing BonJour’s (1985) claim that “the basic role of justification is that of a means to truth.”  It is important here not to be misled by adjectives that indicate a positive evaluation of belief, like ‘justified’ and ‘reliable’ (or ‘reliably formed’).  One might easily think that being justified is a good thing, hence that a justified true belief is better than a mere true belief—a quick “solution” to the value problem.  But if justification is understood primarily as a means to truth, the implication is that truth is the source of value, and we’re back to the value problem: once an agent has true belief, she has what is valuable, so who cares how she got it?  So again, it’s not clear whether the reliabilist in particular needs a response.  That said, the reliabilist is not without resources.  Wayne Riggs (2002), although not a reliabilist, has argued that the added value of reliably formed belief might accrue to the agent insofar as it was to the agent’s credit that she formed a true belief.  When one achieves true belief unreliably, perhaps merely luckily, no such credit accrues to the agent.  A similar approach is to focus on the agent directly (as opposed to indirectly, through her reliable processes).  Roughly, when an agent forms true beliefs on the basis of good epistemic character traits or virtues, she is due credit, which explains the extra “goodness” accruing to knowledge over mere true belief.  This sort of position will be discussed further in section 4, below.

e. The Generality Problem

The final objection to reliabilism discussed herein—the previously mentioned generality problem—is especially thorny because it appears to imply that, even if it is conceded that reliability could be a plausible basis for justification and knowledge, the reliabilist project cannot succeed even on its own terms.  One begins to see the generality problem by noticing that every belief token is formed from a process that instantiates many types of process, and then wondering which process type is relevant to assessing reliability.  After all, on one way of individuating the relevant process, it may be truth-conducive (/reliable), whereas on another, it may not be truth-conducive (/may not be reliable).  “For example, the process token leading to my current belief that it is sunny today is an instance of all the following types: the perceptual process, the visual process, processes that occur on Wednesday, processes that lead to true beliefs, etc.  Note that these process types are not equally reliable.  Obviously, then, one of these types must be the one whose reliability is relevant to the assessment of my belief” (Feldman 1985, 159-60).  If the question about process type individuation cannot be answered independently of our basic judgments about when a belief is justified, reliabilism will not be a substantive, informative theory of justified belief.  (See also Conee and Feldman, 1998.)

Another way to understand the difficulty of the problem is to present it as a dilemma.  If processes are individuated too narrowly, the process will be applicable to only one instance of belief formation.  But then the reliability of the process will be determined simply by whether the one belief in question is true (because its truth ratio will be either horrible or impeccable), which is implausible.  If processes are individuated too widely, then every belief formed from the process will be deemed either reliable or unreliable, depending on the truth-conduciveness of that process, whereas, intuitively, some of those beliefs will be justified and others not.  Feldman dubs the former horn of the dilemma “the single case problem,” and the latter horn “the no-distinction problem” (Feldman 1985, 161).  A solution to the generality problem, then, requires a principled means of individuating processes that steers between the single case and the no-distinction problems, and which also plausibly answers to judgments about justification.

The generality problem has spawned a lot of philosophical work, and as of now it’s fair to say that there is no widely accepted solution to it.  Conee and Feldman (1998) provide a nice survey and critique of possible solutions, finding them wanting.  Since then a variety of new solutions have been proposed.  Mark Heller (1996) argues that the context of evaluation partly determines whether a process is rightly deemed reliable, hence that context is useful for individuating process types.  Juan Comesaña (2006) argues that any theory of justification needs to incorporate an account of the basing relation.  Recall the distinction between propositional and doxastic justification (from section 2).  Doxastic justification demands not only that one has adequate grounds for belief, or (for the reliabilist) not only that one possesses a process that would be reliable if used, but that the belief is actually based on those grounds or that reliable process. Comesaña argues that an adequate account of the basing relation can solve the generality problem, and because everyone owes an account of the basing relation, the reliabilist is in no worse shape than anyone else.  If that’s right, then perhaps the generality problem, like the bootstrapping and value problems, is not unique to reliabilism after all.

James Beebe (2004) proposes a two-stage approach to solving the generality problem.  The first stage narrows the field of relevant process types, including only those that: (i) solve the same type of information-processing problem as the token process at issue; (ii) use the same information-processing procedure; and (iii) share the same cognitive architecture.  Beebe notes that this still leaves a range of possible process types.  At the second stage, then, Beebe argues that we can further define the relevant process by partitioning the remaining candidate processes, concluding that “the relevant process type for any process token t is the subclass of [the candidates remaining from stage one] which is the broadest objectively homogeneous subclass of [the candidates] within which t falls.  A subclass S is objectively homogeneous if there are no statistically relevant partitions of S that can be effected” (Beebe 2004, 181).

Finally, Kelly Becker (2008) approaches the problem from the perspective of epistemic luck, and argues that an anti-luck epistemology requires both local and global (or process) reliability conditions.  Satisfying the local condition ensures that the truth of the acquired belief will not be due merely to some coincidental but fortuitous feature of the specific, actual circumstances in which the belief is formed.  (More on “local” reliabilism in section 5.)  The suggestion is that the local condition eliminates luck accruing to specific instances—single cases—of belief formation.  We are then free to characterize the relevant global process very narrowly, including in its description any and all features of the process that are causally operative in producing belief, short of implicating the specific content of the belief in the description.  We thereby avoid the no-distinction problem, given the specificity of the process description, and the single-case problem, since the process is repeatable, given that it is applicable to beliefs with contents other than the specific content of the target belief.

4. Proper Function and Agent and Virtue Reliabilism

There are relatives of process reliabilism that deserve mention in this article.  This section includes a discussion of global alternatives to process reliabilism, and the following section discusses local alternatives.  Because the central topic of this article is process reliabilism, these final two sections will be rather brief.

a. Plantinga’s Proper Function Account

Alvin Plantinga (1993) argues that not just any de facto reliable process provides a basis for justified belief.  For example, suppose S has a brain lesion that causes her to believe that she has a brain lesion, but she has no other evidence for that belief (and perhaps has some evidence against it).  Is her belief that she has a brain lesion warranted?  Plantinga thinks not, and concludes that a belief is warranted, hence constitutes knowledge, only if formed from a properly functioning cognitive process or faculty.  Because it is natural to suppose that the brain lesion case involves an improperly functioning process, one can conclude that S’s belief is unwarranted.

John Greco (2003) cites cases from Oliver Sacks that suggest that the proper function requirement is too strong.  One is the case of autistic twins with extraordinary mathematical abilities, another of “a man whose illness resulted in an increase in detail and vividness concerning childhood memory” (Greco 2003, 357).  If one wants to say that these are not improperly functioning faculties, then one might say the same about the brain lesion.  More plausibly, one would say that, like the brain lesion case, there is a reliable but improperly functioning process at work.  And because it is intuitively arbitrary, or just wrong, to say that the autistic twins are not warranted (or justified) in their mathematical beliefs, and that the man’s illness induced abilities cannot be the basis of warranted belief, it follows that the proper functioning of one’s cognitive processes is not required for warrant (/justification) and knowledge.

b. Agent and Virtue Reliabilism

Greco concludes that what really matters is whether belief is formed from a stable character trait, and this brings us to agent reliabilism.  One crucial insight here is that a true belief constitutes knowledge only if having achieved that true belief can be credited  to the agent.  This helps to eliminate the possibility that mere luck is responsible for one’s true belief, and it discounts very strange and fleeting processes as a basis for knowledgeable beliefs because they are not stable.  The brain lesion case might be such a fleeting process, if we imagine that there are lots of nearby worlds where it fails to produce true beliefs, whereas the Oliver Sacks cases involves processes that are not so susceptible to failure.

Ernest Sosa’s virtue reliabilism (1991 and 2007) bears an important similarity to Greco’s agent reliabilism.  The basis idea is that one knows that p only if one’s belief that p is formed from an epistemic virtue that reliably produces true belief.  S’s belief that p can be true but not based on an epistemic virtue, just as someone with little skill can sometimes make a shot in basketball.  S’s belief can be true and based on an epistemic virtue but not a case of knowledge because S does not achieve true belief because it was based on the epistemic virtue, just as a skilled shooter can make a basket even when the ball is partially blocked by a defender.  The shot is skillful—it demonstrates his basketball virtue—but it went in the basket because the trajectory was altered.  Finally, S’s belief that p can be true, based on an epistemic virtue, and true because based on that virtue.  Only then is the true belief a case of knowledge.  It is not just a matter of luck, as it is in the cases of the unskilled shooter and the skilled shooter whose shot is blocked.

With these distinctions in place, Sosa then distinguishes animal knowledge and reflective knowledge such that, roughly, animal knowledge is based on an epistemic virtue (say, on vision) and is thus reliably produced and non-accidental, whereas reflective knowledge is animal knowledge plus an understanding of how the bit of animal knowledge at issue came about.  That is, reflective knowledge requires metabeliefs about, among other things, how one’s target object-level belief was produced and how it coheres with one’s other object-level beliefs.  One potential problem here—and pretty much anywhere that meta-belief is introduced as a necessary condition—is the threat of regress.  If meta-belief is required to certify an instance of reflective knowledge, then what certifies that meta-belief?  A meta-meta-belief?  And if that question-and-answer is proper, then what principle can be presented to stop the question from being asked anew?  That is, what prevents us from rightly asking about the meta-meta-belief?

If we think of Greco’s stable character traits as epistemic virtues, then Greco’s and Sosa’s positions are both virtue epistemologies—they both say that knowledge is true belief formed from epistemically virtuous processes or faculties, and that it is to the agent’s credit that she has achieved true belief.  Virtue or agent reliabilism is also touted as the basis of a solution to the value problem for reliabilism, discussed above.  The idea is that knowledge is more valuable than true belief, but the added value is not in the belief itself, but “in” the agent, insofar as she deserves credit for her true belief.

5. Tracking and Anti-Luck Theories

This final section discusses local versions of reliabilism, whose aim is to develop an account of knowledge that eliminates knowledge-precluding epistemic luck.  Instead of focusing on the reliability of general processes with a view toward explicating justification, they focus on the specific belief at issue, together with the token method by which the belief is formed, and ask, “Though the belief is true, might it have easily been false?”  If “yes,” this is an indication that the belief is true partly by luck, and is thus not an instance of knowledge.  If the answer is “no,” then the belief, given the method by which it was formed, tracks the truth, is therefore not merely lucky, and is a case of knowledge.  Because the theories discussed in this section share process reliabilism’s commitments to externalism and fallibilism, and because these theories aim to explicate how knowledge requires more than an accidental connection between belief and truth—it requires a reliable link—they belong in the reliabilist family.

a. Sensitivity

Perhaps the most well-known, widely discussed, but also widely criticized tracking theory is Robert Nozick’s (1981) sensitivity theory.  Nozick presents two tracking conditions necessary for knowledge, both modalized— that is, both appealing to considerations about what would be the case in nearby possible worlds.  He calls the combination of the two conditions “sensitivity”.

The first condition is variance: S knows that p only if, were p false, S would not believe that p. For example, suppose Smith believes truly that the cat is on the mat, but the method by which she forms the belief is tea-leaf reading.  On the plausible assumption that this method is not a good means to form true belief, if it were false that the cat is on the mat, Smith would believe it anyway, using her method.  She is just lucky to have actually achieved true belief, and thus does not know.

Second, adherence: S knows that p only if, were p true, S would believe that p.

Suppose Jones believes truly that today is Friday, but her method is to believe that it is Friday whenever Johnson wears a green shirt.  If Johnson had shown up wearing a red shirt on a Friday, Jones would believe that it is not Friday, violating the adherence condition.  Jones would have a lucky true belief, which is not a case of knowledge.

Somehow over the intervening three decades since Nozick’s book was published, the term “sensitivity” has come to apply just to the variance condition, which is arguably the most interesting and crucial of the two because it clearly establishes a discrimination requirement for knowledge—one knows that p only if one can discriminate the actual world where p is true from various close worlds where p is false.  (See also Dretske (1971) and Goldman (1976) for versions of a discrimination requirement that anticipate Nozick’s sensitivity.)  The ensuing discussion focuses on variance, which will be referred to as “sensitivity”.

Sensitivity has faced numerous problems in the literature.  First, it appears to violate the very plausible principle that knowledge is closed under known entailment—that if S knows that p, and S knows that p entails q, then S is at least in a position to know that q (and would know that q if she deduced it from what she knows).  For example, suppose that S knows she is typing at her computer.  If it were false, she would not believe it based on her actual method of forming belief, which involves, say, at least vision, because she would be doing something else and would see that she’s not typing.  S knows, too, that if she is typing at her computer, then she is not a BIV.  Among other things, BIVs don’t have hands, so they cannot type.  It would seem that, by closure, S could simply deduce that she’s not a BIV.  But that belief is insensitive—by hypothesis, if S were a BIV, she would not believe that she is, because she would have exactly the same experiences she does in the actual world.  Closure failure. Tim Black (2002) argues for a version of Nozickean sensitivity that construes the methods by which one forms belief externalistically, thereby showing how sensitivity-based knowledge that one is not a BIV is possible, thus restoring closure. The basic idea is that one can know one is not a BIV because, in a BIV world, one’s method would be different than the method one uses in the actual world; in particular, BIV world beliefs are not really perceptual (because BIVs don’t have the normal sensory apparatus). Thus one’s actual perceptual method (on this construal of methods) would not lead one to believe, in a BIV world, that one is not a BIV. Some other method would or might do this, but not the actual method.

Second and third, it has been argued that sensitivity is incompatible with higher-level knowledge (Vogel, 2000)—knowledge that one knows—and with inductive knowledge (Vogel 2000; Sosa 1999).  Suppose that S knows that p.  Does she know that she knows that p, or even that she has a true belief that p?  Of course, many philosophers reject the thesis that knowledge requires knowing that one knows, but the objection is that sensitivity is incompatible with ever knowing that one knows.  Why?  Because if it were false that one knows that p, one would still believe that one knows that p.  (See Vogel for a precisely rendered version of this argument.  See Becker (2006a) for a counterargument meant to show how sensitivity is compatible with higher-level knowledge.)  Sensitivity is claimed to be incompatible with inductive knowledge because when one’s true belief is formed from reliable induction, there are nearby worlds where one’s inductive base is the same and so one forms the same belief, but the belief is false.  Sosa’s trash chute case is a widely cited example.  As I often do, I go to the trash chute to dump some garbage and believe that it will fall to the basement.  But if it were false that it will fall, I would still believe that it will fall.  Sosa argues that his preferred safety condition, the second of the two tracking conditions to be discussed herein, can handle inductive knowledge better than sensitivity.

A fourth problem for sensitivity is based on Timothy Williamson’s (2000) margins-for-error considerations.  Suppose Jones is six-foot-ten, and Smith believes that Jones is at least six feet tall.  If Jones were only five-foot-eleven-and-a-half inches tall, Smith might very well believe that Jones is at least six feet tall.  Smith is a decent judge of height, but not perfect.  Sensitivity is violated even though, intuitively, surely Smith knows that [the six-foot-ten] Jones is at least six feet tall.  The problem is that knowledge (or knowledgeable belief) requires a margin for error, and the sensitivity condition fails to account for this.  Williamson argues that the need for an error margin motivates a safety condition on knowledge.  Becker (2009) argues that, on a Nozickean construal of the methods by which one forms belief, Williamson’s counterexamples can be defanged.  The idea, applied to the present case, is to distinguish the method that Smith actually uses in coming to believe that Jones is at least six feet tall from the method that Smith would use in believing that Jones is at least six feet tall if Jones were only five-foot-eleven-and-a-half.  If the methods are distinct, then one can say that Smith would not believe, using her actual method, that Jones is at least six feet tall in the closest worlds where this is false, hence Smith actually knows that Jones is at least six feet tall.  And if the methods were not distinguishable, one might rightly argue that Smith is simply a terrible judge of height and does not know that Jones is at least six feet tall in the actual case.

b. Safety

There is another anti-luck condition receiving a lot of recent attention, and it was designed in large part as a response to the problems with sensitivity.  It is called “safety”, and, like sensitivity, is sometimes cast in subjunctive terms, but often given a possible worlds construal.  Safety says that S knows that p only if, were S to believe that p, p would be true.  Alternatively put, S knows that p only if, in many, most, nearly all, or all nearby worlds (depending on the strength of the principle endorsed by the particular theorist) where S believes that p, p is true.  The anti-luck intuition at the heart of safety is that S knows that p only if S’s belief could not easily have been false.  That safety requires true belief throughout nearby worlds ensures this result.

Notice that safety sounds, on first hearing, like the contrapositive of sensitivity.  (“If S were to believe that p, p would be true” versus “If p were false, S would not believe that p.”)  It is important to see that subjunctive conditionals do not contrapose, else the principles would be equivalent.  The difference can be illustrated by means of an example, which also serves to demonstrate one of the major advantages claimed for safety over sensitivity.  Take the proposition I am not a BIV (where “I” refers to the agent, S).  If that were false, by hypothesis, S would believe that it is true anyway, and therefore, according to the sensitivity principle, S does not know that she is not a BIV.  But in all the nearby worlds were S believes that she is not a BIV, it is true (assuming, of course, that the actual world is rather like we believe it to be).  So safety is compatible with knowledge that radical skeptical hypotheses are false, and in turn safety upholds the closure principle.  For example, S knows—has a safe belief—that she is typing at her computer, that this entails that she is not a BIV, and also that she is not a BIV.  Safety, then, promises a Moorean response to the skeptic, thereby achieving a stronger anti-skeptical result than sensitivity, and is not committed to obvious closure violations.

Sosa (1999) explains how safety overcomes the higher-level knowledge and inductive knowledge objections to sensitivity.  Suppose S knows that p.  Is safety compatible with S’s knowing that she knows that p?  Because her belief that p is safe, p is true in the nearby worlds where she believes that p.  Then, S’s belief that her belief that p is also safe, because the first-level belief is true throughout nearby worlds, and in those worlds, S believes that her first-level belief is true.  That is, S’s belief that q—her belief that p is true—is true throughout nearby worlds, because her belief that p is true is itself true throughout nearby worlds.

Safety also appears to be compatible with inductive knowledge.  In the previously mentioned trash chute case, S’s belief is safe because, in most nearby worlds where S believes that the garbage will fall to the basement, it is true.  John Greco (2003) questions this result by juxtaposing two cases.  In order to reconcile safety with inductive knowledge, the principle needs a somewhat weak reading: S’s belief is safe if and only if it is true throughout most nearby worlds.  On the other hand, in order to account for the intuition that one does not know that one’s lottery ticket will lose, safety requires a stronger formulation: S’s belief is safe if and only if it is true throughout all nearby worlds.  Why?  Because given the incredible odds against winning the lottery, say, 1 in 10 million, there are extremely few nearby worlds where one wins.  If we carry the strong reading over to the trash chute case, then it would seem that S’s belief is not safe.  After all, there are many nearby possible worlds where, for whatever reason, the bag does not fall to the basement.  Presumably, S would believe that the bag will fall anyway, and therefore her belief violates safety.

Duncan Pritchard (2005, chapter 6) argues that this conflict is illusory, and that paying close attention to the details of the cases described can resolve it.  “As Sosa describes [the trash chute case], there clearly isn’t meant to be a nearby possible world where the bag snags on the way down” (Pritchard 2005, 164).  Thus even the strengthened version of safety is claimed to be compatible with inductive knowledge in the trash chute case.  On the other hand, if there are nearby worlds where the bag gets snagged, then safety is violated, but in that case, perhaps it is correct to say that S does not knows that the bag will drop.

It is worth noting, too, that Pritchard’s path to endorsing the safety principle begins with his general characterization of luck, the central element of which is this: “If an event is lucky, then it is an event that occurs in the actual world but which does not occur in a wide class of the nearest possible worlds where the relevant initial conditions for that event are the same as in the actual world” (Pritchard 2005, 128).  Knowledge-precluding epistemic luck, then, occurs where one’s belief is true, but there are nearby worlds where her belief, formed in the same way as in the actual world, is false.  Thus Pritchard has a more general, independent motivation for safety than just a desire to overcome problems with sensitivity.

Timothy Williamson (2000) has also advocated safety.  One crucial consideration in his work is that knowledge, as we saw above in the discussion of sensitivity, requires a margin for error.  He argues that sensitivity does not always respect those margins.  (Recall the case of Smith’s belief that Jones [who is six-foot-ten] is at least six feet tall—if Jones were five-eleven-and-a-half, Smith (by hypothesis) would believe falsely that Jones is at least six feet tall, even though Jones knows in the actual case.)  Safety is designed with the need for an error margin in mind, precisely because it requires that S’s belief is true throughout nearby worlds.

One of safety’s central positive features also constitutes a potential problem for it—that it grounds the Moorean strategy for defeating the skeptic and thereby upholds closure.  For many philosophers, it is very difficult to see how a person could know she is not a BIV.  Putting the point in a way that perhaps sounds question-begging in favor of sensitivity, one might say that S simply cannot know that radical skeptical hypotheses are false because she would believe, for example, that she is not a BIV even if she were one—she simply cannot tell the difference between BIV worlds and normal worlds.  Whether one deems this a serious problem depends on whether one believes that knowledge always requires a capacity to discriminate worlds where p is true from worlds where p is false.  If one is not moved by any such discrimination requirement, one will not be moved by this objection.

See Becker (2006b) for a criticism of safety that does not hinge on discrimination per se, but which shows how safety is compatible with knowledge-precluding luck when a safe belief is formed by an unreliable belief forming process.  Sosa (2000, note 10) seems to have anticipated a similar concern: “what is required for a belief to be safe is not just that it would be held only if true, but rather that it be held on a reliable indication,” whereas Becker’s examples hinge on unreliably formed belief.  Whether the reliability requirement ought to be built into safety or added as a further necessary condition for knowledge is a separate issue.

This section provided an overview of the two main anti-luck tracking principles discussed in the contemporary literature.  Together with the preceding discussions of precursors to process reliabilism, process reliabilism itself, and close cousins, such as proper function theory and agent reliabilism, the reader should now be well-placed to investigate the varieties of reliabilism in some depth.

6. Conclusion

There are many possible motivations for a reliabilist account of knowledge: its naturalistic orientation makes it ripe for interdisciplinary investigation, particularly with cognitive science; its externalist underpinning makes possible both an account of unreflective knowledge and a strategy against the skeptic; its aim to elucidate a real link between belief and truth makes it a plausible basis for justification and suggests ways of handling knowledge-precluding luck.  Though reliabilism takes many forms, each focuses on the truth-conduciveness of the process or specific method through which belief is formed.  Reliabilism makes no antecedent commitment to traditional ideas about knowledge— for example, that one must have accessible reasons for belief, or that one must fulfill one’s epistemic duty to count as knowing— and therefore admits of more flexibility in its possible developments.

7. References and Further Reading

 

 

  • Armstrong, D. 1973. Belief, Truth, and Knowledge (London: Cambridge University Press).
    • This is an early reliabilist account of knowledge, according to which knowledge requires a law-like connection between the state of affairs that p and one’s belief that p.
  • Becker, K. 2006a. “Is Counterfactual Reliabilism Compatible with Higher-Level Knowledge?” dialectica 60:1, 79-84.
    • Replies to Vogel’s (2000) argument that sensitivity is incompatible with knowing that one knows, or knowing that one has a true belief.
  • Becker, K. 2006b. “Reliabilism and Safety,” Metaphilosophy 37:5, 691-704.
    • Argues that safety (or any tracking principle) is insufficient, by itself, to eliminate knowledge-precluding luck due to faulty belief-forming processes.
  • Becker, K. 2008. “Epistemic Luck and The Generality Problem,” Philosophical Studies 139, 353-66.
    • Argues that there are two distinct sources of epistemic luck, so an anti-luck theory requires two distinct “reliability” conditions: one local, one global.  Together, the two conditions provide a basis for a solution to the generality problem.
  • Becker, K. 2009. “Margins for Error and Sensitivity: What Nozick Might Have Said,” Acta Analytica 24:1, 17-31.
    • Explains how, on a particular Nozickean conception of the methods by which an agent forms belief, sensitivity theorists can avoid Timothy Williamson’s counterexamples to sensitivity that are based on the plausible idea that knowledge requires a margin for error.
  • Beebe, J. 2004. “The Generality Problem, Statistical Relevance and the Tri-Level Hypothesis,” Noûs 38:1, 177-95.
    • Argues that the generality problem can be solved by appeal to the tri-level hypothesis for cognitive processing, which distinguishes three basis levels of explanation: computational, algorithmic, and implementation.
  • Bergmann, M. 2006. Justification Without Awareness (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
    • Defends externalism about justification, after presenting a dilemma for internalism—that it leads either to vicious regress or to skepticism.
  • Black, T. 2002. “A Moorean Response to Brain-in-a-vat Skepticism,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 80, 148–163.
    • Explains how, on an externalist conception of the methods by which one forms belief, Nozickean sensitivity can account for knowledge that radical skeptical hypotheses are false, which in turn can allow sensitivity theorists to uphold closure.
  • BonJour, L. 1980. “Externalist Theories of Empirical Knowledge,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 5, 53-73.
    • Argues that externalist theories of justification and knowledge are insufficient because one can have, say, reliably formed belief, but in some cases those beliefs will be irrational.
  • BonJour, L. 1985. The Structure of Empirical Knowledge (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).
    • Presents a master argument against foundationalism, and then a dilemma for internalist foundationalists who appeal to “the given”, while arguing that externalism, as a plausible way out of the dilemma, fails to answer to our concept of justification.
  • Cohen, S. 1984. “Justification and Truth,” Philosophical Studies 46:3, 279-95.
    • Presents the New Evil Demon problem, which aims to show that one could have lots of justified beliefs, all of which are false.
  • Cohen, S. 2002. “Basic Knowledge and the Problem of Easy Knowledge,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research LXV:2, 309-29.
    • Presents two arguments to show that theories that allow basic knowledge—knowledge from a reliable source but where one need not know that the source is reliable—permit implausible bootstrapping from the basic source to achieve knowledge that the source itself is reliable.
  • Comesaña, J. 2006. “A Well-Founded Solution to the Generality Problem,” Philosophical Studies 129, 27-47.
    • Argues that any adequate epistemological theory requires an account of the basing relation, and that such an account can be the basis of a solution to the generality problem for reliabilism.
  • Conee, E. and Feldman, R. 1998. “The Generality Problem for Reliabilism,” Philosophical Studies 89, 1-29.
    • Formulates the generality problem for reliabilism and argues that proffered solutions extant in the literature fail to solve it.
  • Dretske, F. 1971. “Conclusive Reasons,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 49:1, 1-22.
    • Presents an account of knowledge-constituting reasons that anticipates Nozick’s variance condition (which has come to be known as sensitivity).
  • Feldman, R. 1985.  “Reliability and Justification,” The Monist 68:2, 159-74.
    • Formulates the generality problem for reliabilism in terms of a dilemma, where one horn is the single case problem, and the other horn is the no-distinction problem.
  • Feldman, R. and Conee, E. 1985. “Evidentialism,” Philosophical Studies 48, 15-34.
    • Offers an account of justification and well-foundedness in terms of the fit between one’s doxastic attitude and one’s evidence.
  • Fumerton, R. 1995.  Metaepistemology and Skepticism (Rowman & Littlefield, Lanham, MD).
    • Elicits relationships between metaepistemological topics, such as the analysis of knowledge, and skepticism, and argues that externalism fails to take skeptical concerns seriously.
  • Gettier, E. 1963. “Is Justified True Belief Knowledge?” Analysis 23:6, 121-2
    • Presents two widely accepted counterexamples to the tripartite analysis of knowledge as justified true belief.
  • Goldman, A. 1967. “A Causal Theory of Knowing,” Journal of Philosophy 64:12, 355-72.
    • Argues that knowledge requires a causal connection between an agent’s belief and the state of affairs that makes the belief true, partly motivated by Gettier’s counterexamples.
  • Goldman, A. 1976. “Discrimination and Perceptual Knowledge,” Journal of Philosophy 73:20, 771-91.
    • Argues that perceptual knowledge requires a capacity to distinguish the fact that p from close possibilities where p is false, anticipating Nozick’s sensitivity condition.
  • Goldman, A. 1979. “What Is Justified Belief?” in G. Pappas, ed. Justification and Knowledge (Dordrecht: D. Reidel), 1-23.
    • Aims to provide a substantive account of justification, in non-evaluative terms, by reference to reliable, that is, truth-conducive, belief-forming processes.
  • Goldman, A. 1986. Epistemology and Cognition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).
    • Continues and elaborates the reliabilist theory of justification.  Explains how thinking of reliability in terms of truth-conduciveness in “normal worlds” helps to answer the objection that (actual) reliably formed belief is insufficient for justification.
  • Goldman, A. 1988. “Strong and Weak Justification,” in J. Tomberlin, ed. Philosophical Perspectives 2, 51-69.
    • By distinguishing strong justification (as actually reliably formed belief) from weak justification (as believed reliably formed belief), replies to the objections that reliability is neither necessary nor sufficient for justification.
  • Goldman, A. 1992. “Epistemic Folkways and Scientific Epistemology,” Liaisons: Philosophy Meets the Cognitive and Social Sciences (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), 155-75.
    • Offers a virtue-theoretic approach to understanding reliably formed belief, which in turn is the basis for justification.
  • Goldman, A. 2008. “Immediate Justification and Process Reliabilism,” in Q. Smith, ed. Epistemology: New Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 63-82.
    • Argues that reliabilism is uniquely suited to account for basic beliefs—those not justified by reference to other beliefs—thereby permitting a foundational epistemology that is not threatened by a regress of reasons.
  • Greco, J. 2003. “Virtue and Luck, Epistemic and Otherwise,” Metaphilosophy 34:3, 353-66.
    • Argues that epistemic luck is better handled by agent reliabilism, where knowledge requires true belief acquired through the exercise of an agent’s character traits, than it is by extant versions of modal principles (like safety) or by proper function accounts.
  • Heller, M. 1995. “The Simple Solution to the Problem of Generality,” Noûs 29, 501-515.
    • Argues that the notion of reliability is context-sensitive, which provides a basis for a solution to the generality problem.
  • Klein, P. 1999. “Human Knowledge and the Infinite Regress of Reasons,” in J. Tomberlin, ed. Philosophical Perspectives 13, 297-325.
    • Argues that an infinite regress of reasons is not always vicious and thus infinitism is a better alternative to foundationalism and coherentism.
  • Kornblith, H. 2008. “Knowledge Needs No Justification,” in Q. Smith, ed. Epistemology: New Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 5-23.
    • See the title.
  • Lehrer, K. 1990. Theory of Knowledge (Boulder: Westview Press).
    • His “Truetemp” example aims to show that reliably formed true belief is sufficient neither for justification nor for knowledge.
  • Markie, P. 2005. “Easy Knowledge,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research LXX:2, 406-16.
    • Aims to avoid the problem of easy knowledge for theories that allow basic beliefs to be justified, by distinguishing between when a belief is justified—say, the belief that one’s belief-forming process is reliable—and when that justification is of use against the skeptic.  We can bootstrap our way into the former justification, but it does not put us in a position to satisfy the skeptic.
  • Moser, P. 1989. Knowledge and Evidence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
    • Presents a causal theory of the basing relation—of the reasons for which a belief is held.
  • Nozick, R. 1981. Philosophical Explanations (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).
    • Epistemological concerns constitute less than one-fourth of this impressive book (which also includes discussions of metaphysics, ethics, and the meaning of life).  Nozick presents his subjunctive conditional, or ‘tracking’ theory, which includes his variance condition, now known simply as sensitivity.
  • Plantinga, A. 1993. Warrant and Proper Function (New York: Oxford University Press).
    • Argues that warrant—whatever it is that ties one’s belief to the truth, constituting knowledge—depends on the proper functioning of cognitive faculties.
  • Plato. Meno. (Many translations)
    • A dialogue on the nature of virtue and whether it can be taught.  The question of the value of knowledge is first presented here.
  • Plato. Theaetetus. (Many translations)
    • A dialogue on the nature of knowledge.  Near the end, Socrates considers the view that knowledge is true opinion or judgment with an account, closely related to the traditional tripartite analysis of knowledge as justified true belief, and finds it deficient.
  • Pollock, J. and Cruz, J. 1999. Contemporary Theories of Knowledge, 2nd edition (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield).
    • Surveys contemporary epistemology and its problems.  Also presents a problem for Goldman’s ‘normal worlds’ approach to understanding reliability.
  • Pritchard, D. 2005. Epistemic Luck (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
    • Offers a general characterization of luck, in which terms epistemic luck is formulated.  Argues that epistemic luck is best eliminated by a safety condition on knowledge.
  • Quine, W.V. 1969. “Epistemology Naturalized,” Ontological Relativity and Other Essays (New York: Columbia University Press), 69-90.
    • Argues, largely on the basis of failed attempts to understand how philosophy can provide foundations for science, that science itself needs to be pressed into the service of answering philosophical questions.
  • Ramsey, F.P. 1931. “Knowledge,” in R.B. Braithwaite, ed. The Foundations of Mathematics and Other Essays (New York: Harcourt Brace).
    • Proposes the first version of a reliabilist account of knowledge.
  • Riggs, W. 2002. “Reliability and the Value of Knowledge,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 64:1, 79-96.
    • Argues that reliabilists can cite a source of value in reliably formed belief because the latter indicates credit due to the agent.
  • Sosa, E. 1991. Knowledge in Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
    • Presents a virtue-theoretic account of justification, where the concept of justification attaches primarily to beliefs formed from intellectual virtues, or stable dispositions for acquiring beliefs.
  • Sosa, E. 1991. 1999. “How to Defeat Opposition to Moore,” Philosophical Perspectives 13, 141-53.
    • Criticizes sensitivity on the grounds that it is incompatible with inductive and higher-level knowledge, and argues that safety better handles these kinds of knowledge and provides the basis for a neo-Moorean anti-skeptical strategy.
  • Sosa, E.. 2000. “Skepticism and Contextualism,” Philosophical Issues 10, 1-18.
    • Criticizes contextualism but, more importantly for present purposes, claims that safety must somehow be wedded to a “reliable indication” requirement to be sufficient, in addition to true belief, for knowledge.
  • Sosa, E.. 2007. A Virtue Epistemology: Apt Belief and Reflective Knowledge,Volume I (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
    • Distinguishes animal knowledge (apt belief) from adult human, or reflective knowledge, and takes a virtue-theoretic approach to both.
  • Steup, M. 2003. “A Defense of Internalism,” in L. Pojman, ed. The Theory of Knowledge, 3rd edition (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth), 310-21.
    • Defends internalism about justification, and characterizes internalism as the thesis that all factors that justify belief must be recognizable on reflection, thus discounting mere de facto reliability as justificatory.
  • Vogel, J. 2000. “Reliabilism Leveled,” The Journal of Philosophy 97:11, 602-23.
    • Criticizes both local and global versions of reliabilism.  Among other things, on the former, Vogel argues that sensitivity is incompatible with knowing that one has a true belief, and on the latter, presents the problem of easy knowledge.
  • Williamson, T. 2000. Knowledge and its Limits (New York: Oxford University Press).
    • Presents a wide range of novel theses about knowledge, including the claims that knowledge is a mental state, that it cannot be analyzed, and that it requires a margin for error, which prompts Williamson to argue for a version of safety.
  • Zagzebski, L. 2003. “The Search for the Source of Epistemic Good,” Metaphilosophy 34:1/2, 12-28.
    • Criticizes the machine-product model of knowledge on which reliabilism seems to depend for not being able to explain the unique value of knowledge.  Replaces this model with an agent-act model.

Author Information

Kelly Becker
Email: kbecker “at” unm “dot” edu
University of New Mexico
U. S. A.

Benedict de Spinoza: Metaphysics

SpinozaBaruch (or, in Latin, Benedict) de Spinoza (1632-1677) was one of the most important rationalist philosophers in the early modern period, along with Descartes, Leibniz, and Malebranche.  Spinoza is also the most influential “atheist” in Europe during this period.  “Atheist” at the time meant someone who rejects the traditional Biblical views concerning God and his relation to nature.  In his most important book, titled Ethics Demonstrated in a Geometrical Manner, Spinoza argues for a radically new picture of the universe to rival the traditional Judeo-Christian one.  Using a geometrical method similar to Euclid’s Elements and later Newton’s Principia, he argues that there is no transcendent and personal God, no immortal soul, no free will, and that the universe exists without any ultimate purpose or goal.  Instead, Spinoza argues the whole of the natural world, including human beings, follows one and the same set of natural laws (so, humans are not special), that everything that happens could not have happened differently, that the universe is one inherently active totality (which can be conceived of as either “God” or “Nature”), and that the mind and the body are one and the same thing conceived in two ways.

Spinoza’s Ethics appeared provocative  to his contemporaries.  First, many of them found his arguments clear and compelling.  Spinoza begins Ethics by defining key terms and identifying his assumptions.  Most of these would have seemed commonplace to Spinoza’s contemporaries.  He then derives theorems, which he calls “propositions,”  on the basis of this foundation.  Many of the philosophers and theologians who first read Spinoza’s Ethicsn found these definitions and assumptions unproblematic, but were horrified by the theorems which Spinoza proved on the basis of them.  Second, by all accounts Spinoza was an especially good man who lived a modest and virtuous life. The mere possibility of a “virtuous atheist,” however, severed one of the most popular arguments in favor of traditional Biblical religion: that without it, living a moral life was impossible.

This article examines some fundamental issues of Spinoza’s new “atheistic” metaphysics, and it focuses on three of the most important and difficult aspects of Spinoza’s metaphysics: his theory of substance monism, his theory of attributes, and his theory of conatus.


Table of Contents

  1. The Formal Structure of the Ethics
  2. The Basic Metaphysical Picture: Substance, Attributes, and Modes
  3. Substance Monism
    1. Leibniz’s Objection to Spinoza’s Substance Monism Argument
    2. Why Does the One Substance Have Modes?
  4. Attributes
    1. Subjectivism
    2. Objectivism
    3. Modal Parallelism
  5. Conatus
    1. Conatus and Purposive Action
    2. The Conatus Argument
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Original Language
    2. English Translations
    3. Historical Studies
    4. Philosophical Studies

1. The Formal Structure of the Ethics

The Ethics is broken into five parts:

  1. Of God
  2. Of the Nature and Origin of the Mind
  3. Of the Origin and Nature of the Affects
  4. Of Human Bondage, or the Power of the Affects
  5. Of the Power of the Intellect, or of Human Freedom

Part I concerns issues in general metaphysics (the existence of God, free will, the nature of bodies and minds, etc.) Part II concerns two issues related to the mind: (i) what the mind is and how it relates to the body, and (ii) a general theory of knowledge. In Part III, Spinoza presents his theory of emotions (which he calls “affects”) and a fully deterministic human psychology. In Parts IV and V, Spinoza presents his ethical theory.

Each part of the Ethics is broken into definitions of key terms, axioms (assumptions),
propositions (theorems proven on the basis of the definitions, axioms, and the previous propositions), demonstrations (proofs), corollaries (where Spinoza often draws attention to other claims which can be proven on the basis of his propositions, but which are not part of his main argument), and scholia (where Spinoza breaks out of his rigorous structure to comment, argue, or restate the demonstrated material in a more easily accessible way.)

To this classic geometrical structure, Spinoza adds three additions to the Ethics. (1) Spinoza ends Parts I and IV with appendices. In these appendices he comments on the previous part, clarifies his position, and adds new arguments. (2) In Part II and after proposition 13, Spinoza interrupts his argument to include a short discussion on physics and the laws of motion. This part of the Ethics is sometimes called the “Physical Digression,” “Physical Interlude,” or the “Short Treatise on Bodies.” (3) At the end of Part III Spinoza includes an organized list of the definition of the affects (emotions) as argued for in Part III.

When citing the Ethics begin with the Part number, then use the following shorthand:

a Axiom
d Definition
l Lemma
post. Postulate
p Proposition
c Corollary
d demonstration
s Scholium
exp. Explanation

For example, to cite the demonstration of the 14th proposition of Part III one would write “3p14d.” A number of minor variations exist. Some authors also put an “E” at the beginning of the citation to stand for “Ethics” to distinguish the Ethics from Spinoza’s other book written in a geometrical manner, the Principles of Cartesian Philosophy Demonstrated in a Geometrical Manner (1663). For example, the demonstration of the 14th proposition of Part III is often cited as “E3p14d.” Other scholars mark the part number with Roman numerals, thus citing the proposition as “IIIp14d” or “EIIIp14d.”

So why does Spinoza utilize this cumbersome method of proof in the Ethics? Scholars have given a number of different answers to this question. One common explanation concerns how people thought about science in this period. In the 17th century, mathematics was the paradigmatic science. It was widely admired for offering conclusive and incontrovertible proofs which no rational person (who understood them) could reject. Many philosophers attempted to replicate Euclid’s success in other areas and so found other sciences as conclusive and demonstrable as mathematical science. For example, Hobbes attempted to organize political concepts “geometrically” in his Leviathan. Descartes also considered the possibility of organizing his entire philosophy geometrically in the Second Replies, though he never made a serious attempt to do so.) Spinoza, however, geometrically reorganized the first two books of Descartes’ Principles (along with other original material) in his first published book: Principles of Cartesian Philosophy Demonstrated in a Geometrical Manner (1663).

Other scholars argue that there is a deeper reason for Spinoza’s use of the geometrical method. The goal of the Ethics, Spinoza says, is to prove those things that can “lead us, by the hand, as it were, to the knowledge of the human mind and its highest blessedness” (Preface to Part II). Ethics is supposed to be a philosophical therapy which helps its readers to overcome their passions and superstitions and become more rational. Working through the proofs, Spinoza promotes these goals by forcing us to think carefully, and so promotes the therapeutic aim of his book. For more on the purpose of the geometrical method see Wolfson 1958, I 3-32; Bennett 1988, 16-28; Garrett 2003; Nadler 2006, 35-51.

2. The Basic Metaphysical Picture: Substance, Attributes, and Modes

According to Spinoza, everything that exists is either a substance or a mode (E1a1). A substance is something that needs nothing else in order to exist or be conceived. Substances are independent entities both conceptually and ontologically (E1d3). A mode or property is something that needs a substance in order to exist, and cannot exist without a substance (E1d5). For example, being furry, orange, hungry, angry, etc. are modes that need a substance which is furry, orange, hungry, angry, etc. Hunger and patches of orange color cannot exist floating around on their own, but rather, hunger and patches of orange color need something (namely, a substance) to be hungry and have the orange color. Hunger and colors are, therefore, dependent entities or modes.

According to almost all of Spinoza’s predecessors (including Aristotle and Descartes) there are lots of substances in the universe, each with their own modes or properties. For example, according to Descartes a cat is a substance which has the modes or properties of being furry, orange, soft, etc. (Though some have argued that Descartes cannot actually individuate multiple extended substances. See Curley 1988, 15-19; 141-2 n. 9.) Spinoza, however, rejects this traditional view and argues instead that there is only one substance, called “God” or “Nature.” Cats, dogs, people, rocks, etc. are not substances in Spinoza’s view, but rather, cats, dogs, people, rocks, etc. are just modes or properties of one substance. This one substance is simply people-like in places, rock-like in other places, chair-like in still other places, etc.

One can think of substance as an infinite space. Some regions of this one space are hard and brown (rocks), other regions of space are green, juicy, and soft (plants), while still other regions are furry, orange, and soft (cats), etc. As a cat walks across the room all that happens in Spinoza’s view is that different regions of space become successively furry, orange, and soft (See Bennett 1984: 88-92 for more on space and the extended substance in Spinoza).

This one substance has an infinite number of attributes. An attribute is simply an essence; a “what it is to be” that kind of thing. According to Descartes, every substance has only one attribute: bodies have only the attribute of extension, and minds have only the attribute of thought. Spinoza, however, argues against this claim that the one substance is absolutely infinite and so it must exist in every way that something can exist. Thus, he infers that the one substance must have an infinite number of attributes (E1p9). An attribute, according to Spinoza, is just the essence of substance under some way of conceiving or describing the substance (E1d4). When we consider substance one way, then we conceive of its essence as extension. When we consider substance another way, then we conceive of its essence as thought. (See Della Rocca 1996a: 164-167.) While substance has an infinite number of different attributes, Spinoza argues that human beings only know about two of them: extension and thought.

3. Substance Monism

The most distinctive aspect of Spinoza’s system is his substance monism; that is, his claim that one infinite substance—God or Nature—is the only substance that exists.  His argument for this monism is his first argument in Part I of the Ethics.  The basic structure of the argument is as follows:

  1. Every substance has at least one attribute.  (Premise 1, E1d4)
  2. Two substances cannot share the same nature or attribute.  (Premise 2, E1p5)
  3. God has all possible attributes. (Premise 3, Definition of ‘God’, E1d6)
  4. God exists.  (Premise 4, E1p11)
  5. Therefore, no other substance other than God can exist.  (From 1-4, E1p14)

That is, there is only one substance (called “God” or “Nature”) which has all possible attributes.  No other substance can exist because if it existed it would have to share an attribute with God, but it is impossible for two different substances to both have the same attribute.  Spinoza defends each of his four assumptions as follows:

The Argument for Premise One (E1d4)

If a substance existed which did not have any attributes, then (by Spinoza’s definition of attribute at E1d4) the substance would not have an essence.  However, according to Spinoza, it makes no sense to claim that something exists which does not have an essence.  Thus, every substance has at least one attribute.  This premise is not particularly controversial.

The Argument for Premise Two (E1p5)

Spinoza’s argument for the second premise (“Two substances cannot share the same nature or attribute”) is much more controversial.  Here Spinoza argues that if two substances share one and the same attribute, then there is no way to tell the two substances apart.  If substance A and substance B both have attribute 1 as their nature, then in virtue of what are there two different substances here?  Why aren’t A and B just one substance?  Since no cause can be given to explain their distinctness, Spinoza infers that they must actually be the same.  Formally, the argument is as follows:

  1. Two substances are distinguished from each other either by a difference in attributes or a difference in modes.  (Premise 1)
  2. Substance is prior in nature to its modes.  (Premise 2, E1p1)
  3. If two substances A and B are indistinguishable, then they are identical.  (Premise 3)
  4. If substances A and B differ only in attributes, then A and B are two different substances with different natures.  (From 1 and the definition of “attribute.”)
  5. If substances A and B differ only in modes and share an attribute, and if the modes are put to one side and the substances are considered in themselves, then the two substances would be indistinguishable.  (From 1, 2)
  6. But if substances A and B are indistinguishable, then they are identical. (From 3, 5)
  7. Thus, no two substances can share a nature or attribute.  (From 4, 6)

The Arguments for Premise Four (E1p11)

In the demonstration of E1p11, Spinoza explicitly provides a number of different proofs for the existence of a substance with infinite attributes (namely, God.)  One proof is a version of the Ontological Argument also used by Anselm and Descartes.  Spinoza’s argument is interesting, however, because he provides a very different reason for claiming that the essence of each substance includes existence.  Spinoza’s Ontological Argument, once unpacked, is as follows:

  1. When two things have nothing in common, one cannot be the cause of the other (Premise 1, E1p3).
  2. It is impossible for two substances to have the same attribute (or essence) (Premise 2, E1p5).
  3. Two substances with different attributes have nothing in common (Premise 3,  E1p6d).
  4. Thus, one substance cannot cause another substance to exist (From 1, 2, 3.  E1p6).
  5. Either substances are caused to exist by other substances, or they exist by their own nature (Premise 4, E1p7d).
  6. Thus, substances must exist by their own nature (that is, the essence of a substance must involve existence.) (From 4, 5.  E1p7)

This argument differs from the Ontological Arguments offered by Anselm and Descartes in that (i) Spinoza does not infer the existence of God from the claim that our idea of God involves existence and (ii) Spinoza does not assume that existence is a perfection (and so a property).  Spinoza’s argument, therefore, can avoid some of the more common objections to the Ontological proofs as formulated by Descartes and Anselm.  See Earle 1973a and Earle 1973b for a partial defense of Spinoza’s Ontological Argument.

a. Leibniz’s Objection to Spinoza’s Substance Monism Argument

Spinoza’s Argument for Substance Monism is generally deemed a failure by contemporary philosophers.  There are a number of ways to attack the argument.  The most common way is to reject Spinoza’s second premise (E1p5: “That two substances cannot share the same nature or attribute.”)   One of the most popular arguments against this promise was first presented by Leibniz.  Leibniz argued that whereby it might be impossible for two substances to have all of their attributes in common (because then they would be indistinguishable), it may be possible for two substances to share an attribute and yet differ by each having another attribute that is not shared.  For example, one substance may have attributes A and B and another substance has attributes A and C.  The two substances would be distinguishable because each has an attribute the other lacks, but both substances would nevertheless share an attribute.  This objection was first presented by Leibniz to Spinoza himself.  Though Spinoza did not find the objection persuasive, he never offered an explicit reply.  See Della Rocca 2002: 17-22 for a plausible solution on Spinoza’s behalf based upon the conceptual independence of the attributes.

b. Why Does the One Substance Have Modes?

If Spinoza’s Substance Monism Argument were sound, it would prove that the only substance which exists is God or Nature (a substance with an infinite number of attributes).  But why does this one substance have any finite modes (properties)?  Spinoza provides an answer at E1p16.  Here Spinoza argues that “from the necessity of the divine nature there must follow infinitely many things in infinitely many ways (that is, everything which can fall under an infinite intellect)” (E1p16).  Spinoza argues that the greater something is, the greater the number of properties which follow from its nature or essence.  For example, it follows from the nature of a triangle that it has three sides.  Why do triangles have interior angles of 180 degrees?  Because of the kind of things that they are (that is, because of their essence.)

The greater the essence of the thing, the more properties that follow from it.  God’s essence is the greatest possible essence.  Thus, the greatest possible number of properties (that is, an infinite number) must follow from God’s essence or nature.  Thus, an infinite number of finite modes must follow from the essence of God in just the way that certain properties of triangles (having interior angles of 180 degrees, for example) follow from the essence of a triangle.  Because a triangle’s essence is finite only a finite number of properties follow from it; because God’s essence is infinite an infinite number of properties follow from it.  Human beings, chairs, tables, cats, dogs, trees, etc. are some of the properties that follow from God’s essence or nature.

Spinoza claims that one important consequence of this proof is that modes are properties of substance.  The view that modes are properties of substance has been denied by at least one prominent interpreter of Spinoza (Curley 1988: 31-39).  Curley’s view has, however, proven unpopular (See Carriero 1999; Malamed 2009.)  The dominant interpretation today is that modes are properties of the one substance.

4. Attributes

Spinoza’s theory of the attributes (extension, thought, etc.) is the most original, difficult, and controversial aspect of his metaphysics.  According to Descartes, the attribute of a substance is simply the substance’s essence (Principles I.53.)  Given this definition, Descartes infers that each substance has only one attribute.  Spinoza modifies Descartes’s definition at E1d4 and states that “by attribute I understand what the intellect perceives of a substance as constituting its essence.”  The Latin here is “per attributum intelligo id, quod intellectus de substantia percipit, tanquam ejusdem essentiam constituens.”  Spinoza then claims that the one substance (“God” or “Nature”) has an infinite number of attributes (E1d6.)  A number of scholars have found it hard to understand how one substance could have multiple attributes each one of which is “what the intellect perceives … as constituting its essence.”  Either Spinoza is claiming that the one substance has multiple essences, or that the attributes are not really the essence of the substance but only seem to be.

The interpretive problems with Spinoza’s theory of attributes begin with his definition.  In the definition he uses the word ‘tanquam’ which can be correctly translated into English both as ‘as if’ and as ‘as.’  If ‘tanquam’ is translated as ‘as if’, then that translation suggests that the attributes are not really the essence of substance but only seem to be the essence of substance.  If, however, ‘tanquam’ is translated as ‘as’, then that translation would seem to indicate that each attribute really is the essence of substance.  The problem is then to explain how we can have one substance with more than one essence.  Thus, the first problem with Spinoza’s theory of attributes is to explain the relation between the attributes and the essence of substance.

According to some scholars (often called “subjectivists”) each attribute is not really the essence of substance but merely seems to be.  According to these scholars, substance’s essence is in some way “hidden” from the intellect and “unthinkable.”  All we can know is how the essence of the one substance appears to the intellect (either as extension or as thought.)  According to other scholars (often called “objectivists”) each attribute really is the essence of substance.  The problem is then to explain how one substance can have multiple essences and still remain one substance.

The second problem with Spinoza’s theory of attributes is to explain how the attributes are related to one other.  If each attribute really is the essence of the one substance, then how do they relate to each other?  Are they identical?  Or is each attribute really different from every other attribute?  If they are identical, then why does the intellect distinguish them?  If they are different, then how can one substance have more than one essence?  Some subjectivists (such as Wolfson 1958: 142 ff.) argue that there is really only one attribute which is distinguished wrongly into numerous attributes by the intellect.  Objectivists, on the other hand, argue that there is more than one attribute and that they are really distinct from each other.

In summary, there are two major problems with Spinoza’s theory of attributes:

  1. The Attribute-Essence Problem:  How do the attributes relate to the essence of substance?  Are they identical to the essence of substance or distinct?
  2. The Attribute-Attribute Problem:  How do the attributes relate to each other?  Are they identical or distinct?

a. Subjectivism

The most influential defense of the “Subjectivist” interpretation of the attributes is presented by Wolfson 1958 Vol. 1: 142-157.  Wolfson argues that

the two attributes appear to the mind as being distinct from each other.  In reality, however, they are one.  For by [E1p10], attributes, like substance, are summa genera (“conceived through itself”.)  The two attributes must therefore be one and identical with substance.  Furthermore, the two attributes have not been acquired by substance after it had been without them, nor are they conceived by the mind one after the other or deduced one from the other.  They have always been in substance together, and are conceived by our mind simultaneously.  Hence, the attributes are only different words expressing the same reality and being of substance (Wolfson 1958 Vol. 1: 156.)

That is, substance has only one essence and that essence is the sum total of all of its attributes.  The attributes are all identical (and also identical with the substance itself).  The attributes are distinguished from one another merely conceptually (“only different words expressing the same reality”), but in reality the attributes are all one and the same.  The essence of substance is therefore the one attribute extension-thought-etc.  This one attribute cannot be thought as it is, but is instead mentally broken into pieces and considered only partially.  Wolfson thus explicitly provides answers to both the Attribute-Essence Problem and to the Attribute-Attribute Problem.  In both cases Wolfson claims that the relation is identity.  Each attribute is identical to every other attribute (in reality, there is only one “super attribute”) and the essence of substance is this one unthinkable “super attribute.”  Wolfson goes further, however, and also argues that substance is identical to this one unthinkable “super attribute.”

A very different theory of attributes, which also goes by the name of “Subjectivism,” is offered by Bennett.  Bennett argues that the attributes do not constitute the essence of substance at all.  Instead the essence of substance is really the infinite series of finite modes.  The attributes merely appear to constitute the essence of substance.  Bennett disagrees with Wolfson in that Bennett believes “that Nature really has extension and thought, which really are distinct from one another, but that they are not really fundamental properties, although they must be perceived as such by any intellect” (Bennett 1984: 147.)  Thus, Bennett’s solution to the Attribute-Essence Problem is to claim that the essence and attributes are distinct.  But he differs from Wolfson in regard to the Attribute-Attribute Problem.  Here Bennett argues that the attributes are not identical (as Wolfson claims.)

One thing to note here is the looseness of the term “Subjectivism.”  Both Bennett and Wolfson are considered “Subjectivists” because they each deny at least one of the following two claims:

  1. The attributes are really distinct.
  2. The attributes constitute the essence of substance.

Wolfson denies both; Bennett denies only the second.

b. Objectivism

There are significant problems with both Wolfson’s and Bennett’s “Subjectivism.”  The problem is that there is strong textual evidence in favor of the two claims:

  1. The attributes are really distinct.
  2. The attributes constitute the essence of substance.

The argument in favor of (i) is that Spinoza claims at E1p10d that all intellects can conceive of the attributes as really distinct (that is, one without the help of the other.)  Thus, even the infinite intellect (that is, God’s Mind) must conceive of the attributes as really distinct.  But the infinite intellect understands everything exactly as it is
(E1p32).  Therefore, the attributes must be really distinct.  This argument has persuaded almost all recent scholars that (i) is true.

The argument in favor of (ii) also relies on the infinite intellect.  Spinoza claims at E2p3 that the infinite intellect has an adequate and true idea of God’s essence.  But on both Wolfson’s and Bennett’s subjectivist accounts that is not true.  On Wolfson’s account the infinite intellect cannot have an adequate idea of the one “super attribute” extension-thought-etc.  The infinite intellect can only have an idea of the different fragmented pieces, namely, extension, thought, etc.  On Bennett’s account the essence of substance isn’t even an attribute.  Both scholars have to admit that the infinite intellect does not have an adequate idea of the essence of substance, which contradicts Spinoza’s claim at E2p3.  See Della Rocca 1996a: 157-171 for more on the case against Subjectivism.

If both claims (i) and (ii) are true on Spinoza’s view, then the attributes are really distinct, and yet each one constitutes the essence of substance.  This is a significant problem.  How can there be only one substance if this substance has multiple distinct essences?  Edwin Curley answers this question by claiming both that “the attributes of substance satisfy the definition of substance” (Curley 1988: 29) and that the attributes come together to form one essence because “this particular complex is a complex of very special elements” (Curley 1988: 30.)  The attributes on Curley’s view are a collection of an infinite number of substances that come together in much the same way that numbers come together to form a number line.  The number line is a unity composed of an infinite amount of very special elements.

Thus, Curley’s solution to the Attribute-Essence Problem is to claim that each attribute pertains to the essence of substance.  Concerning the Attribute-Attribute Problem, Curley claims that the attributes are really distinct from each other.  A similar view may also have been held by Gueroult 1968 Vol. 1.  Objectivism is often characterized by three theses:

  1. The attributes are really distinct.
  2. The attributes constitute the essence of substance.
  3. The attributes are substances.

The third claim, however, has been disputed by some more recent Objectivists.  Della Rocca in his 1996 book Representation and the Mind-Body Problem in Spinoza offers what is currently the most influential objectivist interpretation of Spinoza’s theory of the attributes.  Della Roccca accepts claims (i) and (ii), but rejects the idea that attributes are themselves substances.  Della Rocca’s interpretation centers on the idea of “referential opacity.”  Della Rocca claims that “a context is referentially opaque if the truth value of the sentence resulting from completing the context does depend on which particular term is used to refer to that object” (Della Rocca 1996a, 122.)  That is, the truth value of a particular sentence depends upon how the objects in the sentence are described.  If the description changes, then the truth value of the sentence may change too.  For example, consider the morning star and the evening star.  The following sentence is true:  Bob believes that the morning star rises in the morning.  However, if you replace ‘the morning star’ without another equally correct description of the same object, then the sentence turns out false.  Because Bob does not know that the morning star and evening star are actually the same thing (namely, Venus) the following sentence is false:  Bob believes that the evening star rises in the morning.  Because the truth-value of the sentence depends upon the description of Venus used in the sentence, this context is referentially opaque.

Della Rocca provides the example of a spy.  One may know that there is a spy in the community and even hate this spy, without knowing that the spy is one’s brother.  In this case the truth-value of sentences such as I hate the spy, I believe that the spy is a spy, etc. all depend upon the term used to pick out the spy.  If we replace ‘the spy’ with the term ‘my brother,’ the truth value of these two sentences changes:  I hate my brother, I believe that my brother is a spy.  Because the truth-value changes when the term used to pick out the person changes, these contexts are referentially opaque.

Della Rocca believes that referential opacity is the key to understanding Spinoza’s theory of attributes.  The idea here is to understand that attribute contexts are referentially opaque.  So, the sentence “the essence of substance is thought” and the sentence “the essence of substance is extension” are referentially opaque contexts.  Della Rocca claims that Spinoza’s definition of attribute should be interpreted as saying: “by attribute I understand that which constitutes the essence of a substance under some description or way of conceiving that substance” (Della Rocca 1996a, 166.)  When substance is considered in one way, then the essence of substance is thought; when substance is considered in another way, then the essence of substance is extension.  What the essence of substance is taken to be will depend upon how the substance is being considered.

By arguing that attribute contexts are referentially opaque, Della Rocca believes that he can avoid the central problem of Subjectivism:  the claim that God misunderstands his own essence (contra E2p3).  Thus, though Della Rocca’s view may at first sound like a form of Subjectivism, it avoids the central problem.  The attributes are really distinct on Della Rocca’s interpretation in that each attribute is the essence of substance under some description of that substance: each really distinct description gives one a different essence.  The attributes also constitute the essence of substance on this view, so long as we add the phrase “under some description or way of conceiving of that substance” to the end.  Della Rocca, however, does not have to accept that attributes are themselves substances.  An attribute is not a substance according to this view (contra Curley); an attribute is simply the essence of a substance under some description or way of conceiving of that substance.

c. Modal Parallelism

How one interprets Spinoza’s theory of attributes will significantly affect the rest of his metaphysics.  For example, one of Spinoza’s most important claims is that “the order and connection of ideas is the same as the order and connection of things” (E2p7.)  That is, the order of modes under the attribute of extension is the same as the order of modes under the attribute of thought.  Spinoza explains this idea in an important and controversial scholium.  He claims that

a circle existing in nature and the idea of the existing circle, which is also in God, are one and the same thing, which is explained through different attributes.  Therefore, whether we conceive nature under the attribute of Extension, or under the attribute of Thought, or under any other attribute, we shall find one and the same order, or one and the same connection of causes, i.e., that the same things follow one another (E2p7s.)

The view that one and the same order exists under each of the attributes is called ‘modal parallelism.’  The word ‘parallelism’ is used because not all scholars believe that the relationship between a body and the mind of that body is identity.  How one interprets modal parallelism in Spinoza will depend upon one’s interpretation of Spinoza’s theory of the attributes.  Two of the most developed and influential recent interpretations of Spinoza’s parallelism are Bennett 1984 (who argues that the mind and body are not identical) and Della Rocca 1996a (who argues that the mind and body are identical).

Bennett and others reject the numerical identity interpretation of parallelism on the grounds that it commits Spinoza to a contradiction.  Spinoza claims that there is no causal interaction between minds and bodies at E3p2.  If he then claimed (so the argument goes) that minds and bodies are identical, then he would seemingly be committed to the following contradiction:  if mind M causally interacts with mind N and body 1 is identical with mind M, then it seems as though body 1 must also causally interact with mind N (thus violating Spinoza’s explicit claims at E3p2.)  This argument is presented by both Bennett 1984, 141 and Delahunty 1985, 197 to argue against the identity of minds and bodies in Spinoza.

But Spinoza does say that the mind and the body are “one and the same thing” conceived in two ways (E2p7s).  What could that mean if not that minds and bodies are identical?  Bennett argues that in Spinoza a mind and a body merely share a part (which he calls a “trans-attribute mode”).  Minds and bodies are not fully identical.  (See Bennett 1984, 141).  One “trans-attribute mode” can combine both with the attribute of thought (creating a mind) and the attribute of extension (creating a body) at the same time.  Thus, my body is a trans-attribute mode combined with the attribute of extension; my mind is that same trans-attribute mode combined with the attribute of thought.  Bennett thus rejects the interpretation of parallelism whereby a body and a mind are one and the same thing.  A body and its parallel mind merely share a part (namely, a trans-attribute mode).

By contrast Della Rocca argues that minds and bodies in Spinoza are fully identical.  Della Rocca argues that the notion of referential opacity (see the Objectivism section above) can allow Spinoza to accept both the identity of minds and bodies without accepting that minds and bodies causally interact.  Della Rocca claims that causal contexts in Spinoza are referentially opaque.  That is, x is the cause of y only under certain descriptions or ways of thinking about x.  It is not the case that the sentence “x causes y” is true under all possible ways of describing or conceiving of x.  For example, “x under a mental description caused y” can be true while “x under a physical description caused y” is false.  Thus, Della Rocca argues that the claim that minds and bodies are identical does not entail that minds and bodies causally interact because whether x caused y or not depends upon how x is described.  (See Della Rocca 1996a, 118-140, 157-167.)

5. Conatus

In Part III of the Ethics, Spinoza argues that each mode (that is, every physical and mental thing) “strives to persevere in its being” (E3p6.)  The word translated into English as “strives” is the Latin “conatus.”  (“Conatus” is also sometimes translated as “endeavor.”)  From the claim that every mode strives to persevere in its being, Spinoza infers that each mode’s conatus is the actual essence (E3p7.)  That is, what it is to be a cat is just to strive in a certain cat-like way.  What it is to be a desk is for the complex body to strive in a certain desk-like way.  Every thing that exists—every particle, rock, plant, animal, planet, solar system, idea, mind, etc.—is striving to survive.  From the claim that the essence of every mode is its striving to persist Spinoza derives much of his physics, psychology, moral philosophy, and political theory in Parts III, IV, and V of the Ethics.

Despite the importance of Spinoza’s theory of conatus, there are a number of interpretive and philosophical difficulties with it and Spinoza’s argument for it.  First, there is the widely debated issue of whether Spinoza’s theory of conatus should be interpreted teleologically or non-teleologically.  Is each mode trying to survive?  Are modes goaloriented things?  Or is Spinoza simply claiming that everything that modes do helps them to survive (while not claiming that modes are acting purposively)?

Second, Spinoza’s argument for the theory of conatus (which takes place in Part III of the Ethics from propositions 4 to 6) has been subject to considerable scrutiny and many scholars have argued that it is multiply invalid.  A few recent scholars have, however, attempted to defend Spinoza’s argument for his conatus theory against the charge of invalidity.  Garrett 2002, for example, provides an influential defense of the validity of the argument.  Likewise, Waller (2009) provides a partial defense of the first third of the argument.

a. Conatus and Purposive Action

Spinoza clearly denies the claim that God or Nature has a purpose or plan for the universe.  The universe simply exists because it could not fail to exist.  God did not make the universe with any predetermined goal or plan in mind; instead the universe simply follows from God’s essence in just the way that the properties of a triangle follow from the essence of the triangle (E1p16, E1p32c1, E1p33).  In the Appendix to Part I of the Ethics Spinoza claims that

[People] find—both in themselves and outside themselves—many means that are very helpful in seeking their own advantage, for example, eyes for seeing, teeth for chewing, plants and animals for food, the sun for light, the sea for supporting fish.  Hence, they consider all natural things as means to their own advantage.  And knowing that they had found these means, not provided them for themselves, they had reason to believe that there was someone else who had prepared the means for their use … And since they had never heard anything about the temperament of these rules, they had to judge from themselves.  Hence, they maintained that the gods direct all things for the use of men in order to bind men to them and be held by men in the highest honor. … But while they sought to show that Nature does nothing in vain (that is, nothing not of use to men), they seem to have shown only that Nature and the gods are as mad as man.   … Not many words will be required to show that Nature has no end set before it, and that all final causes are nothing but human fictions (Ethics Part I, Appendix.)

The earth does not exist so that we may live on it.  The universe is not designed for the good of human beings.  The universe has no purpose; it simply exists.  These ideas were revolutionary in the seventeenth century and remain controversial even today.

But some scholars (most influentially, Bennett 1984) argue that Spinoza’s rejection of purpose or goals in nature goes much further than a simple rejection of Divine purposes or goals—Bennett argue that Spinoza rejects all purposive or goal directed activities whatsoever, including human purposive action.  The claim that human actions are not purposive or goal-oriented is startling and presents us with a very different theory of what human beings are.

To understand the impact of this claim, consider the following example: if I walk across the room to get a drink of water, we might believe that this activity is purposive or goal-oriented.  I am walking across the room in order to get a glass of water.  My behavior is partly explained in the common sense view by my goal or purpose (that is, getting a drink of water.)  Bennett 1984, 240-251, however, claims that according to Spinoza this explanation of my behavior must be wrong.  According to Bennett’s Spinoza, I do not walk across the room in order to get water.  Rather I walk across the room because my organs were organized in a certain way such that when light strikes my eyes, it moves certain parts of my brain, which in turn moves certain tendons in my legs, which in turn causes my legs to move back and forth in certain ways, carrying my body to the counter, moving my hand toward the water fountain, etc.  That is, my behavior can be fully and completely understood mechanistically, just like a watch.  The springs inside a watch do not move so that the watch may indicate the correct time, rather the clock indicates the correct time because the springs and levers move in a certain way.  Similarly with human beings, they do not walk in order to get to certain places; they get to certain places because they walk.  (When considering a human being under the attribute of thought, Spinoza would claim that certain ideas follow logically from other ideas in just the way that certain effects follow necessarily from certain causes in the physical world.)  In just the way that the universe exists without any purpose or goal, so every action performed by every human similarly is done for no purpose or goal.  We do what we do simply because we could not fail to—our actions simply follow from the organization of our many complex parts.

Bennett’s interpretation of Spinoza as denying all purposive or goal-oriented action is controversial because Spinoza does claim in a number of different places that while the whole of nature has no purpose or ultimate goal, individuals do act purposively.  In the Appendix to Part I, where Spinoza makes his clearest claims against Divine purposes, he also claims that “men act always on account of an end.”  This passage and other similar ones have been a problem for Bennett’s interpretation.  (See Curley 1990 and Bennett 1990 for more on this debate.)

The issue of whether purposive action is possible is important to the interpretation of Spinoza’s theory of conatus.  Does Spinoza’s theory of conatus entail that every physical thing—every animal, plant, rock, planet, solar system, idea, and mind—acts in order to persevere in its own being?  Is all of nature goal-oriented, even though the whole of nature is not?  Some (including Garrett 1999) think so.  If Garrett is right, then Spinoza’s physical theory may be a lot closer to Aristotle’s than it is to Descartes’.  Spinoza does not seem fully consistent on the point.  In the words of one recent scholar, Spinoza is “having trouble getting the blind efficient causality of the new science and the end-governed efficient causality of human activity into the same frame, so to speak” (Carriero 2005, 146.)  When Spinoza attempts to treat all of nature, including human behavior and emotions, in a completely deterministic scientific way—as if human beings were just complicated clocks—he struggles to remain consistent.

b. The Conatus Argument

The argument for Spinoza’s claim that everything strives to persevere in its own being is found at the very beginning of Part III of the Ethics.  The argument is usefully summarized by Garrett 2002 as follows:

  1. The definition of a thing affirms, and does not deny, the thing’s essence, or it posits the thing’s essence, and does not take it away.
  2. While we attend only to the thing itself, and not to external causes, we shall not be able to find anything in it which can destroy it. (from 1)
  3. 3p4 – Nothing can be destroyed except through an external cause. (from 2)
  4. If [things insofar as they can destroy one another] could agree with one another, or be in the same subject at once, then there could be something in the same subject which could destroy it.
  5. [That there could be something in the same subject which could destroy it] is absurd. (from 3)
  6. 3p5 – Things are of a contrary nature, that is, cannot be in the same subject, insofar as one can destroy the other. (from 4-5)
  7. 1p25c – Singular things are modes by which God’s attributes are expressed in a certain and determinate way.
  8. 1p34 – God’s power is his essence itself.
  9. Singular things are modes that express, in a certain and determinate way, God’s power, by which God is and acts. (from 7-8)
  10. No thing has anything in itself by which it can be destroyed, or which takes its existence away. (from 3)
  11. [Each thing] is opposed to everything which can take its existence away. (from 6)
  12. 3p6 – Each thing, as far as it can by its own power, strives to persevere in its being (from 9-10).

That is, Spinoza begins by arguing that no thing can destroy itself (E3p4).  He argues for this claim on the basis of the claim that the definition affirms and does not deny the thing’s essence.  From the claim that no thing can destroy itself, Spinoza then infers that no two things which can destroy each other can be parts of the same whole (E3p5.)  From this claim Spinoza infers that each thing must strive to persevere in its own being (E3p6).

There seem to be numerous invalid inferences here.  The first occurs right at the beginning of the argument.  In the first three lines, Spinoza infers that since a definition of something does not contain anything inconsistent with the thing, that a thing contains nothing contrary to its own nature.  But this inference seems invalid.  If we understand a definition to be a statement of a thing’s essence (see E2d2), then it does validly follow that the essence includes nothing inconsistent with itself (if the essence were internally inconsistent, then it could not exist.)  But it does not follow that a thing cannot have certain accidental properties (not mentioned in the definition) which are capable of destroying the thing.  Thus, Spinoza seems to mistakenly infer a claim about the whole thing (both essential and accidental properties) from a premise which merely concerns the essence.  (See Bennett 1984, 234-237; Della Rocca 1996b, 202-206.  For a recent defense of Spinoza’s argument see Waller forthcoming.)

Another invalid inference occurs toward the end of the argument in lines 6 and 11.  Spinoza infers that since two things cannot both be parts of the same whole, they must actively oppose one another.  However, perhaps they could simply be in a passive relation to one another.  It is one thing to passively resist, and it is quite another to actively resist.  (See Garber 1994, 61-63 for more on this objection and its roots in Leibniz.)  A few recent scholars have attempted to respond to these charges on Spinoza’s behalf.  See, for example, Garrett 2002.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Original Language

  • Gebhart, Carl.  (ed.)  Spinoza Opera. (Heidelberg: Carl Winters, 1925.)
    • This is the standard original language edition of Spinoza’s works.

b. English Translations

  • Edwin Curley, trans.  The Collected Works of Spinoza Vol. 1. (Princeton:  Princeton University Press, 1985.)
    • This translation is the standard English translation.
  • R.H.M. Elwes, trans.  On the Improvement of the Understanding, The Ethics, Correspondence. (New York: Dover, 1955.)
    • An out-of-date English translation first published in the nineteenth century.
  • Samuel Shirley, trans. and Michael Morgan, editor.  Spinoza: Complete Works. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2002.)
    • The only single volume English translation of Spinoza’s complete works currently available.  Shirley’s translation is often much easier to read, but a little less accurate than Curley’s.

c. Historical Studies

  • Israel, Jonathan.  Radical Enlightenment. (New York: Oxford, 2001.)
    • This book is the most extensive and authoritative historical study of the rise and influence of Spinoza and Spinozism during the Enlightenment (1650-1750.)  Israel argues that Spinoza is the one of the key figures of the Radical Enlightenment.
  • Nadler, Steven.  Spinoza: A Biography. (New York, Cambridge, 1999.)
    • This is the most authoritative biography of Spinoza.
  • Stewart, Matthew.  The Courtier and the Heretic. (W.W. Norton: 2006.)
    • This book is an entertaining novel for the non-specialist on the relationship between Leibniz and Spinoza.

d. Philosophical Studies

  • Bennett, Jonathan.  A Study of Spinoza’s “Ethics” (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1984.)
    • An influential and often critical study of Spinoza.  The book is widely cited in secondary literature.  Much of the recent scholarship on Spinoza has been an attempt to defend Spinoza against Bennett’s criticisms.
  • Bennett, Jonathan.  “Spinoza and Teleology: A Reply to Curley” in Spinoza: Issues and Directions. Edited by Edwin Curley and Pierre-Francois Moreau.  (New York: E.J. Brill, 1990), p. 53-57.
    • An important defense of the view that there is no purposive action in Spinoza.
  • Carriero, John.  “On the Relationship Between Mode and Substance in Spinoza’s Metaphysics” in The Rationalists: Critical Essays on Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz.  Edited by Derk Pereboom. (New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999), p. 131-164.
    • This article defends the claim that modes are “individual accidents” or “tropes” as opposed to universals (as Bennett maintains.)
  • Carriero, John.  “Spinoza on Final Causality” in Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy Vol. II. Edited by Daniel Garber and Steven Nadler.  (New York: Claredon Press, 2005), 105-148.
    • This article concerns the metaphysics of causation in early modern philosophy and argues that the rejection of final causes in the early modern period forces a change in the conception of efficient causality.  The article clarifies different issues related to the notion of teleology in Spinoza.
  • Curley, Edwin.  Spinoza’s Metaphysics.  (MA: Harvard University Press, 1969.)
    • Curley argues in this book for a controversial interpretation of the mode-substance relation.  Instead of arguing that modes are properties or tropes, he argues that they are merely causally dependent entities.  This conclusion has been widely criticism and is currently unpopular.
  • Curley, Edwin. Behind the Geometrical Method: A Reading of Spinoza’s Ethics. (Princeton:  Princeton University Press, 1988.)
    • A more recent defense of Curley’s controversial interpretation of Spinoza which replies to many of the criticisms offered by Bennett and others.
  • Curley, Edwin.  “On Bennett’s Spinoza:  the Issue of Teleology” in Spinoza: Issues and Directions. Edited by Edwin Curley and Pierre-Francois Moreau.  (New York: E.J. Brill, 1990), p. 39-52.
    • A critique of Bennett’s view that there is no purposive action in Spinoza.
  • Della Rocca, Michael.  Representation and the Mind-Body Problem in Spinoza. (New York: Oxford, 1996a.)
    • This book is one of the most influential books on Spinoza written in English in the last thirty years.  In this book Della Rocca argues for a new interpretation of the attributes, defends the mind-body identity thesis, and works out the necessary and sufficient conditions for representation in Spinoza.
  • Della Rocca, Michael.  “Spinoza’s Metaphysical Psychology” in The Cambridge Companion to Spinoza. Edited by Don Garrett.  (New York:  Cambridge, 1996b.)
    • A study of Spinoza’s deterministic psychology.  One of the most influential parts of this study is Della Rocca’s analysis of various possible interpretations of E3p6.
  • Della Rocca, Michael.  “Spinoza’s Substance Monism” in Spinoza: Metaphysical Themes. Edited by Olli Koistinen and John Biro.  (New York: Oxford, 2002), p. 11-37.
    • This article defends Spinoza’s argument for substance monism from a number of common objections.
  • Della Rocca, Michael.  Spinoza (Routledge Philosophers Series). (Routledge: 2008.)
    • Della Rocca argues for a double use of the Principle of Sufficient Reason in Spinoza.  First, everything has an explanation.  Second, that explanation can be given in terms of explanatory concepts.  Della Rocca uses this double use of the Principle of Sufficient Reason to interpret many of Spinoza’s more difficult doctrines.
  • Earle, William.  “The Ontological Argument in Spinoza” reprint in Spinoza: A Collection of Critical Essays. Edited by Marjorie Grene.  (Garden City: Anchor Press, 1973a), p. 213-219.
    • A limited defense of Spinoza’s ontological argument.
  • Earle, William.  “The Ontological Argument in Spinoza:  Twenty Years Later” in Spinoza: A Collection of Critical Essays. Edited by Marjorie Grene.  (Garden City: Anchor Press, 1973b), p. 220-226.
    • A meditation on the ontological argument and various misinterpretations of it.
  • Garrett, Aaron.  Meaning in Spinoza’s Method.  (Cambridge: 2003.)
    • This book is the most extensive and authoritative study of Spinoza’s geometrical method.  Garrett argues that the method has moral import and is supposed to help readers view the world and themselves in a different way.
  • Garrett, Don.  “Teleology in Spinoza and Early Modern Rationalism” in New Essays on the Rationalists.  Edited by Rocco J. Gennaro and Charles Huenemann.  (New York: Oxford, 1999), p. 310-335.
    • This article defends an Aristotelian interpretation of Spinoza’s theory of teleology.
  • Garrett, Don.  “Spinoza’s Conatus Argument” in Spinoza: Metaphysical Themes. Edited by Olli Koistinen and John Biro.  (New York: Oxford, 2002), p. 127-158.
    • An extremely influential defense of the validity of Spinoza’s Conatus Argument.  Garrett bases his interpretation on a novel theory of inherence.
  • Gueroult, Martial.  Spinoza. 2 Volumes.  (Paris:  Aubier-Montaigne, 1968, 1974.)
    • An extremely influential two volume work among both French and English scholars on the first two parts of Spinoza’s Ethics.  Gueroult presents the classic case against the Subjectivism of Wolfson.  These volumes have not to date been translated into English.
  • Kulstad, Mark.  “Leibniz, Spinoza, and Tschirnhaus: Metaphysics a Trois, 1675-1676”  in Spinoza: Metaphysical Themes. Edited by Olli Koistinen and John Biro.  (New York: Oxford, 2002), p. 221-240.
    • An interesting and useful analysis of the relationship between Leibniz, Tschirnhaus, and Spinoza during a critical period in Leibniz’s philosophical development.
  • Melamed, Yitzhak.  “Spinoza’s Metaphysics of Substance:  The Substance-Mode Relation as a Relation of Inherence and Predication”, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research (1): 2009.  17-82
    • In this article Melamed argues against Curley’s interpretation of modes and in favor of the claim that modes are properties that both inhere in substance and are predicated of substance.
  • Nadler, Steven.  Spinoza’s Ethics: An Introduction. (New York: Cambridge, 2005.)
    • A good general introduction to Spinoza’s Ethics which takes into account much of the recent scholarship.
  • Pruss, Alexander.  The Principle of Sufficient Reason. (New York: Cambridge, 2007.)
    • A recent defense of a weakened form of the Principle of Sufficient Reason.  Pruss both defends the PSR against all of the classical objections to it and provides a number of arguments in favor of it.
  • Waller, Jason.  “Spinoza on the Incoherence of Self-Destruction”, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 17 (3) 2009, 507-523
    • This article is a defense of the validity of Spinoza’s demonstration of E3p4 (“No thing can be destroyed except through an external cause.”)  Waller argues that the conclusion follows validly given Spinoza’s views on causation and destruction.
  • Wolfson, Harry.  The Philosophy of Spinoza, Vols 1 and 2. (New York: Meridian Books, 1958.)
    • Wolfson’s book contains the classic statement of subjectivism.  The scholarship of the book is extremely impressive, however, Wolfson’s conclusions are often criticized for providing a reductionist account of Spinoza.

Author Information

Jason Waller
Email: jsnwaller@yahoo.com
Eastern Illinois University
U. S. A.

The New Evil Demon Problem

The new evil demon problem first emerged in the literature as a problem for reliabilist theories of epistemic justification. The old evil demon problem is the skeptical problem that preoccupied Descartes. Basically, it is the problem that arises once we acknowledge that it is possible that someone might have had (apparent) perceptual experiences and memories indistinguishable from our own that were induced by a powerful demon bent on deceiving this hapless subject. Since there is nothing introspectively available that would allow us to state that this hapless subject’s plight is not our own, it is hard to determine what justification we might have to claim that we truly know what the external world is like through our sensory experience.

Unlike the old evil demon problem, the new one is not primarily a skeptical problem. Imagine an epistemic counterpart of yours. That is, imagine there is a subject who happens to believe precisely what you believe, undergoes experiences indistinguishable from your own, seems to recall and remember everything you recall and remember, finds intuitive everything you find intuitive, and is disposed to reason in precisely the same way you reason. Imagine that this subject has been in precisely the same non-factive mental states as you have since birth. Imagine that this subject is deceived by a Cartesian demon. Then let us suppose that you are not. By bracketing the skeptical worries, it seems that many of your beliefs about the external world constitute knowledge. As your counterpart is systematically deceived, her beliefs about the external world do not constitute knowledge. Moreover, it seems that while you might suppose that your beliefs are produced by processes that can reliably lead you to the truth, the means by which your counterpart arrives at her beliefs are wholly unreliable. On a reliabilist view, since you cannot have a justified belief about some matter unless the means by which you arrive at that belief is reliable, it seems the reliabilist ought to say that your counterpart’s beliefs are not justified. However, many would consider that position to be strongly counterintuitive. They are convinced that while your counterpart knows nothing, your counterpart is no less justified in her beliefs than you are in yours. The new evil demon problem is the problem of accommodating these intuitions about the justificatory status of your counterpart’s beliefs.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. Reliabilist Responses
    1. Denial
    2. Normal Worlds Reliabilism
    3. Weak Justification and Strong Justification
    4. Apt-Justification Beliefs and Adroit-Justification Beliefs
    5. Home World Reliabilism
    6. Personal Justification and Doxastic Justification
  3. Newer Evil Demon Problems
    1. The Internalism/Externalism Debate
    2. Evidence
    3. Warranted Assertion
  4. Conclusion
  5. References and Further Reading

1. Introduction

When the new evil demon problem first surfaced in the literature (Cohen and Lehrer (1983) and Cohen (1984)), it surfaced as a problem for reliabilists about justification. Consider Goldman’s process-reliabilist account of justification:

R:

S’s belief that p is justified iff the processes that produced S’s belief are reliable in the kind of environment in which S’s belief was formed and there is no reliable process the subject has such that if this process were used as well this would result in the subject’s not believing p (1979: 20).

The problem Goldman faced was that of trying to show how this simple and intuitively powerful argument could go wrong:

  1. Our deceived counterparts are no less justified in their beliefs than we are in ours.
  2. The processes that produce our deceived counterparts’ beliefs are wholly unreliable.
  3. It is possible for someone’s beliefs to be justified even if the processes that produced those beliefs are not reliable.

This conclusion contradicts the reliabilist thesis that reliability is necessary for justification. It is backed by the widely reported intuition that supports (1), which states that our counterparts are no less justified in their beliefs than we are in ours. Assuming that we are in fact justified in our beliefs, it seems we ought to acknowledge that they are justified in their beliefs. In turn, should we reject reliabilism? Below, we shall consider reliabilist responses to the argument.

2. Reliabilist Responses

a. Denial

Although some might reject (R) upon considering the new evil demon thought experiment, some do not. It seems most epistemologists who have discussed the problem in the literature do have the intuition that underwrites (1), but few intuitions are universally shared. Some defend reliabilism by denying the relevant intuitions. Others say that if your beliefs about the external world are induced by hallucinatory experiences, you do not have the right to believe what you do; rather, you only appear to have that right. Bach (1985), Brewer (1997), Engel (1992), and Sutton (2005, 2007) have denied that our counterparts’ beliefs are justified. If we accept that you have a right to believe only those beliefs you would be justified in holding, this response concedes nothing. It simply denies the claim described as being supported by ordinary intuition.

What is wrong with asserting that the beliefs of our deceived counterparts cannot be justified? There have been at least three ways of trying to bolster the appeal to intuition in the literature. First, Cohen suggested that this response indicates a failure to appreciate that justification is fundamentally a normative notion:

My argument [against reliabilism] hinges on viewing justification as a normative notion. Intuitively, if S’s belief is appropriate to the available evidence, he is not to be held responsible for circumstances beyond his ken (1984: 282).

Second, some hold the view that justification is a deontological notion. That is to say, a belief is justified when that belief can be held without violating any of your epistemic duties. It seems wrong to some to say that our deceived counterparts have failed to fulfill their epistemic duties. Haven’t they “done their duty,” provided that they reflect on the evidence available to them and judge that things are for them the way that we think things are for us? Plantinga (1993: 14) suggests that it is part of our traditional view that “you are properly blamed for failing to do something A if and only if it is your duty to do A (and you fail to do it).” If there is an epistemic duty to refrain from believing any belief for which there is not sufficient justification to hold and if we accept R, it seems to follow that our epistemic counterparts are properly blamed for failing to refrain from believing the mundane propositions that seem to them to be immediately verified through experience (for example, that they have hands, that the sun is shining, etc…). Surely that is too harsh. Third, some hold the view, defended by Langsam (2008: 79), on which “a justified belief is [simply] a belief that is held in a rational way.” Few are willing to characterize our deceived counterparts as irrational for believing falsely that they have hands.

In light of these responses, one might say that if you deny that your deceived counterparts are justified in their beliefs, you should be willing to say that your deceived counterparts are irrational, that they are blameworthy, and that they are less than fully responsible. If you say that they are irresponsible, it seems that you have all but done away with the category of the non-culpable mistake. The beliefs of our deceived counterparts are mistaken, to be sure, but they reason just as carefully as we do. If you are to charge them with irrationality, it seems there ought to be some way of identifying where their reasoning goes wrong. If you consider them blameworthy, it seems you will be hard pressed to avoid the unpalatable skeptical view that anyone who believes propositions about the external world ought to know better than to do so. It seems to be part of our ordinary practice to say that if two subjects are perfectly alike in terms of how things seem to them, the two are equally blameworthy for their inferences. (This, too, is subject to controversy. Gibbons (2006) and challenges the idea that credit and blame depend only on the internal factors common to our counterparts and us.) Some will say that these are not costs we should be willing to pay.

Not everyone believes these are consequences of denying that our deceived counterparts’ beliefs are justified. It seems that justification might be a normative notion even if it is not a normative notion that depends only on matters that are within the subject’s ken (that is, a normative notion that depends only on factors that determine what a subject’s perspective is like or are accessible to the subject). Permissibility is a normative notion. We often excuse people for performing impermissible acts when the facts in virtue of which these acts were impermissible were facts of which the subject is non-culpably ignorant. If this is so, reliabilists can agree with Cohen that justification is a normative notion while denying that justification is among the normative notions that in no way depends on factors beyond our ken.

Cohen does suggest that by stating that justification is a normative notion, he is asserting that it does not depend on factors for which the subject cannot be held responsible. So, perhaps he thinks we ought to sever the connection between justification and any normative notion that depends (in part) upon factors beyond those we can be faulted for failing to take account of. Perhaps he thinks we can only fail to have justified beliefs if we can be blamed for believing what we do. It is worth noting that in his remarks concerning blameworthiness, Plantinga (1993) immediately qualifies his initial remark quoted above by saying that his remarks concern only “subjective” duty. On the ordinary conception of objective duty, one might non-culpably fail to do what one ought to do. If justification is a matter of fulfilling one’s objective duty and the failure to fulfill such duties does not mean that the subject is culpable for the failure, it does not follow from the claim that our deceived counterparts believe without justification that they are properly blamed for so doing. (See Bergmann (2006: 77-105) for further discussion of this point.)

Finally, the identification of the rationally held belief or reasonably held belief with the justified belief is itself a matter of controversy. Sutton (2005, 2007) rejects this identification and attributes much of what he regards as misplaced antipathy towards externalist accounts of justification, such as reliabilism, as stemming from conflating the two notions. It would be unfair to suggest that he believes that subjects who believe without sufficient justification are less than fully rational or reasonable. Again, suppose we think of the justified belief as the permissibly held belief and allow for the possibility of non-culpable, but wrongly held, belief. It seems that if a subject were normatively competent (that is, the subject is not an infant, not subject to brainwashing, and so forth), it would only be proper to excuse them for their failings if we thought that they arrived at their beliefs in a rational way.

Rather than try to explain away the intuitions underwriting the new evil demon argument against reliabilism, the trend in the literature has been to try to accommodate these intuitions. Below, I shall discuss five strategies for trying to reconcile the reliability’s approach with seemingly anti-reliabilist intuitions.

b. Normal Worlds Reliabilism

Goldman tried to reformulate reliabilism so that it did not carry with it the implication that our systematically deceived counterparts cannot have justified beliefs:

Rnw:

S’s belief that p is justified only if the processes that produced S’s belief are reliable in normal worlds (1986: 107).

Because the new evil demon argument concerns the necessity of reliability for justification, we need not consider what additional conditions might be needed for stating the set of sufficient conditions for justification. Note the crucial difference between (R) and (Rnw). According to (R), someone’s belief can be justified only if the processes that produce that belief are reliable in the very circumstances they operate or are imagined to operate in. According to (Rnw), what matters is that the processes that produce a belief are reliable in normal worlds. Normal worlds are worlds in which our general beliefs about the actual world are true. A general belief we all seem to share is that perceptual experience is a good guide to our immediate surroundings. In evaluating our beliefs and the beliefs of our epistemic counterparts, we have to identify the processes by which we all arrive at our beliefs (for example, taking experience at face value) and then ask whether such processes are reliable in normal worlds. Since the processes that lead our counterparts as well as ourselves to hold our beliefs about our immediate surroundings are reliable in normal worlds (that is, it is part of our very conception of such a world that perception is generally reliable in such worlds), the beliefs of our counterparts do not turn out to be unjustified. The conflict between reliabilism and the intuition that our deceived counterparts are justified has been removed.

Normal worlds reliabilism never really caught on. First, it seemed to have the unhappy implication that a process such as clairvoyance could not confer justification under any possible circumstance. In normal worlds, clairvoyance is unreliable. So, in any world in which it is reliable, that world is abnormal. It seems wrong to some to say that there could be no possible world in which clairvoyance generated knowledge much in the way that, say, perception does. Yet, in evaluating the beliefs of these subjects, (Rnw) states that we can only say that their beliefs are justified if they would be reliable not in the circumstances in which they are used, but reliable in worlds that are normal (Lemos 2007: 96). Second, it seems that the normal worlds reliabilist has to say that we cannot coherently question the justification of those beliefs that determine our conception of what a normal world is like. A normal world is a world in which our general beliefs about the actual world are true. The claim that those general beliefs are justified would seem to be trivial, according to the normal worlds reliabilist. Yet, it seems to be no trivial matter whether those beliefs are in fact justified (Peacocke 2004: 133).

c. Weak Justification and Strong Justification

Goldman was not satisfied with the normal worlds reliabilist response to the new evil demon problem and sought to accommodate the intuitions causing trouble for (R) by appealing to a distinction between what he calls “weak” and “strong” justification. According to Goldman, a belief might be either strongly justified or weakly justified:

SJ:

S’s belief that p is strongly justified only if the processes that produced S’s belief are reliable in the kind of environment in which S’s belief was formed.

WJ:

S’s belief that p is weakly justified if and only if S is blameless for believing p but believes p on the basis of a process that is unreliable in the circumstances in which S’s belief is produced.

How does this distinction help? Goldman (1988: 59) tries to accommodate the intuition that our deceived counterparts’ beliefs are justified by saying that their beliefs are weakly justified. Having drawn the distinction between weak and strong justification, he has shown that there is a sense in which even the uncompromising reliabilist can say that our deceived counterparts’ beliefs are justified while saying that there is also a sense in which no belief can be justified unless the processes that produced it were reliable in the circumstances in which they produced that belief.

Critics cried foul. BonJour remarked (2002: 248), “The question is whether this really accommodates the intuition … which seems to be that the demon world people are at least as justified in their beliefs as we are in ours.” BonJour seems to be suggesting that what the intuitive observation critics of reliabilism want explained is not how there is some sense in which the beliefs of the demonically deceived are justified. What they want to see is how the reliabilist can explain how it is that the demonically deceived are no less justified than we are. Goldman wants to distinguish between two types of justification, assigning one type to the demonically deceived and another type to us. BonJour seems to suggest that while this might take care of the problem by saying that our deceived counterparts are irrational, unreasonable, or blameworthy, it does not take care of the problem that it seems, intuitively, that there is a sense in which they are as well aware of as we are.

It might seem that this problem could be mitigated if Goldman made a simple modification to his proposal. As it stands, no belief can be both weakly justified and strongly justified. A belief is weakly justified only if it is blamelessly held and ill formed. A belief is strongly justified only if reliable processes produce that belief. Suppose Goldman were to modify (WJ) as follows:

WJ*:

S’s belief that p is weakly justified if and only if S is blameless for believing p.

Someone might wonder why a reliabilist would propose (WJ*) since the concept of reliability does not figure in the formulation of (WJ*), but the concept of reliability does not play any significant role in (WJ), either. Moreover, it is not entirely clear why Goldman would insist that there is a kind of justification that requires unreliability. On this modified proposal, we can say that our beliefs are both strongly justified and weakly* justified. We can satisfy BonJour’s demand that we not only say that there is a perfectly good sense in which their beliefs are “justified,” but also that there is a sense in which we are no more justified in our beliefs than they are in theirs. Our beliefs and the beliefs of our deceived counterparts are all weakly* justified. The problem with this proposal, however, is that it seems not to go far enough. If someone has been brainwashed into believing p, it seems they would be weakly* justified in believing p. Suppose we might know p on the basis of veridical perception and our demonically deceived counterparts might believe p on the basis of a subjectively indistinguishable veridical perception. As Audi (1993: 28) stresses, it seems there is more going for the beliefs of our demonically deceived counterparts than there is for someone who has been brainwashed into thinking that p is true. Unfortunately, (WJ*) fails to capture this. Moreover, (SJ) cannot help us distinguish between the beliefs of the deceived and the beliefs of the brainwashed since we are supposing that neither arrives at their beliefs by reliable means.

d. Apt-Justification Beliefs and Adroit-Justification Beliefs

Sosa (1991) maintains that a justified belief is arrived at through the exercise of one or more intellectual virtues. In turn, he maintains that nothing could count as an intellectual virtue unless it would lead us to a high ratio of true beliefs through its exercise. Comesana (2002) and Sosa (2003: 159-61) have tried to solve the new evil demon problem by drawing a distinction between two ways in which we might use the notion of an intellectual virtue in appraising someone’s beliefs. We can say that someone’s belief about p is “apt-justified” only if the belief is acquired through the exercise of an intellectual virtue that is reliable in the circumstances in which that belief is formed. The beliefs formed by the demonically deceived are, unfortunately, not apt-justified. However, we can say that their beliefs are “adroit-justified.” A belief is adroit-justified only if the belief is acquired in an intellectually virtuous way where this is partially a matter of acquiring beliefs in a way that would be reliable if only the subject did not suffer the misfortune of being in the inhospitable epistemic environment in which a demon is bent on deceiving our intellectually virtuous counterparts. The suggestion is that in some contexts we refer to someone’s belief as justified if the belief is produced in such a way that beliefs of that type will reliably turn out to be correct in the very circumstances they are formed while in other contexts we refer to someone’s belief as justified if the processes would have reliably led to the truth here. Sosa (1985) considers this latter notion of adroit-justification as being largely a matter of the coherence of the attitudes of the subject being evaluated, and since our deceived counterparts’ beliefs are no less coherent than our own, we are entitled to say that there is a sense in which justification requires reliability (apt-justification) and a sense in which our deceived counterparts are no less justified than we are (adroit-justification).

Goldman (1993: 281) objected to this proposal by saying that ordinary folk are in no way inclined to engage in the sort of epistemic appraisal that would make use of both of these notions. If Comesana and Sosa are suggesting that their account accommodates folk intuition because the folk use both of their notions of justification, Comesana and Sosa seem to be suggesting that we describe our beliefs as “justified” because the processes that produced them were reliable in the circumstances in which they were deployed (that is, they are apt-justified) while we state that our counterparts’ beliefs are “justified” because the processes that produced them were reliable in circumstances other than those in which those processes were deployed (that is, they are adroit-justified). Goldman thinks that it is not part of our ordinary practice of epistemic evaluation to make attributions of justification by making them relative to these different kinds of circumstances in this way.

e. Home World Reliabilism

Majors and Sawyer have defended a version of reliabilism–home world reliabilism– which states that what is necessary for justified belief is not reliability in normal worlds or reliability in the scenario in which a belief is actually formed, but instead says this:

Rhw:

S’s belief that p is justified only if the processes that produced S’s beliefs are reliable in S’s home world understood as that set of environments relative to which the natures of her intentional contents are individuated (2005: 272).

To understand this view, it is important to understand something about the anti-individualist approach to the individuation of intentional contents. It is now widely believed that features of the external environment are among the conditions that go towards determining the contents of our intentional states. It has been suggested w that it is possible for two individuals who are microphysical duplicates to have different beliefs if they were raised in different environments and the further view that the contents of their perceptual states could also differ in light of differences in their environments. If the first individual had been raised in a linguistic community such as ours where “gold” was used to refer to a metallic element which had 79 protons in its nucleus and the second individual was raised in a linguistic community similar to ours that used “gold” to refer to a superficially similar metal which did not have 79 protons in its nucleus, what these two speakers would assert if they said “That is gold” would differ. For example, what the first speaker says might be false if said while pointing at a hunk of fool’s gold even if what the second speaker says could be true if said while pointing at the same hunk. Suppose these speakers then added, “Well, that is what I believe, at any rate.” Just as, “That is gold,” would express different propositions, “I believe that that is gold” would express different propositions. Unless we are prepared to assert that one of these speakers cannot correctly self-ascribe beliefs, we have to accept that their assertions and beliefs differ in content. The conditions that determine what these individuals believe include their “narrow” conditions (that is, the conditions held constant when we say that these two individuals are microphysical duplicates) and the conditions found in their environment (that is, the conditions that determine whether they have been interacting with gold or some superficially similar metal that is not gold).

To see why this matters, note that in setting up the new evil demon thought experiment, we were asked to imagine that there was an individual who is mentally just like us (that is, an epistemic counterpart), who was situated in an environment that is radically different from our own insofar as this subject was systematically deceived and cut off from causally interacting with her environment in the ways that we do. Anti-individualists might say that this is latent nonsense. An anti-individualist can say that it is impossible for a subject to satisfy the first condition and be mentally just like us whilst being situated in a radically different environment because a condition necessary to being mentally just like us is that the subject causally interacts with the kinds of things that we do. The home world reliabilist can say that the new evil demon thought experiment does not cause trouble for reliabilist accounts of justification because when we describe a systematically deceived subject, we are not describing a genuine possibility in which an epistemic counterpart of ours has beliefs produced by wholly unreliable processes. Thus, the home world reliabilist can say that if a subject is an epistemic counterpart of ours, that subject’s beliefs are justified and to the extent that this subject’s mental life is like ours, we have to assume that this subject is not prevented from causally interacting with the environment in the way that the systematically deceived subjects would have to be.

As Comesana (2002: 264) notes, however, it isn’t clear that an appeal to anti-individualism alone can take care of the problem because the problem can reemerge in the form of “switching” cases. Let us suppose that anti-individualism is true and that it is impossible for a subject who has been tormented by a Cartesian demon from birth to be an epistemic counterpart of ours. By depriving this subject of the opportunity to causally interact with an environment like ours, the demon prevents this individual from acquiring the kinds of intentional thought contents that we have. What if a subject were allowed to acquire the kinds of thought contents we have by interacting with her environment for a period of thirty years, but the day after the subject’s thirtieth birthday the demon decides to cause her to hallucinate and so deceive her about her surroundings? Intuitively, it seems that this newly deceived subject is no less justified in forming her beliefs, but her beliefs will now be wrong as a rule. The home world reliabilist might say that their view delivers this verdict because if the subject had been forming beliefs in the kind of epistemically hospitable environment in which she initially had been forming her beliefs, her beliefs would have largely turned out to be correct. This seems to require the home world reliabilist to individuate environments in such a way that with the demon’s decision to start deceiving our hapless subject, the subject is thereby “moved” into an environment that is not part of the “home world”. I suppose that those sympathetic to Goldman’s (1979) original formulation of reliabilism would be bothered by the implication that so far as the facts that matter to justification are concerned, nothing of significance happened when the demon decided to deceive the subject. It is also odd that on the home world reliabilist view, if the subject thought to herself just after the switch that the beliefs formed after her thirtieth birthday were justified, that belief would be true, but if the subject inferred that those very same beliefs are produced by reliable processes, that belief would be false.

It is worth noting that if the home world reliabilist response is to be complete, it must mention something about the epistemic status of a demonically tormented subject’s beliefs. Even if no subject tormented from birth by a demon has thoughts or perceptual experiences with the contents that ours have, unless the home world reliabilist is going to say that such subjects have no beliefs at all, we can ask whether such a subject is justified in believing whatever they happen to believe. We know that the home world reliabilist will have to say that if these subjects have justified beliefs, there must be some matters about which their beliefs are reliably correct. It is hard to imagine what these subjects might have reliably correct beliefs about. It is also worth noting that the view’s verdicts might not be quite in line with the intuitions to which the critics of reliabilism appeal. Suppose that philosophers discovered that some sort of error theory is true. Although the folk might believe things are colored, noisy, good, or what have you, philosophers learn that the world contains no secondary qualities or moral properties. Are we to say that in light of this hard-earned philosophical discovery, the ordinary judgments that ordinary folk make about colors or moral properties can never be justified? It seems that the home world reliabilist would have to say that if we were to discover that a subject’s beliefs are not reliably correct by taking account of facts of which ordinary folk are non-culpably ignorant, we would have to describe their beliefs as unjustified. It is not clear that this is consistent with the basic intuition that underwrites the new evil demon argument.

f. Personal Justification and Doxastic Justification

According to Bach (1985) and Engel (1992), the intuitions thought to cause trouble for reliabilism do no such thing. They think we should grant that our deceived counterparts are no less justified than we are. Intuition confirms this. Nevertheless, these authors claim that this observation is consistent with R. While R does imply that the beliefs of our deceived counterparts are not justified, it does not carry with it the further implication that the systematically deceived believers are any less justified than we are. Following Bach, these authors claim that there is an important difference between ascriptions of “personal” justification (that is, ascriptions of the form “S is justified in believing p”) and ascriptions of “doxastic” justification (that is, ascriptions of the form “S’s belief that p is justified”). Both ascriptions attest to the fact that something is justified. Reliabilism is a theory about the conditions under which a belief is justified and ascriptions of doxastic justification turn out to be true. The intuition underwriting the new evil demon argument, according to Bach, concern ascriptions of personal justification. Since the reliabilist need not say that any justified believer who believes p has a justified belief that p is the case, the reliabilist view is consistent with the intuition that our systematically deceived counterparts are all justified in believing what they do.

The basic idea behind this proposal is simple enough. If epistemic evaluation is concerned with believer qua believer, it is not surprising that we end up saying that our systematically deceived counterparts are no less justified than we are because they reason just as well as we do and take just as much care as we do. If epistemic evaluation is concerned with our beliefs, there is a perfectly good sense in which our beliefs turn out to be better than theirs (their beliefs cannot constitute knowledge because the processes by which their beliefs are produced are unreliable, their beliefs are all false, etc…). In asserting that a believer is justified, we are asserting that the believer does not hold the beliefs she does because of some defect in her. In asserting that a belief is justified, we are asserting that there is not some defect in the belief or the means by which the belief is produced that should lead us to give up that belief.

Perhaps the most serious difficulty for this proposal is that it can only accommodate the relevant intuitions by saying that we are just as (personally) justified in our beliefs as our counterparts are in theirs while denying that their beliefs are (doxastically) justified. According to Kvanvig and Menzel (1990), ascriptions of personal justification of the form “S is justified in believing p” logically entail ascriptions of doxastic justification of the form “S’s belief that p is justified.” If this account of the logic of justification ascriptions is correct, then we cannot consistently say that while our deceived counterparts are justified in their beliefs, their beliefs are not justified. argues that there is no entailment from ascriptions of personal justification to ascriptions of doxastic justification and that we need the personal/doxastic justification distinction to make sense of the more familiar distinction between excuses and justifications.

3. Newer Evil Demon Problems

The original new evil demon problem was a problem for reliabilism. The intuitions thought to cause trouble for the reliabilist now play a role in the internalism/externalism debate, discussions of the nature of evidence, and the literature on warranted assertion.

a. The Internalism/Externalism Debate

Reliabilism is not the only account of epistemic justification that seems to deliver the wrong verdict by classifying the beliefs of our deceived counterparts as unjustified. Consider the proper-functionalist account of epistemic justification defended by Bergmann (2006). While Plantinga (1993) defends a proper-functionalist account of warrant, warrant is typically taken to be distinct from justification and Bergmann intends his account to be one of justification rather than warrant. According to the proper-functionalist account of justification, a belief can be justified only if the belief is the product of cognitive faculties that are functioning properly in an environment in which those faculties will reliably lead to the truth and for which that faculty was “designed” to function. The proper-functionalist position about justification can assert that our systematically deceived counterparts can be justified in their beliefs provided that cognitive faculties that would be truth-conducive in the environments for which they are designed to operate produce their beliefs. However, it seems they must concede that if a counterpart of ours lacks cognitive faculties that reliably lead to truth in the environments in which they were designed to function, this counterpart could never have justified beliefs in spite of being our counterpart. So, it seems that proper-functionalism is at odds with the intuition underwriting the first premise in the argument against reliabilism. This point is not lost on Bergmann (2006: 136), who concedes that only some of our systematically mistaken epistemic counterparts have justified beliefs.

Consider also the knowledge account of epistemic justification defended by Sutton (2005, 2007) or the knowledge account of epistemic reasons defended by According to the knowledge account of justification, a belief can be justified only if it constitutes knowledge. According to the knowledge account of epistemic reasons, p is an epistemic reason of S’s if S knows p. We know that our deceived counterparts do not know their external world beliefs to be true. The knowledge account of justification implies that our deceived counterparts do not have adequate justification for their beliefs. If you think that it is possible for S to have a justified belief that p is the case only if p can serve as an epistemic reason for S to believe obvious consequences of p, it follows from the knowledge account of epistemic reasons that our deceived counterparts’ external world beliefs are unjustified.

According to Wedgwood (2002), the intuitions that underwrite the argument against reliabilism underwrite an argument against all versions of externalism about justification. If a theory of epistemic justification is committed to saying that some subject’s belief about p can be justified only if some condition C obtains such that C does not strongly supervene on the subject’s (non-factive) mental states, it seems that this theory will be at odds with the intuition that underwrites (1). He maintains that the new evil demon thought experiment does not merely tell us what justification is not. It tells us something about what justification is. It tells us that epistemic justification is an internalist notion. It tells us that so long as two subjects are in precisely the same (non-factive) mental states, their beliefs will attain the same justificatory status.

Nelson (2002) has further claimed that the intuitions underwriting the new evil demon argument tell us something about the epistemic status of epistemic principles (that is, principles that state non-normative conditions in virtue of which we might have prima facie justification for our beliefs). He suggests that our intuitions provide us with a priori justification for believing that certain modes of belief formation (for example, perception) confer justification. If this is right, then it seems that the externalist position regarding epistemic justification faces a further difficulty. It seems that on some externalist views (for example, Goldman’s (1979) reliabilist account or Bergmann’s (2006) proper-functionalist account), it is a purely contingent matter that perceptual experience provides justification for our beliefs about the external world. If an externalist were to agree with Nelson that we have a priori justification for saying that perceptual experience confers justification, it seems that they will have to say that this proposition is a contingent proposition for which we have a priori justification.

b. Evidence

The new evil demon problem also seems to be a problem for externalist accounts of evidence. Internalists, such as Conee and Feldman (2004), maintain that if two subjects are in precisely the same (non-factive) mental states, they will necessarily share the same evidence. The externalists deny this and assertthat it is possible for two subjects to be in precisely the same (non-factive) mental states while having different bodies of evidence. Some epistemologists (for example, Hyman (1999), Unger (1975), and Williamson (2000)) defend views of evidence in the neighborhood of this view:

E = K:

S’s evidence includes the proposition that p if S knows p.

According to E = K, since you and some deceived counterpart of yours know different propositions to be true, there are propositions included in your evidence that are not included in your deceived counterpart’s evidence. To make this concrete, suppose that you know you have hands. Your counterpart’s “experience” of the external world is nothing more than a series of demonically induced hallucinations. Your counterpart might be a handless, disembodied spirit living in a dark world. According to E = K, while your evidence will include the proposition that you have a hand, your counterpart’s evidence will not include this proposition. Some find this implication of E = K problematic. First, says it is intuitively correct to say that the two of you share the same evidence. Perhaps this is what explains the comparative epistemic judgment that the two of you are equally justified in your beliefs about the external world. Second, Silins (2005) notes that if we think that a subject’s degree of confidence ought (ideally) to match their evidence, E = K has the odd implication that you ought to have a higher degree of confidence in the belief that you have hands than your counterpart should in her (false) belief that she has hands.

c. Warranted Assertion

Let us say that a subject’s assertion that p is the case is warranted if the subject’s assertion that p is true is epistemically permissible. That is to say, the subject’s assertion is warranted when it is not the case that the subject ought to refrain from asserting that p is true for epistemic reasons. One of the more popular accounts of warranted assertion is the knowledge account of assertion, ascribed to byDeRose (1996), Slote (1979), Sutton (2005, 2007), Williamson (2000), and Unger (1975). According to this account, assertion is governed by the knowledge norm:

K:

S ought not assert that p unless S knows p.

Some (for example Weiner (2005)) have defended the weaker externalist view that assertion is governed by the truth norm:

T:

S ought not assert that p unless p is true.

Suppose we were to grant that our intuitions concerning our deceived counterparts did in fact show that their beliefs are justified. According to Lackey (2008), the intuitions that cause trouble for externalist accounts of epistemic justification cause trouble for externalist accounts of warranted assertion on which knowledge or truth is necessary for permissible assertion. Just as it seems intuitive to some to say that our epistemic counterparts’ beliefs are justified, it seems to her that our epistemic counterparts’ assertions are warranted.

It seems that epistemologists either do not share Lackey’s intuitions about warranted assertion or do not think that they ought to accommodate those intuitions in their accounts of warranted assertion. It is interesting to note that many who defend externalist accounts of warranted assertion are unwilling to defend externalist accounts of epistemic justification. But, it might be that this is an untenable combination of views. For, if Sutton (2005, 2007) is right, you cannot be justified in believing what you lack warrant for asserting:

J:

If S’s belief that p is justified and S asserts that p is the case, S’s assertion that p is the case is warranted.

If our deceived counterparts’ beliefs are justified and there is nothing wrong with their holding them, how could it be wrong for them to assert that their beliefs are true? Since, according to (K) or (T), it would be wrong to assert that something is true unless it actually is true, those who endorse (K) or (T) either ought to say that our deceived counterparts do not have sufficient justification for their beliefs or deny (J) and say that a person’s beliefs can be justified even if the person lacks sufficient warrant for asserting what she justifiably believes to be the case. At any rate, the arguments that have been offered for (J) suggest that the position of those who adopt internalist accounts of justification because of intuitions about our systematically deceived counterparts while defending externalist accounts of warranted assertion cannot have it both ways.

4. Conclusion

The new evil demon problem has been a persistent problem for reliabilists for over two decades. It is most unclear how someone can consistently maintain that the justification of our beliefs depends on the reliability of the processes that produce them while at the same time acknowledging that our systematically deceived counterparts are fully justified in their beliefs. The problem is now not a problem for reliabilists only. The thought experiment Cohen introduced into the literature and the intuitions it elicits now play a significant role in the literature on the internalism/externalism debate, the nature of evidence, and the conditions of warranted assertability.

5. References and Further Reading

  • Audi, R. 1993. The Structure of Justification. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Bach, K. 1985. A Rationale for Reliabilism. The Monist 68: 246-63.
  • Bergmann, M. 2006. Justification Without Awareness. (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • BonJour, L. 2002. Internalism and Externalism. In P. Moser (ed.) The Oxford Handbook of Epistemology. (New York: Oxford University Press): 234-64.
  • Brewer, B. 1997. Foundations of Perceptual Knowledge. American Philosophical Quarterly 34: 41-55.
  • Cohen, S. 1984. Justification and Truth. Philosophical Studies 46: 279-96.
  • Cohen, S. and K. Lehrer. 1983. Justification, Truth, and Knowledge. Synthese 55.
  • Comesana, J. 2002. The Diagonal and the Demon. Philosophical Studies 110: 249-66.
  • Conee, E. and R. Feldman. 2004. Evidentialism. (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • DeRose, K. 1996. Knowledge, Assertion, and Lotteries. Australasian Journal of Philosophy 74: 568-80.
  • Engel, M. 1992. Personal and Doxastic Justification. Philosophical Studies 67: 133-51.
  • Gibbons, J. 2006. Access Externalism. Mind 115: 19-39.
  • Goldman, A. 1979. What is Justified Belief? In G. Pappas (ed.) Justification and Knowledge (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press): 1-23.
  • Goldman, A. 1986. Epistemology and Cognition. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).
  • Goldman, A. 1988. Strong and Weak Justification. Philosophical Perspectives 2: 51-69.
  • Goldman, A. 1993. Epistemic Folkways and Scientific Epistemology. Philosophical Issues 3: 271-85.
  • Knowledge and Action. Journal of Philosophy Hyman, J. 1999. How Knowledge Works. Philosophical Quarterly 49: 433-51.
  • Kvanvig, J. and C. Menzel. 1990. The Basic Notion of Justification. Philosophical Studies 59: 235-61.
  • Lackey, J. 2008. Learning from Words. (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • Langsam, H. 2008. Rationality, Justification, and the Internalism/Externalism Debate. Erkenntnis 68: 79-101.
  • Lemos, N. 2007. An Introduction to the Theory of Knowledge. (New York: Cambridge University Press).
  • Littlejohn, C. 2009. The Externalist’s Demon. Canadian Journal of Philosophy 39 (3): 399-434.
  • Majors, B. and S. Sawyer. 2005. The Epistemological Argument for Content Externalism. Philosophical Perspectives 19: 257-80.
  • Nelson, M. 2002. What Justification Could Not Be. International Journal of Philosophical Studies 10: 265-81.
  • Peacocke, C. 2004. The Realm of Reason. (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • Plantinga, A. 1993. Warrant: The Current Debate. (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • Silins, N. 2005. Deception and Evidence. Philosophical Perspectives 19: 375-404.
  • Slote, M. 1979. Assertion and Belief. In J. Dancy (ed.) Papers on Language and Logic (Keele: Keele University Library): 177-90.
  • Sosa, E. 1985. The Coherence of Virtue and the Virtue of Coherence. Synthese 64: 3-28.
  • Sosa, E. 1991. Knowledge in Perspective. (New York: Cambridge University Press).
  • Sosa, E. 2003. Epistemic Justification: Internalism vs. Externalism, Foundations vs. Virtues (Malden, MA: Blackwell).
  • Sutton, J. 2005. Stick To What You Know. Nous 39: 359-96.
  • Sutton, J. 2007. Without Justification. (Cambridge, MA: MIT University Press).
  • Turri, J. The Ontology of Epistemic Reasons. Nous.
  • Unger, P. 1975. Ignorance. (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • Weatherson, B. Deontology and the Demon. Journal of Philosophy.
  • Wedgwood, R. 2002. Internalism Explained. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 65: 349-69.
  • Weiner, M. 2005. Must We Know What We Say? Philosophical Review 114: 227-51.
  • Williamson, T. 2000. Knowledge and its Limits. (New York: Oxford University Press).

Author Information

Clayton Littlejohn
Email: cmlittlejohn@yahoo.com
Southern Methodist University
U. S. A.

Vladimir Solovyov (1853—1900)

SolovyovSolovyov was a 19th Century Russian Philosopher. He is considered a prolific but complicated character. His output aimed to be a comprehensive philosophical system, yet he produced what is considered contentious, theosophical and fundamentally inconclusive results.

This article examines in detail Slovyov’s five main works. It also looks into the controversy he generated and his possible philosophical legacy. In the course of five main works – three were completed, two were left unfinished – Solovyov demonstrated a predilection for grand topics of study and an ambitious aim to produce a comprehensive philosophical system that rejected accepted notions of contemporary European Philosophy. In his first major work, The Crisis of Western Philosophy (written when he was twenty-one), he argues against positivism and for moving away from a dichotomy of “speculative” (rationalist) and “empirical” knowledge in favour of a post-philosophical enquiry that would reconcile all notions of thought in a new transcendental whole.

He carried on his attempted synthesis of rationalism, empiricism and mysticism in Philosophical Principles of Integral Knowledge, and he turned to a study of ethics leading to a solidifying of his epistemology in Critique of Abstract Principles.

In the later period of his life, he recast his ethics in The Justification of the Good and his epistemology in Theoretical Philosophy.

Due to his conclusions repeatedly resting on a call upon an aspect of the divine or the discovery of an “all-encompassing spirit,” the soundness of his arguments have often been called into question. For the same reason, and compounded by a tendency to express himself in theological and romantically nationalist language, he is also often dismissed as a mystic or fanatic. Although, as the article below argues, if read as a product of his time, they are more sensible and less polemical.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Interpretations of Solovyov’s Philosophical Writings.
  3. The Crisis of Western Philosophy
  4. Philosophical Principles of Integral Knowledge
  5. Critique of Abstract Principles
  6. The Justification of the Good
  7. Theoretical Philosophy
  8. Concluding Remarks
  9. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Life

Solovyov was born in Moscow in 1853. His father, Sergej Mikhailovich, a professor at Moscow University, is universally recognized as one of Russia’s greatest historians. After attending secondary school in Moscow, Vladimir enrolled at the university and began his studies there in the natural sciences in 1869, his particular interest at this time being biology. Already at the age of 13 he had renounced his Orthodox faith to his friends, accepting the banner of materialism perhaps best illustrated by the fictional character of Bazarov in Turgenev’s novel Fathers and Sons and the actual historical figure of Pisarev. During the first two or three years of study at the university Solovyov grew disenchanted with his ardent positivism and did poorly in his examinations. An excellent student prior to this time, there is no reason for us to doubt his intellectual gifts. Nevertheless, although he himself as well as his interpreters have attributed his poor performance to growing disinterest in his course of study, this reasoning may sound to us at least somewhat disingenuous. In any case, Solovyov subsequently enrolled as an auditor in the Historical-Philosophical Faculty, then passing the examination for a degree in June 1873.

At some point during 1872 Solovyov reconverted, so to speak, to Orthodoxy. During the academic year 1873-74 he attended lectures at the Moscow Ecclesiastic Academy–an unusual step for a lay person. At this time Solovyov also began the writing of his magister’s dissertation, several chapters of which were published in a Russian theological journal in advance of’ his formal defense of it in early December 1874.

The death of his Moscow University philosophy teacher Pamfil Jurkevich created a vacancy that Solovyov surely harbored hopes of eventually filling. Nevertheless, despite being passed over, owing, at least in part, to his young age and lack of credentials, he was named a docent (lecturer) in philosophy. In spite of taking up his teaching duties with enthusiasm, within a few months Solovyov applied for a scholarship to do research abroad, primarily in London’s British Museum.

His stay in the English capital was met with mixed emotions, but it could not have been entirely unpleasant, for in mid-September 1875 he was still informing his mother of plans to return to Russia only the following summer. For whatever reason, though, Solovyov abruptly changed his mind, writing again to his mother a mere month later that his work required him to go to Egypt via Italy and Greece. Some have attributed his change of plans to a mystical experience while sitting in the reading room of the Museum!

Upon his return to Russia the following year, Solovyov taught philosophy at Moscow University. He began work on a text that we know as the Philosophical Principles of Integral Knowledge, but which he never finished. In early 1877 Solovyov relinquished his university position due to his aversion towards academic politics, took up residence in St. Petersburg and accepted employment in the Ministry of Public Education. While preparing his doctoral dissertation, Solovyov gave a series of highly successful popular lectures at St. Petersburg University that was later published as Lectures on Divine Humanity, and in 1880 he defended a doctoral dissertation at St. Petersburg University. Any lingering hope Solovyov may have entertained of obtaining a professorship in Russia were dashed when in early 1881 during a public lecture he appealed to the Tsar to pardon the regicides of the latter’s father Alexander II.

For the remainder of the 1880s, despite his prolificacy, Solovyov concerned himself with themes of little interest to contemporary Western philosophy. He returned, however, to traditional philosophical issues in the 1890s, working in particular on ethics and epistemology. His studies on the latter, however, were left quite incomplete owing to his premature death in 1900 at the age of 47. At the end Solovyov, together with his younger brother, was also preparing a new Russian translation of Plato’s works.

2. Interpretations of Solovyov’s Philosophical Writings

Despite the vast amount of secondary literature, particularly, of course, in Russian, little, especially that in English, is of interest to the professionally-trained philosopher. Nevertheless, even while memory of him was still fresh, many of his friends differed sharply on key issues involved in interpreting Solovyov’s writings and legacy.

Among the topics debated over the years has been the number of phases or periods through which his thought passed. Opinions have ranged from four to just one, depending largely on the different criteria selected for demarcating one period from another. Those who hold that Solovyov’s thought underwent no “fundamental change” [Shein] do not deny that there were modifications but simply maintain that the fundamental thrust of his philosophy remained unaltered over the course of time. Others see different emphases in Solovyov’s work from decade to decade. Yet in one of the most philosophically-informed interpretations, Solovyov moved from a philosophy of “integral knowledge” to a later phenomenological phase that anticipated the “essential methodology” of the German movement [Dahm].

Historically, another central concern among interpreters has been the extent of Solovyov’s indebtedness to various other figures. Whereas several have stressed the influence of, if not an outright borrowing from, the late Schelling [Mueller, Shein], at least one prominent scholar has sought to accentuate Solovyov’s independence and creativity [Losev]. Still others have argued for Solovyov’s indebtedness to Hegel [Navickas], Kant [Vvedenskij], Boehme [David], the Russian Slavophiles and the philosophically-minded theologians Jurkevich and Kudryavtsev.

In Russia itself the thesis that Solovyov had no epistemology [Radlov] evoked a spirited rebuttal [Ern] that has continued in North America [Shein, Navickas]. None of these scholars, however, has demonstrated the presence of more than a rudimentary epistemology, at least as that term is currently employed in contemporary philosophy.

Additionally, the vast majority of secondary studies have dealt with Solovyov’s mysticism and views on religion, nationalism, social issues, and the role of Russia in world history. Consequently, it is not surprising that those not directly acquainted with his explicit philosophical writings and their Russian context view Solovyov as having nothing of interest to say in philosophy proper. We should also mention one of the historically most influential views, one that initially at least appears quite plausible. Berdyaev, seeing Solovyov as a paradoxical figure, distinguished a day — from a night-Solovyov. The “day-Solovyov” was a philosophical rationalist, in the broad sense, an idealist, who sought to convey his highly metaphysical religious and ontological conceptions through philosophical discourse utilizing terms current at the time; the “night — Solovyov” was a mystic who conveyed his personal revelations largely through poetry.

3. The Crisis of Western Philosophy

This, Solovyov’s first major work, displays youthful enthusiasm, vision, optimism and a large measure of audacity. Unfortunately, it is also at times repetitious and replete with sweeping generalizations, unsubstantiated conclusions, and non sequiturs. The bulk of the work is an excursion in the history of modern philosophy that attempts to substantiate and amplify Solovyov’s justly famous claims, made in the opening lines, that: (i) philosophy — qua a body of abstract, purely theoretical knowledge — has finished its development; (ii) philosophy in this sense is no longer nor will it ever again be maintained by anyone; (iii) philosophy has bequeathed to its successor certain accomplishments or results that this successor will utilize to resolve the problems that philosophy has unsuccessfully attempted to resolve.

Solovyov tells us that his ambitious program differs from positivism in that, unlike the latter, he understands the superseded artifact called “philosophy” to include not merely its “speculative” but also its “empirical” direction. Whether these two directions constitute the entirety of modern philosophy, i.e., whether there has been any historical manifestation of another sense of philosophy, one that is not purely theoretical, during the modern era, is unclear. Also left unclear is what precisely Solovyov means by “positivism.” He mentions as representatives of that doctrine Mill, Spencer and Comte, whose views were by no means identical, and mentions as the fundamental tenet of positivism that “independent reality cannot be given in external experience.” This I take to mean that experience yields knowledge merely of things as they appear, not as they are “in themselves.” Solovyov has, it would seem, confused positivism with phenomenalism.

Solovyov’s reading of the development of modern philosophy proceeds along the lines of Hegel’s own interpretation. He sees Hegel’s “panlogism” as the necessary result of Western philosophy. The “necessity” here is clearly conceptual, although Solovyov implicitly accepts without further ado that this necessity has, as a matter of fact, been historically manifested in the form of individual philosophies. Moreover, in line with Hegel’s apparent self-interpretation Solovyov agrees that the former’s system permits no further development. For the latter, at least, this is because, having rejected the law of (non)contradiction, Hegel’s philosophy sees internal contradiction, which otherwise would lead to further development, as a “logical necessity,” i.e., as something the philosophy itself requires and is accommodated within the system itself.

Similarly, Solovyov’s analysis of the movement from Hegelianism to mid-19th century German materialism is largely indebted to the left-Hegelians. Solovyov, however, merely claims that one can exit Hegelianism by acknowledging its fundamental one-sidedness. Yet in the next breath, as it were, he holds that the emergence of empiricism, qua materialism, was necessary. Out of the phenomenalism of empiricism arises Schopenhauer’s philosophy and thence Eduard von Hartmann’s.

All representatives of Western philosophy, including to some extent Schopenhauer and von Hartmann, see rational knowledge as the decomposition of intuition into its sensuous and logical elements. Such knowledge, however, in breaking up the concrete into abstractions without re-synthesizing them, additionally is unable to recognize these abstractions as such but must hypostatize them, that is, assign real existence to them.. Nevertheless, even were we to grant Solovyov’s audacious thesis that all Western philosophers have done this abstraction and hypostatizing, it by no means follows that rational thought necessarily has had to follow this procedure.

According to Solovyov, von Hartmann, in particular, is aware of the one-sidedness of both rationalism and empiricism, which respectively single out the logical and the sense element in cognition to the exclusion of the other. Nevertheless, he too hypostatizes will and idea instead of realizing that the only way to avoid any and all bifurcations is through a recognition of what Solovyov terms “the fundamental metaphysical principle,” namely that the all- encompassing spirit is the truly existent. This hastily enunciated conclusion receives here no further argument. Nor does Solovyov dwell on establishing his ultimate claim that the results of Western philosophical development, issuing in the discovery of the all-encompassing spirit, agree with the religious beliefs of the Eastern Church fathers.

4. Philosophical Principles of Integral Knowledge

This work originally appeared during 1877 as a series of articles in an official journal published by the Ministry of Education (Zhurnal Ministerstva narodnogo prosveshchenija). Of Solovyov’s major writings it is probably the most difficult for the philosopher today to understand owing, to a large degree, to its forced trichotomization of philosophical issues and options and its extensive use of terms drawn from mystical sources even when employed in a quite different sense.

There are three fundamental aspects, or “subjective foundations,” of human life–in Solovyov’s terminology, “forms of being.” They are: feeling, thinking and willing. Each of these has both a personal and a social side, and each has its objective intentional object. These are, respectively, objective beauty, objective truth and the objective good. Three fundamental forms of the social union arise from human striving for the good: economic society, political society (government), and spiritual society. Likewise in the pursuit of truth there arises positive science, abstract philosophy, and theology. Lastly, in the sphere of feeling we have the technical arts, such as architecture, the fine arts and a form of mysticism, which Solovyov emphasizes is an immediate spiritual connection with the transcendent world and as such is not to be confused with the term “mysticism” as used to indicate a reflection on that connection.

Human cultural evolution has literally passed through these forms and done so according to what Solovyov calls “an incontestable law of development.” Economic socialism, positivism and utilitarian realism represent for him the highest point yet of Western civilization and, in line with his earlier work, the final stage of its development. But Western civilization with its social, economic, philosophic and scientific atomization represents only a second, transitional phase in human development. The next, final stage, characterized by freedom from all one- sidedness and elevation over special interests is presently a “tribal character” of the Slavic peoples and, in particular, of the Russian nation.

Although undoubtedly of some historical interest as an expression of and contribution to ideas circulating in Russia as to the country’s role in world affairs, Solovyov expounded all the above without argument and as such is of little interest to contemporary philosophy. Of somewhat greater value is his critique of traditional philosophical directions.

Developing its essential principle to the end, empiricism holds that I know only what the senses tell me. Consequently, I know even of myself only through conscious impressions, which, in turn, means that I am nothing but states of consciousness. Yet my consciousness presupposes me. Thus, we have found that empiricism leads, by reductio ad absurdum, to its self-refutation. The means to avoid such a conclusion, however, lies in recognizing the absolute being of the cognizing subject, which, in short, is idealism.

Likewise, the consistent development of the idealist principle leads to a denial of the epistemic subject and pure thought. The dissolution of these two directions means the collapse of all abstract philosophy. We are left with two choices: either complete skepticism or the view that what truly exists has an independent reality quite apart from our material world, a view Solovyov terms “mysticism.” With mysticism we have, in Solovyov’s view, exhausted all logical options. That is, having seen that holding the truly existing to be either the cognized object or the cognizing subject leads to absurdity, the sole remaining logical possibility is that offered by mysticism, which, thus, completes the “circle of possible philosophical views.” Although empiricism and rationalism (= idealism) rest on false principles, their respective objective contents, external experience, qua the foundation of natural science, and logical thought, qua the foundation of pure philosophy, are to be synthesized or encompassed along with mystical knowledge in “integral knowledge,” what Solovyov terms “theosophy.”

For whatever reason, Philosophical Principles of Integral Knowledge remained incomplete. Despite its expression of his own views, which undoubtedly at this stage were greatly indebted to the Slavophiles, Solovyov altered his original plan to submit this work as a doctoral dissertation. Instead, in April 1880 he defended at St. Petersburg University a large work that he had begun at approximately the same time as the Philosophical Principles and which, like the latter, appeared in serialized form starting in 1877 and as a separate book in 1880.

5. Critique of Abstract Principles

Originally planned to comprise three parts, ethics, epistemology and aesthetics, (which alone already reveals a debt to Kant) the completed work never turned to the last of these, on which, however, Solovyov labored extensively. Nevertheless, owing largely to its traditional philosophical style and its extended treatment of major historical figures, the Critique remains the most accessible of Solovyov’s major early writings today.

(1) Subjective Ethics. Over the course of human development a number of principles have been advanced in pursuit of various goals deemed to be that for which human actions should strive—goals such as pleasure, happiness, fulfilment of duties, adherence to God’s will, etc. Certainly seeking happiness, pleasure, or the fulfilment of duty is not unequivocally wrong. Yet the pursuit of any one of these alone without the others cannot provide a basis for a totally satisfactory ethical system. A higher synthesis or, if you will, a more encompassing unity is needed, one that will reveal how and when any of these particular pursuits is ethically warranted. Such a unity will show the truth, and thereby the error, of singling out any particular moment of the unity as sufficient alone. Doing so, that is, showing the proper place of each principle, showing them as necessary yet inadequate stages on the way to a complete synthetic system is what Solovyov means by “the critical method.”

In the end all moral theories that rest on an empirical basis, something factual in human nature, fail because they cannot provide and account for obligation. The essential feature of moral law, as Solovyov understands the concept, is its absolute necessity for all rational beings. The Kantian influence here is unmistakable and indubitable. Nevertheless, Solovyov parts company with Kant in expressing that a natural inclination in support of an obligatory action enhances the moral value of an action. Since duty is the general form of the moral principle, whereas an inclination serves as the psychological motive for a moral action, i.e., as the material aspect of morality, the two cannot contradict one another.

The Kantian categorical imperative, which Solovyov, in general, endorses, presupposes freedom. Of course, we all feel that our actions are free, but what kind of freedom is this? Here Solovyov approaches phenomenology in stating that the job of philosophy is to analyze this feeling with an eye to determining what it is we are aware of. Undoubtedly, for the most part we can do as we please, but such freedom is freedom of action. The question, however, is whether I can actually want something other than I do, i.e., whether the will is free.

Again like Kant, Solovyov believes all our actions, even the will itself, is, at least viewed empirically, subject to the law of causality. From the moral perspective, however, there is a “causality of freedom,” a freedom to initiate a causal sequence on the part of practical reason. In other words, empirically the will is determined, whereas transcendentally it is free. Solovyov, though, goes on to pose, at least rhetorically, the question whether this transcendental freedom is genuine or could it be that the will is subject to transcendental conditions. In doing so, he reveals that his conception of “transcendental” differs from that of Kant. Nevertheless, waving aside all difficulties associated with a resolution of the metaphysical issue of freedom of the will, Solovyov tells us, ethics has no need of such investigations; reason and empirical inquiry are sufficient. The criteria of moral activity lie in its universality and necessity, i.e., that the principle of one’s action can be made a universal law.

(2) Objective Ethics. In order that the good determine my will I must be subjectively convinced that the consequent action can be realized. This moral action presupposes a certain knowledge of and is conditioned by society. Subjective ethics instructs us that we should treat others not as means but as ends. Likewise, they should treat me as an end. Solovyov terms a community of beings freely striving to realize each other’s good as if it were his or her own good “free communality.” Although some undoubtedly see material wealth as a goal, it cannot serve as a moral goal. Rather, the goal of free communality is the just distribution of wealth, which, in turn, requires an organization to administer fair and equal treatment of and to all, in other words, a political arrangement or government. To make the other person’s good my good, I must recognize such concern as obligatory. That is, I must recognize the other as having rights, which my material interests cannot infringe.

If all individuals acted for the benefit of all, there would be no need for a coordination of interests, for interests would not be in conflict. There is, however, no universal consensus on benefits and often enough individually perceived benefits conflict. In this need for adjudication lies a source of government and law. Laws express the negative side of morality, i.e., they do not say what should be done, but what is not permitted. Thus, the legal order is unable to provide positive directives, precisely because what humans specifically should do and concretely aspire to attain remains conditional and contingent. The absolute, unconditional form of morality demands an absolute, unconditional content, namely, an absolute goal.

As a finite being, the human individual cannot attain the absolute except through positive interaction with all others. Whereas in the legal order each individual is limited by the other, in the aspiration or striving for the absolute the other aids or completes the self. Such a union of beings is grounded psychologically in love. As a contingent being the human individual cannot fully realize an absolute object or goal. Only in the process of individuals working in concert, forming a “total-unity,” does love become a non-contingent state. Only in an inner unity with all does man realize what Solovyov calls “the divine principle.”

Solovyov himself views his position as diametrically opposed to that of Kant, who from absolute moral obligation was led to postulating the existence of God, immortality and human freedom. For Solovyov, the realization of morality presupposes an affirmative metaphysics. Once we progress from Kant’s purely subjective ethics to an objective understanding of ethics, we see the need for a conviction in the theoretical validity of Kant’s three postulates, their metaphysical truth independent of their practical desirability.

Again differing from Kant, and Fichte too, Solovyov at this point in his life rejects the priority of ethics over metaphysics. The genuine force of the moral principle rests on the existence of the absolute order. And the necessary conviction in this order can be had only if we know it to be true, which demands an epistemological inquiry.

(3) Epistemology/Metaphysics. “To know what we should do we must know what is,” Solovyov tells us. To say “what is,” however, is informative only in contrast to saying, at least implicitly, “what is not” — this we already know from the opening pages of Hegel’s Logic. One answer is that the true is that which objectively exists independent of any knowing subject. Here Solovyov leads us down a path strikingly similar, at least in outline, to that taken in the initial chapters of Hegel’s Phenomenology. If the objectively real is the true, then sense certainty is our guarantee of having obtained it. But this certainty cannot be that of an individual knowing subject alone, for truth is objective and thus the same for everyone. Truth must not be in the facts but the things that make up the facts. Moreover, truth cannot be the individual things in isolation, for truths would then be isomorphic with the number of things. Such a conception of truth is vacuous; no, truth is one. With this Solovyov believes he has passed to naturalism.

Of course, our immediate sense experience lacks universality and does not in all its facets correspond to objective reality. Clearly, many qualities of objects, for example, color and taste, are subjective. Thus, reality must be what is general or present in all sense experience. To the general foundation of sensation corresponds the general foundation of things, namely, that conveyed through the sense of touch, i.e., the experience of resistance. The general foundation of objective being is its impenetrability.

Holding true being to be single and impenetrable, however, remains untenable. Through a series of dialectical maneuvers, reminiscent of Hegel, Solovyov arrives at the position that true being contains multiplicity. That is, whereas it is singular owing to absolute impenetrability, it consists of separate particles, each of which is impenetrable. Having in this way passed to atomism, Solovyov provides a depiction largely indebted to Kant’s Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science. Solovyov recognizes that we have reached atomism, not through some experimental technique but through philosophical, logical reasoning. But every scientific explanation of the ultimate constituents of reality transgresses the bounds of experience. We return to the viewpoint that reality belongs to appearances alone, i.e., what is given in experience. Now, however, our realism has been dialectically transformed into a phenomenal or critical realism.

According to phenomenal realism, absolute reality is ultimately inaccessible to cognition. Nevertheless, that which cognitively is accessible constitutes a relative objectivity and is our sole standard for determining truth and thus knowledge. In this sensualism — for that is what it is — we refer particular sensations to definite objects. These objects are taken as objectively real despite the manifest subjectivity of sensation in general. Thus, objectification, as the imparting of the sense of objectivity onto the content of sensations, must be an independent activity of the cognizing subject.

Objectification, alone, cannot account for the definite object before me to which all my sensations of that object refer as parts or aspects. In addition to objectification there must be a unification or synthesizing of sensations, and this process or act is again distinct from sensing and certainly is not part of the sensation itself. Again evoking an image of Kant in the reader, Solovyov calls the independent cognitive act whereby sense data are formed into definite objective representations the imagination.

The two factors we have discerned, one contributed by the epistemic subject and the other by sensation, are absolutely independent of each other. Cognition requires both, but what connects them remains unanswered. According to Solovyov, any connection implies dependence, but the a priori element certainly cannot be dependent on the empirical. For, following Hume, from the factual we cannot deduce the universality and the necessity of a law. The other alternative is to have the content of true cognition dependent on the forms of reason; such is the approach of Hegel’s absolute rationalism. However, if all the determinations of being are created by cognition, then at the beginning we have only the pure form of cognition, pure thought, a concept of being in general. Solovyov finds such a starting point to be vacuous. For although Hegel correctly realizes the general form of truth to be universality, it is a negative conception from which nothing can be derived. The positive conception is a whole that contains everything in itself, not, as in Hegel, one that everything contains in itself.

For Solovyov, truth, in short, is the whole, and, consequently, each particular fact in isolation from the whole is false. Again Solovyov’s position on rationality bears an uncanny resemblance to that of Hegel, although in the former’s eyes this resemblance is superficial. Reason is the whole, and so the rationality of a particular fact lies in its interrelation with the whole. A fact divorced from the whole is irrational.

True knowledge implies the whole, the truly existent, the absolute. Following Solovyov’s “dialectical” thinking, the absolute, qua absolute, presupposes a non-absolute; one (or the whole) presupposes the many. And, again conjuring up visions of Hegel, if the absolute is the one, the non-absolute is becoming the one. The latter can become the one only if it has the divine element potentially. In nature, the one exists only potentially, whereas in humans it is actual, though only ideally, i.e., in consciousness.

The object of knowledge has three forms: 1) as it appears to us empirically, 2) as conceptually ideal, and 3) as existing absolutely independent of our cognition of it. Our concepts and sensations would be viewed merely as subjective states were it not for the third form. The basis for this form is a third sort of cognition, without which objective truth would elude us. A study of the history of philosophy correctly shows that neither the senses nor the intellect, whether separately or in combination, can satisfactorily account for the third form. Sensations are relative, and concepts conditional. Indeed, the referral of our thoughts and sensations to an object in knowledge, thus, presupposes this third sort of cognition. Such cognition, namely, faith or mystical knowledge, would itself be impossible if the subject and the object of knowledge were completely divorced. In this interaction we perceive the object’s essence or “idea,” its constancy. The imagination (here, let us recall Kant), at a non-conscious level, organizes the manifold given by sense experience into an object via a referral of this manifold to the “idea” of the object.

Solovyov believes he has demonstrated that all knowledge arises through the confluence of empirical, rational and “mystical” elements. Only philosophical analysis can discover the role of the mystical. Just as an isolation of the first two elements has historically led to empiricism and rationalism respectively, so the mystical element has been accentuated by traditional theology. And just as the former directions have given rise to dogmatic manifestations, so too has theology found its dogmatic exponents. The task before us lies in freeing the three directions of their exclusiveness, intentionally integrating and organizing true knowledge into a complete system, which Solovyov called “free theosophy.”

6. The Justification of the Good

After the completion of the works mentioned above, Solovyov largely withdrew from philosophy, both as a profession and its concerns. During the 1880s he devoted himself increasingly to theological and topical social issues of little, if any, concern to the contemporary philosopher. However, in 1894 Solovyov took to preparing a second edition of the Critique of Abstract Principles. Owing, though, to an evolution, and thereby significant changes, in his viewpoint, he soon abandoned this venture and embarked on an entirely new statement of his philosophical views. Just as in his earlier treatise, Solovyov again intended to treat ethical issues before turning to an epistemological inquiry.

The Justification of the Good appeared in book form in 1897. Many, though not all, of its chapters had previously been published in several well-known philosophical and literary journals over the course of the previous three years. Largely in response to criticisms of the book or its serialized chapters, Solovyov managed to complete a second edition, which was published in 1899 and accompanied by a new preface.

Most notably, Solovyov now holds that ethics is an independent discipline. In this he finds himself in solidarity with Kant, who made this “great discovery,” as Solovyov put it. Knowledge of good and evil is accessible to all individuals possessing reason and a conscience and needs neither divine revelation nor epistemological deduction. Although philosophical analysis surely is unable to instill a certainty that I, the analyst, alone exist, solipsism even if true would eliminate only objective ethics. There is another, a subjective side to ethics that concerns duties to oneself. Likewise, morality is independent of the metaphysical question concerning freedom of the will. From the independence of ethics Solovyov draws the conclusion that life has meaning and, coupled with this, we can legitimately speak of a moral order.

The natural bases of morality, from which ethics as an independent discipline can be deduced and which form the basis of moral consciousness, are shame, pity and reverence. Shame reveals to man his higher human dignity. It sets the human apart from the animal world. Pity forms the basis of all of man’s social relations to others. Reverence establishes the moral basis of man’s relation to that which is higher to himself and, as such, is the root of religion.

Each of the three bases, Solovyov tells us, may be considered from three sides or points of view. Shame as a virtue reveals itself as modesty, pity as compassion and reverence as piety. All other proposed virtues are essentially expressions of one of these three. The other two points of view, as a principle of action and as a condition of an ensuing moral action, are interconnected with the first such that the first logically contains the others.

Interestingly, truthfulness is not itself a formal virtue. Solovyov opposes one sort of extreme ethical formalism, arguing that making a factually false statement is not always a lie in the moral sense. The nature of the will behind the action must be taken into account.

Likewise, despite his enormous respect for Kant’s work in the field of ethics, Solovyov rejects viewing God and the immortality of the soul as postulates. God’s existence, he tells us, is not a deduction from religious feeling or experience but its immediate content, i.e., that which is experienced. Furthermore, he adds that God and the soul are “direct creative forces of moral reality.” How we are to interpret these claims in light of the supposed independence of ethics is contentious unless, of course, we find Solovyov guilty of simple-mindedness. Indeed one of his own friends [Trubeckoj] wrote: “It is not difficult to convince ourselves that these arguments about the independence of ethics are refuted on every later page in the Justification of the Good.” However we look upon Solovyov’s pronouncements, the Deity plays a significant role in his ethics. Solovyov provides a facile answer to the perennial question of how a morally perfect God can permit the existence of evil: Its elimination would mean the annihilation of human freedom thereby rendering free goodness (good without freedom is imperfect) impossible. Thus, God permits evil, because its removal would be a greater evil.

Often, all too often, Solovyov is prone to express himself in metaphysical, indeed theological, terms that do little to clarify his position. The realization of the Kingdom of God, he tells us, is the goal of life. What he means, however, is that the realization of a perfect moral order, in which the relations between individuals and the collective whole’s relations to each individual are morally correct, is all that can be rationally desired. Each of us understands that the attainment of moral perfection is not a solipsistic enterprise, i.e., that the Kingdom of God can only be achieved if we each want it and collectively attain it. The individual can attain the moral ideal only in and through society. Christianity alone offers the idea of the perfect individual and the perfect society. Other ideas have been presented (Solovyov mentions Buddhism and Platonism), of course, and these have been historically necessary for the attainment of the universal human consciousness that Christianity promises.

Man’s correct relations to God, his fellow humans and his own material nature, in accordance with the three foundations of morality – piety, pity (compassion) and shame – are collectively organized in three forms. The Church is collectively organized piety, whereas the state is collectively organized pity or compassion. To view the state in such terms already tells us a great deal concerning how Solovyov views the state’s mission and, consequently, his general stand toward laissez-faire doctrines. Although owing to the connection between legality and morality one can speak of a Christian state, this is not to say that in pre-Christian times the state had no moral foundations. Just as the pagan can know the moral law “written in his heart,” (an expression of St. Paul’s that Solovyov was fond of invoking but also reminiscent of Kant’s “the moral law within”) so too the pagan state has two functions: 1) to preserve the foundation of social life necessary for continued human existence, and 2) to improve the condition of humanity.

At the end of The Justification of the Good Solovyov attempts in the most cursory fashion to make a transition to epistemology. He claims that the struggle between good and evil raises the question of the latter’s origin, which in turn ultimately requires an epistemological inquiry. That ethics is an independent discipline does not mean that it is not connected to metaphysics and the theory of knowledge. One can study ethics in its entirety without first having answers to all other philosophical problems much as one can be an excellent swimmer without knowing the physics of buoyancy.

7. Theoretical Philosophy

During the last few years of his life Solovyov sought to recast his thoughts on epistemology. Surely he intended to publish in serial fashion the various chapters of a planned book on the topic, much as he did The Justification of the Good. Unfortunately at the time of his death in 1900 only three chapters were completed, and it is only on the basis of these that we can judge his new standpoint. Nevertheless, on the basis of these meager writings we can already see that Solovyov’s new epistemological reflections exhibit a greater transformation of his thoughts on the subject than does his ethics. Whereas a suggested affinity between these ideas and later German phenomenology must be viewed with caution and, in light of his earlier thoughts, a measure of skepticism, there can be little doubt that to all appearances Solovyov spoke and thought in this late work in a philosophical idiom close to that with which we have become familiar in the 20th century.

For Solovyov epistemology concerns itself with the validity of knowledge in itself, that is, not in terms of whether it is useful in practice or provides a basis for an ethical system that has for whatever reason been accepted. Perhaps not surprisingly then, particularly in light of his firm religious views, Solovyov adheres to a correspondence theory, saying that knowledge is the agreement of a thought of an object with the actual object. The open questions are how such an agreement is possible and how do we know that we know.

The Cartesian “I think, therefore I am” leads us virtually nowhere. Admittedly the claim contains indubitable knowledge, but it is merely that of a subjective reality. I might just as well be thinking of an illusory book as of an actually existing one. How do we get beyond the “I think”? How do we distinguish a dream from reality? The criteria are not present in the immediacy of the consciously intended object. To claim as did some Russian philosophers in his own day that the reality of the external world is an immediately given fact appears to Solovyov an arbitrary opinion hardly worthy of philosophy. Nor is it possible to deduce from the Cartesian inference that the I is a thinking substance. Here is the root of Descartes’ error. The self discovered in self-consciousness has the same status as the object of consciousness, i.e., both have phenomenal existence. If we cannot say what this object of my consciousness is like in itself, i.e., apart from my conscious acts, so too we cannot say what the subject of consciousness is apart from consciousness and for the same reason. Likewise, just as we cannot speak about the I in itself, so too we cannot answer to whom consciousness belongs.

In “The Reliability of Reason,” the second article comprising the Theoretical Philosophy, Solovyov concerns himself with affirming the universality of logical thought. In doing so he stands in opposition to the popular reductionisms, e.g., psychologism, that sought to deny any extra-temporal significance to logic. Thought itself, Solovyov tells us, requires recollection, language and intentionality. Since any logical thought is, nevertheless, a thought and since thought can be analyzed in terms of psychic functions, one could conceivably charge Solovyov with lapsing back into a psychologism, in precisely the same way as some critics have charged Husserl with doing so. And much the same defenses of Husserl’s position can also be used in reply to the objection against Solovyov’s stance.

The third article, “The Form of Rationality and the Reason of Truth,” published in 1898, concerns itself with the proper starting points of epistemology. The first such point is the indubitable veracity of the given in immediate consciousness. There can be no doubt that the pain I experience upon stubbing my toe is genuine. The second starting point of epistemology is the objective, universal validity of rational thought. Along with Hume and Kant, Solovyov does not dispute that factual experience can provide claims only to conditional generality. Rationality alone provides universality. This universality, however, is merely formal. To distinguish the rational form from the conditional content of thought is the first essential task of philosophy. Taking up this challenge is the philosophical self or subject. Solovyov concludes, again as he always does, with a triadic distinction between the empirical subject, the logical subject and the philosophical subject. And although he labels the first the “soul,” the second the “mind” and the third the “spirit,” the trichotomy is contrived and the labeling, at best, imaginative with no foundation other than in Solovyov’s a priori architectonic.

8. Concluding Remarks

Solovyov’s relatively early death, brought on to some degree by his erratic life-style, precluded the completion of his last philosophical work. He also intended to turn his attention eventually towards aesthetics, but whether he would ever have been able to complete such a project remains doubtful. Solovyov was never at any stage of his development able to complete a systematic treatise on the topic, although he did publish a number of writings on the subject.

However beneficial our reading of Solovyov’s works may be, there can be little doubt that he was very much a 19th-century figure. We can hardly take seriously his incessant predilection for triadic schemes, far in excess to anything similar in the German Idealists. His choice of terminology, drawn from an intellectual fashion of his day, also poses a formidable obstacle to the contemporary reader.

Lastly, despite, for example, an often perspicacious study of his philosophical predecessors, written during his middle years, Solovyov, in clinging obstinately to his rigid architectonic, failed to penetrate further than they. Indeed, he often fell far short of their achievements. His discussion of imagination, for example, as we saw, is much too superficial, adding nothing to that found in Kant. These shortcomings, though, should not divert us from recognizing his genuinely useful insights.

After his death, with interest surging in the mystical amid abundant decadent trends, so characteristic of decaying cultures, Solovyov’s thought was seized upon by those far less interested in philosophical analysis than he was towards the end. Those who invoked his name so often in the years immediately subsequent to his death stressed the religious strivings of his middle years to the complete neglect of his final philosophical project, let alone its continuation and completion. In terms of Solovyov-studies today the philosophical project of discovering the “rational kernel within the mystical shell” [Marx], of separating the “living from the dead” [Croce], remains not simply unfulfilled but barely begun.

9. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Sobranie sochinenij, St. Petersburg: Prosveshchenie, 1911-14.
  • Sobranie sochinenij, Brussels: Zhizn s Bogom, 1966-70.ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
  • The Crisis of Western Philosophy (Against the Positivists), trans. by Boris Jakim, Hudson, NY: Lindisfarne Press, 1996.
  • Lectures on Divine Humanity, ed. by Boris Jakim, Lindisfarne Press, 1995.
  • The Justification of the Good, trans. by N. Duddington, New York: Macmillan, 1918.
  • “Foundations of Theoretical Philosophy,” trans. by Vlada Tolley and James P. Scanlan, in Russian Philosophy, ed. James
  • M. Edie, et al., Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965, vol. III, pp. 99-134.

b. Secondary Sources (mentioned above)

  • Helmut Dahm, Vladimir Solovyev and Max Scheler: Attempt at a Comparative Interpretation, Dordrecht, Holland: D. Reidel Publishing Company, 1975.
  • Zdenek V. David, “The Influence of Jacob Boehme on Russian Religious Thought,” Slavic Review, 21(1962), 1, pp. 43-64.
  • Aleksej Losev, Vladimir Solov’ev, Moscow: Mysl’, 1983.
  • Ludolf Mueller, Solovjev und der Protestantismus, Freiburg: Verlag Herder, 1951.
  • Joseph L. Navickas, “Hegel and the Doctrine of Historicity of Vladimir Solovyov,” in The Quest for the Absolute, ed.
  • Frederick J. Adelmann, The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1966, pp. 135-154.
  • Louis J. Shein, “V.S. Solov’ev’s Epistemology: A Re-examination,” Canadian Slavic Studies, Spring 1970, vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 1-16.
  • E. N. Trubeckoj, Mirosozercanie V. S. Solov’eva, 2 vols., Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Medium,” 1995,
  • Aleksandr I. Vvedenskij, “O misticizme i kriticizme v teorii poznanija V. S. Solov’eva,” Filosofskie ocherki, Prague: Plamja, 1924, pp. 45-71.

Author Information

Thomas Nemeth
Email: t_nemeth@yahoo.com
U. S. A.

Laws of Nature

Laws of Nature are to be distinguished both from Scientific Laws and from Natural Laws. Neither Natural Laws, as invoked in legal or ethical theories, nor Scientific Laws, which some researchers consider to be scientists’ attempts to state or approximate the Laws of Nature, will be discussed in this article. Instead, it explores issues in contemporary metaphysics.

Within metaphysics, there are two competing theories of Laws of Nature. On one account, the Regularity Theory, Laws of Nature are statements of the uniformities or regularities in the world; they are mere descriptions of the way the world is. On the other account, the Necessitarian Theory, Laws of Nature are the “principles” which govern the natural phenomena of the world. That is, the natural world “obeys” the Laws of Nature. This seemingly innocuous difference marks one of the most profound gulfs within contemporary philosophy, and has quite unexpected, and wide-ranging, implications.

Some of these implications involve accidental truths, false existentials, the correspondence theory of truth, and the concept of free will. Perhaps the most important implication of each theory is whether the universe is a cosmic coincidence or driven by specific, eternal laws of nature.  Each side takes a different stance on each of these issues, and to adopt either theory is to give up one or more strong beliefs about the nature of the world.

Table of Contents

  1. Laws of Nature vs. Laws of Science
  2. The Two Principal Views
    1. Regularity
    2. Necessitarianism
  3. Shared Elements in the Competing Theories
  4. The Case for Necessitarianism
    1. Accidental Truths vs. Laws of Nature
    2. False Existentials
    3. Doom vs. Failure
  5. The Case for Regularity
    1. Naturalizing Philosophy
    2. Revisiting Physical Impossibility
    3. Regularity and Explanation
    4. Problems with Necessitarianism I—Its Inverting the Truth-making Relation
    5. Problems with Necessitarianism II—Its Unempiricalness
    6. The Regularists’ Trump Card—The Dissolution of the Problem of Free Will and Determinism
  6. Statistical Laws
  7. Is the Order in the Universe a Cosmic Coincidence?
  8. Notes
  9. References and Further Reading

1. Laws of Nature vs. Laws of Science

In 1959, at the annual meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Sciences, Michael Scriven read a paper that implicitly distinguished between Laws of Nature and Laws of Science. Laws of Science (what he at that time called “physical laws”) – with few exceptions – are inaccurate, are at best approximations of the truth, and are of limited range of application. The theme has since been picked up and advanced by Nancy Cartwright.

If scientific laws are inaccurate, then – presumably – there must be some other laws (statements, propositions, principles), doubtless more complex, which are accurate, which are not approximation to the truth but are literally true.

When, for example, generations of philosophers have agonized over whether physical determinism precludes the existence of free will (for example, Honderich), they have been concerned with these latter laws, the laws of nature itself.

It is the explication of these latter laws, the Laws of Nature, that is the topic of this article. It does not examine the “approximate truths” of science. Thus, to cite just one example, the controversy over whether scientific laws are (merely) instruments lies outside the topic of this article.

2. The Two Principal Views

Theories as to the features of Laws of Nature fall into two, quite distinct, schools: the Humeans (or Neo-Humeans) on the one side, the Necessitarians on the other.

a. Regularity

Recent scholarship (for example, that of J. Wright and of Beauchamp and Rosenberg) makes a convincing case that the received view as to what David Hume offered as an explication of the concept of law of nature was quite mistaken, indeed the very opposite of what Hume was arguing. What, historically, until late in the Twentieth Century, was called the “Humean” account of Laws of Nature was a misnomer. Hume himself was no “Humean” as regards laws of nature. Hume, it turns out, was a Necessitarian – i.e. believed that laws of nature are in some sense “necessary” (although of course not logically necessary). His legendary skepticism was epistemological. He was concerned, indeed even baffled, how our knowledge of physical necessity could arise. What, in experience, accounted for the origin of the idea? What, in experience, provided evidence of the existence of the property? He could find nothing that played such a role.

Yet, in spite of his epistemological skepticism, he persisted in his belief that laws of nature are (physical) necessities. So as not to perpetuate the historical error as to what “Humean” properly connotes, this arsticle abandons that term altogether and adopts the relatively unproblematical term “Regularity” in its stead. At the very least, the Regularists’ Theory of Laws of Nature denies that Laws of Nature are ‘physically necessary’. There is no physical necessity, either in laws or in nature itself. There is no intermediate state between logical necessity on the one hand and sheer contingency on the other.

b. Necessitarianism

Necessitarians, in contrast, argue that there is physical (or as they sometimes call it “nomic” or “nomological”) necessity. They offer two different accounts. According to some Necessitarians, physical necessity is a property of the Laws of Nature (along with truth, universality, etc.); according to other Necessitarians, physical necessity inheres in the very woof and warp (the stuff and structure) of the universe.

Thus, for example, on the first of these two Necessitarian theories, electrons will bear the electrical charge -1.6 x 10-19 Coulombs because there is a Law of Nature to that effect, and the universe conforms to, or is ‘governed’ by, this physically necessary (i.e. nomological) principle (along with a number of others, of course).

On the second of the two Necessitarian theories, the “necessity” of an electron’s bearing this particular electrical charge “resides” in the electron itself. It is of the very ‘nature’ of an electron, by necessity, to have this particular electrical charge. On this latter account, the statement “All electrons bear a charge of -1.6 x 10-19 Coulombs” is a Law of Nature because it correctly (veridically) describes a physical necessity in the world.[ 1 ]

3. Shared Elements in the Competing Theories

Regularists and Necessitarians agree as to five conditions necessary for a statement’s being a Law of Nature.

Laws of Nature
1. are factual truths, not logical ones; “The boiling point of sulfur is 444.6° Celsius” expresses a factual truth. “Every number has a double” expresses a logical truth.
2. are true for every time and every place in the universe; There are no laws of nature that hold just for the planet earth (or the Andromeda Galaxy, for that matter), nor are there any that hold just for the Eighteenth Century or just for the Mesozoic Era.
3. contain no proper names; Laws of nature may contain general concepts, such as “mass”, “color”, “aptitude”, “capital”, “diabetes”, “return on investments”, etc.; but may not contain such terms as “the Fraser River”, “the planet Earth”, “$59.22”, “June 18, 1935”, “IBM”, etc.
4. are universal or statistical claims; and “(All pure) copper conducts electricity” expresses a law of nature. But “Stars exist” (although true) does not express a law of nature: it is neither a universal nor a statistical claim.
5. are conditional claims, not categorical ones. Categorical claims which are equivalent to conditional claims (e.g. “There are no perpetual motion machines of the first kind” which is equivalent to “If anything is a perpetual motion machine then it is not of the first kind”) are candidates for lawfulness.[ 2 ]

Categorical claims (e.g., again, “There are stars”) which are not equivalent to conditionals are not candidates for lawfulness.

Note: Laws of physics which are expressed mathematically are taken to be elliptical for conditional truths. For example, the law “mv = mo/(1 – v2/c2)½ ” is to be read as equivalent to “for any massy object, if its velocity is v, then its mass [mv] is equal to its rest mass [mo] divided by …”

Are these five conditions jointly sufficient for a proposition’s being a Law of Nature? Regularists say “yes”; Necessitarians, “no”.

4. The Case for Necessitarianism

Necessitarians lay claim to a number of examples which, they say, can be explicated only by positing a sixth necessary condition for laws of nature, namely, by positing natural (physical /nomic /nomological) necessity.

a. Accidental Truths vs. Laws of Nature

Moas (a large flightless bird that lived in New Zealand) have been extinct for more than a century. We can assume (this example is Popper’s [The Logic of Scientific Discovery, Appendix *x]) that some one of them (we needn’t know which one) was the oldest Moa ever to have lived. Suppose it died at the age of n years. Thus the statement “No moa lives beyond the age of n years” is true (where “lives” is being used as a tenseless verb). Moreover this statement satisfies all the other necessary conditions specified above.

But, Necessitarians will argue, the statement “No moa lives beyond the age of n years” is not a law of nature. It is counterintuitive to believe that such a statement could be on the same (metaphysical) footing as “No perpetual motion machine of the first kind exists”, or, citing another example, “No object having mass is accelerated beyond the speed of light”. The latter statements are bona fide laws of nature; the former a mere ‘accidental’ truth. The difference lies in the (alleged) fact that the latter two cases (about perpetual motion machines and about massy objects) are physically necessary truths; the former (about moas) is a mere accidental truth. To use Popper’s terminology, genuine laws of nature “forbid” certain things to happen; accidental truths do not. Suppose the oldest moa – we’ll call him Ludwig – died, of an intestinal infection, at the age of (let’s say) 12 years. (I haven’t any idea what the average life span of moas was. It’s irrelevant for our purposes.) Now suppose that Ludwig had a younger brother, Johann, hatched from the same clutch of eggs, one hour later than Ludwig himself. Poor Johann – he was shot by a hunter 10 minutes before Ludwig died of his illness. But, surely, had Johann not been shot, he would have lived to a greater age than Ludwig. Unlike his (very slightly) older brother, Johann was in perfect health. Johann was well on his way to surviving Ludwig; it’s just that a hunter dispatched him prematurely. His death was a misfortune; it was not mandated by a law of nature.

b. False Existentials

False existential statements of the sort “Some silver burns at -22° Celsius” and “There is a river of cola” are logically equivalent to statements satisfying all of the five necessary conditions specified above. If those conditions were to constitute a set of sufficient conditions for a statement’s being a law of nature, then the statement “No river is constituted of cola” would be a law of nature.[ 3 ]

The oddity goes even more deeply. Given that what it is to be physically impossible is to be logically inconsistent with a law of nature, then every false existential statement of the sort “Some S is P” or “There is an S that is a P” would turn out to be, not just false, but physically impossible.

But surely the statement “There is a river of cola”, although false, is not physically impossible. There could be such a river. It would merely require a colossal accident (such as befell Boston in 1912 when a huge vat of molasses ruptured), or the foolish waste of a great deal of money.

If “there is a river of cola” is not to be regarded as physically impossible, then some one or more further conditions must be added to the set of necessary conditions for lawfulness. Physical necessity would seem to be that needed further condition.

c. Doom vs. Failure

Suppose (1) that Earth is the only planet in the universe to have supported intelligent life; and (2) that all life on Earth perished in 1900 when the earth was struck by a meteor 10,000 km in diameter. Clearly, under those conditions, the Wright Brothers would never have flown their plane at Kitty Hawk. Even though tinkerers and engineers had been trying for centuries to build a heavier-than-air motorized flying machine, everyone had failed to produce one. But their failure was merely failure; these projects were not doomed. Yet, if the universe had had the slightly different history just described, the statement “there is a heavier-than-air motorized flying machine” would turn out to be physically impossible; hence the project was doomed. But, Necessitarians will argue, not all projects that fail are doomed. Some are doomed, for example, any attempt to accelerate a massy object beyond the speed of light, or, for example, to build a perpetual motion machine of the first kind. Again, just as in the case of accidental truths and lawful truths, we do not want to collapse the distinction between doom and failure. Some projects are doomed; others are mere failures. The distinction warrants being preserved, and that requires positing physical necessity (and—what is the other side of the same coin—physical impossibility).

5. The Case for Regularity

With the dawning of the modern, scientific, age came the growing realization of an extensive sublime order in nature. To be sure, humankind has always known that there is some order in the natural world—for example, the tides rise and fall, the moon has four phases, virgins have no children, water slakes thirst, and persons grow older, not younger. But until the rise of modern science, no one suspected the sweep of this order. The worldview of the West has changed radically since the Renaissance. From a world which seemed mostly chaotic, there emerged an unsuspected underlying order, an order revealed by physics, chemistry, biology, economics, sociology, psychology, neuroscience, geology, evolutionary theory, pharmacology, epidemiology, etc.

And so, alongside the older metaphysical question, “Why is there anything, rather than nothing?”, there arises the newer question, “Why is the world orderly, rather than chaotic?” How can one explain the existence of this pervasive order? What accounts for it?

a. Naturalizing Philosophy

Even as recently as the Eighteenth Century, we find philosophers (e.g. Montesquieu) explicitly attributing the order in nature to the hand of God, more specifically to His having imposed physical laws on nature in much the same way as He imposed moral laws on human beings. There was one essential difference, however. Human beings – it was alleged – are “free” to break (act contrary to) God’s moral laws; but neither human beings nor the other parts of creation are free to break God’s physical laws.

In the Twentieth Century virtually all scientists and philosophers have abandoned theistic elements in their accounts of the Laws of Nature. But to a very great extent—so say the Regularists—the Necessitarians have merely replaced God with Physical Necessity. The Necessitarians’ nontheistic view of Laws of Nature surreptitiously preserves the older prescriptivist view of Laws of Nature, namely, as dictates or edicts to the natural universe, edicts which – unlike moral laws or legislated ones – no one, and no thing, has the ability to violate.

Regularists reject this view of the world. Regularists eschew a view of Laws of Nature which would make of them inviolable edicts imposed on the universe. Such a view, Regularists claim, is simply a holdover from a theistic view. It is time, they insist, to adopt a thoroughly naturalistic philosophy of science, one which is not only purged of the hand of God, but is also purged of its unempirical latter-day surrogate, namely, nomological necessity. The difference is, perhaps, highlighted most strongly in Necessitarians saying that the Laws of Nature govern the world; while Regularists insist that Laws of Nature do no more or less than correctly describe the world.

b. Revisiting Physical Impossibility

Doubtless the strongest objection Necessitarians level against Regularists is that the latter’s theory obliterates the distinction between laws of nature (for example, “No massy object is accelerated beyond the speed of light”) and accidental generalizations (e.g. “No Moa lives more than n years”). Thus, on the Regularists’ account, there is a virtually limitless number of Laws of Nature. (Necessitarians, in contrast, typically operate with a view that there are only a very small number, a mere handful, of Laws of Nature, that these are the ‘most fundamental’ laws of physics, and that all other natural laws are logical consequences of [i.e. ‘reducible to’] these basic laws. I will not further pursue the issue of reductivism in this article.)

What is allegedly wrong with there being no distinction between accidental generalizations and ‘genuine’ Laws of Nature? Just this (say the Necessitarians): if there is a virtually limitless number of Laws of Nature, then (as we have seen above) every false existential statement turns out to be physically impossible and (again) the distinction between (mere) failure and doom is obliterated.

How can Regularists reply to this seemingly devastating attack, issuing as it does from deeply entrenched philosophical intuitions?

Regularists will defend their theory against this particular objection by arguing that the expression “physically impossible” has different meanings in the two theories: there is a common, or shared, meaning of this expression in both theories, but there is an additional feature in the Necessitarians’ account that is wholly absent in the Regularists’.

The common (i.e. shared) meaning in “physically impossible” is “inconsistent with a Law of Nature”. That is, anything that is inconsistent with a Law of Nature is “physically impossible”. (On a prescriptivist account of Laws of Nature, one would say Laws of Nature “rule out” certain events and states-of-affairs.)

On both accounts – Necessitarianism and Regularity – what is physically impossible never, ever, occurs – not in the past, not at present, not in the future, not here, and not anywhere else.

But on the Necessitarians’ account, there is something more to a physically impossible event’s nonoccurrence and something more to a physically impossible state-of-affair’s nonexistence. What is physically impossible is not merely nonoccurrent or nonexistent. These events and states-of-affairs simply could not occur or exist. There is, then, in the Necessitarians’ account, a modal element that is entirely lacking in the Regularists’ theory. When Necessitarians say of a claim – e.g. that someone has built a perpetual motion machine of the first kind – that it is physically impossible, they intend to be understood as claiming that not only is the situation described timelessly and universally false, it is so because it is nomically impossible.

In contrast, when Regularists say that some situation is physically impossible – e.g. that there is a river of cola – they are claiming no more and no less than that there is no such river, past, present, future, here, or elsewhere. There is no nomic dimension to their claim. They are not making the modal claim that there could not be such a river; they are making simply the factual (nonmodal) claim that there timelessly is no such river. (Further reading: ‘The’ Modal Fallacy.)

According to Regularists, the concept of physical impossibility is nothing but a special case of the concept of timeless falsity. It is only when one imports from other theories (Necessitarianism, Prescriptivism, and so forth) a different, modal, meaning of the expression, that paradox seems to ensue. Understand the ambiguity of the expression, and especially its nonmodal character in the Regularity theory, and the objection that the Necessitarians level is seen to miss its mark.

(There is an allied residual problem with the foundations of Necessitarianism. Some recent authors [e.g. Armstrong and Carroll] have written books attempting to explicate the concept of nomicity. But they confess to being unable to explicate the concept, and they ultimately resort to treating it as an unanalyzable base on which to erect a theory of physical lawfulness.)

c. Regularity and Explanation

Another philosophical intuition that has prompted the belief in Necessitarianism has been the belief that to explain why one event occurred rather than another, one must argue that the occurring event “had to happen” given the laws of nature and antecedent conditions. In a nutshell, the belief is that laws of nature can be used to explain the occurrence of events, accidental generalizations—’mere truths devoid of nomic force’—can not be so utilized.

The heyday of the dispute over this issue was the 1940s and 50s. It sputtered out, in more or less an intellectual standoff, by the late 60s. Again, philosophical intuitions and differences run very deep. Regularists will argue that we can explain events very well indeed, thank you, in terms of vaguely circumscribed generalities; we do not usually invoke true generalities, let alone true generalities that are assumed to be nomically necessary. In short, we can, and indeed do several times each day, explain events without supposing that the principles we cite are in any sense necessary. Regularists will point to the fact that human beings had, for thousands of years, been successfully explaining some events in their environment (e.g. that the casting cracked because it had been cooled down too quickly) without even having the concept of nomicity, much less being able to cite any nomologically necessary universal generalizations.

Necessitarianism, on this view, then, is seen to dovetail with a certain – highly controversial – view of the nature of explanation itself, namely, that one can explain the occurrence of an event only when one is in a position to cite a generalization which is nomologically necessary. Few philosophers are now prepared to persist with this view of explanation, but many still retain the belief that there are such things as nomologically necessary truths. Regularists regard this belief as superfluous.

d. Problems with Necessitarianism I—Its Inverting the Truth-making Relation

Religious skeptics – had they lived in a society where they might have escaped torture for asking the question – might have wondered why (/how) the world molds itself to God’s will. God, on the Prescriptivist view of Laws of Nature, commanded the world to be certain ways, e.g. it was God’s will (a law of nature that He laid down) that all electrons should have a charge of -1.6 x 10-19 Coulombs. But how is all of this supposed to play out? How, exactly, is it that electrons do have this particular charge? It is a mighty strange, and unempirical, science that ultimately rests on an unintelligible power of a/the deity.

Twentieth-century Necessitarianism has dropped God from its picture of the world. Physical necessity has assumed God’s role: the universe conforms to (the dictates of? / the secret, hidden, force of? / the inexplicable mystical power of?) physical laws. God does not ‘drive’ the universe; physical laws do.

But how? How could such a thing be possible? The very posit lies beyond (far beyond) the ability of science to uncover. It is the transmuted remnant of a supernatural theory, one which science, emphatically, does not need.

There is another, less polemical, way of making the same point.

Although there are problems aplenty in Tarski’s theory of truth (i.e. the semantic theory of truth, also called the “correspondence theory of truth”), it is the best theory we have. Its core concept is that statements (or propositions) are true if they describe the world the way it is, and they are false otherwise. Put metaphorically, we can say that truth flows to propositions from the way the world is. Propositions ‘take their truth’ from the world; they do not impose their truth on the world. If two days before an election, Tom says “Sylvia will win”, and two days after the election, Marcus says, “Sylvia won”, then whether these statements are true or false depends on whether or not Sylvia is elected. If she is, both statements are true; if she is not, then both statements are false. But the truth or falsity of those statements does not bring about her winning (or losing), or cause her to win (or lose), the election. Whether she wins or loses is up to the voters, not to certain statements.

Necessitarians – unwittingly perhaps – turn the semantic theory of truth on its head. Instead of having propositions taking their truth from the way the world is, they argue that certain propositions – namely the laws of nature – impose truth on the world.

The Tarskian truth-making relation is between events or state-of-affairs on the one hand and properties of abstract entities (propositions) on the other. As difficult as it may be to absorb such a concept, it is far more difficult to view a truth-making relationship the ‘other way round’. Necessitarianism requires that one imagine that a certain privileged class of propositions impose their truth on events and states of affairs. Not only is this monumental oddity of Necessitarianism hardly ever noticed, no one has ever tried to offer a theory as to its nature.

e. Problems with Necessitarianism II—Its Unempiricalness

Eighteenth-century empiricists (Hume most especially) wondered where, in experience, there was anything that prompted the concept of physical necessity. Experience, it would seem, provides at best only data about how the world is, not how it must be, i.e. experience provides data concerning regularity, not (physical) necessity. Hume’s best answer, and it is clearly inadequate, lay in a habit of mind.

Twentieth-century empiricists are far more concerned with the justification of our concepts than with their origins. So the question has now evolved to “what evidence exists that warrants a belief in a physical necessity beyond the observed and posited regularities in nature?”

A number of Necessitarians (see, for example, von Wright) have tried to describe experiments whose outcomes would justify a belief in physical necessity. But these thought-experiments are impotent. At best – as Hume clearly had seen – any such experiment could show no more than a pervasive regularity in nature; none could demonstrate that such a regularity flowed from an underlying necessity.

f. The Regularists’ Trump Card—The Dissolution of the Problem of Free Will and Determinism

In the Regularity theory, the knotted problem of free will vs. determinism is solved (or better, “dissolved”) so thoroughly that it cannot coherently even be posed.

On the Regularists’ view, there simply is no problem of free will. We make choices – some trivial, such as to buy a newspaper; others, rather more consequential, such as to buy a home, or to get married, or to go to university, etc. – but these choices are not forced upon us by the laws of nature. Indeed, it is the other way round. Laws of nature are (a subclass of the) true descriptions of the world. Whatever happens in the world, there are true descriptions of those events. It’s true that you cannot “violate” a law of nature, but that’s not because the laws of nature ‘force’ you to behave in some certain way. It is rather that whatever you do, there is a true description of what you have done. You certainly don’t get to choose the laws that describe the charge on an electron or the properties of hydrogen and oxygen that explain their combining to form water. But you do get to choose a great many other laws. How do you do that? Simply by doing whatever you do in fact do.

For example, if you were to choose(!) to raise your arm, then there would be a timelessly true universal description (let’s call it “D4729”) of what you have done. If, however, you were to choose not to raise your arm, then there would be a (different) timelessly true universal description (we can call it “D5322”) of what you did (and D4729 would be timelessly false).

Contrary to the Necessitarians’ claim – that the laws of nature are not of our choosing – Regularists argue that a very great many laws of nature are of our choosing. But it’s not that you reflect on choosing the laws. You don’t wake up in the morning and ask yourself “Which laws of nature will I create today?” No, it’s rather that you ask yourself, “What will I do today?”, and in choosing to do some things rather than others, your actions – that is, your choices – make certain propositions (including some universal statements containing no proper names) true and other propositions false.

A good example embodying the Regularists’ view can be found in the proposition, attributed to Sir Thomas Gresham (1519?-1579) but already known earlier, called – not surprisingly – “Gresham’s Law”:

[Gresham’s Law is] the theory holding that if two kinds of money in circulation have the same denominational value but different intrinsic values, the money with higher intrinsic value will be hoarded and eventually driven out of circulation by the money with lesser intrinsic value.

In effect what this “law” states is that ‘bad money drives out good’. For example, in countries where the governments begin issuing vast amounts of paper money, that money becomes next-to-worthless and people hoard ‘good’ money, e.g. gold and silver coins, that is, “good” money ceases to circulate.

Why, when paper money becomes virtually worthless, do people hoard gold? Because gold retains its economic value – it can be used in emergencies to purchase food, clothing, flight (if need be), medicine, etc., even when “bad” paper money will likely not be able to be so used. People do not hoard gold under such circumstances because Gresham’s “Law” forces them to do so. Gresham’s “Law” is purely descriptive (not prescriptive) and illustrates well the point Regularists insist upon: namely, that laws of economics are not causal agents – they do not force the world to be some particular way rather than another. (Notice, too, how this non-nomological “Law” works perfectly adequately in explaining persons’ behavior. Citing regularities can, and does, explain the way the world is. One does not need to posit an underlying, inaccessible, nomicity.)

The manner in which we regard Gresham’s “Law” ought, Regularists suggest, to be the way we regard all laws of nature. The laws of physics and chemistry are no different than the laws of economics. All laws of nature – of physics, of chemistry, of biology, of economics, of psychology, of sociology, and so forth – are nothing more, nor anything less, than (a certain subclass of) true propositions.

Persons who believe that there is a problem reconciling the existence of free will and determinism have turned upside down the relationship between laws of nature on the one side and events and states of affairs on the other. It is not that laws of nature govern the world. We are not “forced” to choose one action rather than another. It is quite the other way round: we choose, and the laws of nature accommodate themselves to our choice. If I choose to wear a brown shirt, then it is true that I do so; and if instead I were to choose to wear a blue shirt, then it would be true that I wear a blue shirt. In neither case would my choosing be ‘forced’ by the truth of the proposition that describes my action. And the same semantic principle applies even if the proposition truly describing my choice is a universal proposition rather than a singular one.

To make the claim even more pointedly: it is only because Necessitarianism tacitly adopts an anti-semantic theory of truth that the supposed problem of free will vs. determinism even arises. Adopt a thoroughgoing Regularist theory and the problem evaporates.

6. Statistical Laws

Many, perhaps most, of workaday scientific laws (recall the first section above) are statistical generalizations – e.g. the scientific claims (explanatory principles) of psychology, economics, meteorology, ecology, epidemiology, etc.

But can the underlying, the “real,” Laws of Nature itself be statistical?

With occasional reluctance, especially early in the Twentieth Century, physicists came to allow that at least some laws of nature really are statistical, for example, laws such as “the half-life of radium is 1,600 years” which is a shorthand way of saying “in any sample of radium, 50% of the radium atoms will radioactively decay within a period of 1,600 years”.

Regularists take the prospect (indeed the existence) of statistical laws of nature in stride. On the Regularists’ account, statistical laws of nature – whether in areas studied by physicists or by economists or by pharmacologists – pose no intellectual or theoretical challenges whatsoever. Just as deterministic (i.e. exceptionless) laws are descriptions of the world, not prescriptions or disguised prescriptions, so too are statistical laws.

Necessitarians, however, frequently have severe problems in accommodating the notion of statistical laws of nature. What sort of metaphysical ‘mechanism’ could manifest itself in statistical generalities? Could there be such a thing as stochastic nomicity? Popper grappled with this problem and proposed what he came to call “the propensity theory of probability”. On his view, each radium atom, for example, would have its “own”(?) 50% propensity to decay within the next 1,600 years. Popper really did see the problem that statistical laws pose for Necessitarianism, but his solution has won few, if any, other subscribers. To Regularists, such solutions appear as evidence of the unworkability and the dispensability of Necessitarianism. They are the sure sign of a theory that is very much in trouble.

7. Is the Order in the Universe a Cosmic Coincidence?

An important subtext in the dispute between Necessitarians and Regularists concerns the very concepts we need to ‘make sense’ of the universe.

For Regularists, the way-the-world-is is the rock bottom of their intellectual reconstruction. They have reconciled themselves to, and embraced, the ultimately inexplicable contingency of the universe.

But for Necessitarians, the way-the-world-is cannot be the rock bottom. For after all, they will insist, there has to be some reason, some explanation, why the world is as it is and is not some other way. It can’t simply be, for example, that all electrons, the trillions upon trillions of them, just happen to all bear the identical electrical charge as one another—that would be a cosmic coincidence of an unimaginable improbability. No, this is no coincidence. The identity of electrical charge comes about because there is a law of nature to the effect that electrons have this charge. Laws of nature “drive” the world. The laws of physics which, for example, describe the behavior of diffraction gratings (see Harrison) were true from time immemorial and it is because of those laws that diffraction gratings, when they came to be engineered in modern times, have the peculiar properties they do.

Regularists will retort that the supposed explanatory advantage of Necessitarianism is illusory. Physical necessity, nomicity if you will, is as idle and unempirical a notion as was Locke’s posit of a material substratum. Locke’s notion fell into deserved disuse simply because it did no useful work in science. It was a superfluous notion. (The case is not unlike modern arguments that minds are convenient fictions, the product of “folk” psychology.)

At some point explanations must come to an end. Regularists place that stopping point at the way-the-world-is. Necessitarians place it one, inaccessible, step beyond, at the way-the-world-must-be.

The divide between Necessitarians and Regularists remains as deep as any in philosophy. Neither side has conceived a theory which accommodates all our familiar, and deeply rooted, historically-informed beliefs about the nature of the world. To adopt either theory is to give up one or more strong beliefs about the nature of the world. And there simply do not seem to be any other theories in the offing. While these two theories are clearly logical contraries, they are – for the foreseeable future – also exhaustive of the alternatives.

8. Notes

  1. Throughout this article, the term “world” is used to refer to the entire universe, past, present, and future, to whatever is near and whatever is far, and to whatever is known of that universe and what is unknown. The term is never used here to refer to just the planet Earth.Clearly, one presupposition of this article is that the world (i.e. the universe) is not much of our making. Given the sheer size of the universe, our human effect on it is infinitesimal. The world is not mind-constructed. The world is some one particular way, although it remains a struggle to figure out what that way is. [ Return ]
  2. A perpetual motion machine of the first kind is a hypothetical machine in which no energy is required for performing work. [ Return ]
  3. In detail, the statement “There is a river of cola” is an existential affirmative statement (a classical so-called I-proposition). Its contradictory (or better, among its contradictories) is the statement “No river is constituted of cola” (a classical so-called E-proposition). Now, given that “There is a river of cola” is, ex hypothesi, timelessly false, then the universal negative proposition, “No river is constituted of cola”, is timelessly true. But since the latter satisfies all five of the necessary conditions specified (above) for being a law of nature, it would turn out to be a law of nature. [ Return ]

9. References and Further Reading

  • Armstrong, David M., What is a Law of Nature? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 1983.
  • Beauchamp, Tom L., editor, Philosophical Problems of Causation, (Encino, CA: Dickenson Publishing Co., Inc.), 1974.
  • Beauchamp, Tom L. and Alexander Rosenberg, Hume and the Problem of Causation, (New York: Oxford University Press), 1981.
  • Berofsky, Bernard, Freedom from Necessity: The Metaphysical Basis of Responsibility, (New York: Routledge and Kegan Paul), 1987.
  • Carroll, John W., Laws of Nature, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 1994.
  • Cartwright, Nancy, How the Laws of Physics Lie, (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 1983.
  • Clarke, Randolph, “Recent Work on Freedom and Determinism”, in Philosophical Books, vol. 36, no. 1 (Jan. 1995), pp. 9-18.
  • Dretske, Fred, “Laws of Nature,” in Philosophy of Science, vol. 44, no. 2 (June 1977), pp. 248-268.
  • Gerwin, Martin, “Causality and Agency: A Refutation of Hume”, in Dialogue (Canada), XXVI (1987), pp. 3-17.
  • Harrison, George R., “Diffraction grating,” in McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Physics, edited by Sybil P. Parker, (New York: McGraw-Hill Book Co.), 1983, pp. 245-247.
  • Honderich, Ted, “One Determinism,” (revised with added introduction) in Philosophy As It Is, edited by Ted Honderich and Myles Burneat, (New York: Penguin Books), 1979. The original paper appeared in Essays on Freedom of Action, edited by Ted Honderich (London: Kegan Paul Ltd.), 1973.
  • Hume, David A., A Treatise of Human Nature [1739], edited by L.A. Selby-Bigge, (London: Oxford University Press), 1888, reprinted 1960.
  • Kneale, William, “Natural Laws and Contrary-to-Fact Conditionals,” in Analysis, vol. 10, no. 6 (June 1950), pp. 121-125. Reprinted in Beauchamp (1974) [see above], pp. 46-49.
  • Maxwell, Nicholas, “Can there be necessary connections between successive events?”, in British Journal for the Philosophy of Science, vol. 19 (1968), pp. 1-25.
  • Molnar, George, “Kneale’s Argument Revisited,” in The Philosophical Review, vol.78, no. 1 (Jan. 1969) pp. 79-89. Reprinted in Beauchamp (1974) [see above], pp. 106-113.
  • Montesquieu, Baron de, The Spirit of the Laws, [1st edition 1748; last edition (posth.) 1757], translated and edited by Abbe M. Cohler, Basia Carolyn Miller, and Harold Samuel Stone, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 1988.
  • Popper, Sir Karl, The Logic of Scientific Discovery, (New York: Basic Books), 1959.
  • Popper, Sir Karl, “The Propensity interpretation of the calculus of probability, and the quantum theory”, in Observation and Interpretation in the Philosophy of Physics, [1957] edited by Stephen Korner, (New York: Dover Publications, Inc.) 1962, pp. 65-70.
  • Popper, Sir Karl, “The Propensity Interpretation of Probability,” in British Journal for the Philosophy of Science, vol. 10 (1959), pp. 25-42.
  • Popper, Sir Karl, “Suppes’s Criticism of the Propensity Interpretation of Probability and Quantum Mechanics,” in The Philosophy of Karl Popper, edited by Paul Arthur Schilpp, (La Salle, IL: Open Court), 1974, pp. 1125-1140.
  • Reichenbach, Hans, Nomological Statements and Admissible Operations, (Amsterdam: North-Holland Publ. Co.), 1954.
  • Scriven, Michael, “An Essential Unpredictability in Human Behavior,” in Scientific Psychology: Principles and Approaches, edited by Ernest Nagel and Benjamin Wolman, (New York: Basic Books), 1965, pp. 411-25.
    • This important paper implicitly adopts a Regularity theory of laws of nature.
  • Scriven, Michael, “The Key Property of Physical Laws – Inaccuracy,” in Current Issues in the Philosophy of Science – Proceedings of Section L of the American Association for the Advancement of Sciences, 1959, edited by H. Feigl and G. Maxwell, (New York: Holt Rinehart and Winston), 1961, pp. 91-104.
  • Strawson, Galen, The Secret Connexion: Causation, Realism, and David Hume, (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 1989.
  • Swartz, Norman, The Concept of Physical Law, (New York: Cambridge University Press), 1985.
  • Swartz, Norman, “Reply to Ruse,” in Dialogue (Canada), XXVII, (1988), pp. 529-532.
  • Weinert, Friedel, editor, Laws of Nature: Essays on the Philosophical, Scientific and Historical Dimensions, (Berlin: de Gruyter), 1995.
    • This volume contains a very extensive bibliography, pp. 52-64.
  • Wright, Georg Henrik von, Causality and Determinism, (New York: Columbia University Press), 1974.
  • Wright, John P., The Sceptical Realism of David Hume, (Manchester: Manchester University Press), 1983.

Author Information

Norman Swartz
Email: swartz@sfu.ca
Simon Fraser University
Canada

Religion and Politics

The relation between religion and politics continues to be an important theme in political philosophy, despite the emergent consensus (both among political theorists and in practical political contexts, such as the United Nations) on the right to freedom of conscience and on the need for some sort of separation between church and state. One reason for the importance of this topic is that religions often make strong claims on people’s allegiance, and universal religions make these claims on all people, rather than just a particular community. For example, Islam has traditionally held that all people owe obedience to Allah’s will. Thus, it is probably inevitable that religious commitments will sometimes come into conflict with the demands of politics. But religious beliefs and practices also potentially support politics in many ways. The extent and form of this support is as important to political philosophers as is the possibility for conflict. Moreover, there has been a growing interest in minority groups and the political rights and entitlements they are due. One result of this interest is substantial attention given to the particular concerns and needs of minority groups who are distinguished by their religion, as opposed to ethnicity, gender, or wealth.

This article surveys some of the philosophical problems raised by the various ways in which religion and politics may intersect. The first two main sections are devoted to topics that have been important in previous eras, especially the early modern era, although in both sections there is discussion of analogs to these topics that are more pressing for contemporary political thought: (1) establishment of a church or faith versus complete separation of church and state; and (2) toleration versus coercion of religious belief, and current conflicts between religious practice and political authority. The second pair of sections is devoted to problems that, for the most part, have come to the fore of discussion only in recent times: (3) liberal citizenship and its demands on private self-understanding; and (4) the role of religion in public deliberation.

Table of Contents

  1. Establishment and Separation of Church and State
  2. Toleration and Accommodation of Religious Belief and Practice
  3. Liberalism and Its Demands on Private Self-Understanding
  4. Religious Reasons in Public Deliberation
  5. Conclusion
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Establishment and Separation of Church and State

While the topic of establishment has receded in importance at present, it has been central to political thought in the West since at least the days of Constantine. In the wake of the Protestant Reformation, European societies wrestled with determining exactly what roles church and state should play in each other’s sphere, and so the topic of establishment became especially pressing in the early modern era, although there was also substantial discussion in the Middle Ages (Dante, 1995). The term “establishment” can refer to any of several possible arrangements for a religion in a society’s political life. These arrangements include the following:

  1. A religious body may be a “state” church in the sense that it has an exclusive right to practice its faith.
  2. A church may be supported through taxes and subject to the direction of the government (for example, the monarch is still officially the head of the Church of England, and the Prime Minister is responsible for selecting the Archbishop of Canterbury).
  3. Particular ecclesiastical officials may have, in virtue of their office, an established role in political institutions.
  4. A church may simply have a privileged role in certain public, political ceremonies (for example, inaugurations, opening of parliament, etc.).
  5. Instead of privileging a particular religious group, a state could simply enshrine a particular creed or belief system as its official religion, much like the “official bird” or “official flower.”

Note that these options are not mutually exclusive—a state could adopt some or all of these measures. What is central to them is they each involve the conferral of some sort of official status. A weaker form of an established church is what Robert Bellah (1967: 3-4) calls “civil religion,” in which a particular church or religion does not exactly have official status, and yet the state uses religious concepts in an explicitly public way. For an example of civil religion, he points to Abraham Lincoln’s use of Christian imagery of slavery and freedom in justifying the American Civil War.

Contemporary philosophical defenses of outright establishment of a church or faith are few, but a famous defense of establishment was given by T. S. Eliot in the last century (1936, 1967). Trained as a philosopher (he completed, but did not defend, a dissertation at Harvard on the philosophy of F. H. Bradley) and deeply influenced by Aristotle, Eliot believed that democratic societies rejected the influence of an established church at their peril, for in doing so they cut themselves off from the kind of ethical wisdom that can come only from participation in a tradition. As a result, he argued, such a society would degenerate into tyranny and/or social and cultural fragmentation.

Even today, there are strains of conservatism that argue for establishment by emphasizing the benefits that will accrue to the political system or society at large (Scruton, 1980). According to this line of thought, the healthy polis requires a substantial amount of pre- or extra-political social cohesion. More specifically, a certain amount of social cohesion is necessary both to ensure that citizens see themselves as sufficiently connected to each other (so that they will want to cooperate politically), and to ensure that they have a common framework within which they can make coherent collective political decisions. This cohesion in turn is dependent on a substantial amount of cultural homogeneity, especially with respect to adherence to certain values. One way of ensuring this kind of homogeneity is to enact one of the forms of establishment mentioned above, such as displaying religious symbols in political buildings and monuments, or by including references to a particular religion in political ceremonies.

Rather than emphasizing the distinctively political benefits of establishment, a different version of this argument could appeal to the ethical benefits that would accrue to citizens themselves as private individuals. For example, on many understandings of politics, one of the purposes of the polis is to ensure that citizens have the resources necessary for living a choiceworthy, flourishing life. One such resource is a sense of belonging to a common culture that is rooted in a tradition, as opposed to a sense of rootlessness and social fragmentation (Sandel, 1998; MacIntyre, 1984). Thus, in order to ensure that citizens have this sense of cultural cohesion, the state must (or at least may) in some way privilege a religious institution or creed. Of course, a different version of this argument could simply appeal to the truth of a particular religion and to the good of obtaining salvation, but given the persistent intractability of settling such questions, this would be a much more difficult argument to make.

Against these positions, the liberal tradition has generally opposed establishment in all of the aforementioned forms. Contemporary liberals typically appeal to the value of fairness. It is claimed, for example, that the state should remain neutral among religions because it is unfair—especially for a democratic government that is supposed to represent all of the people composing its demos—to intentionally disadvantage (or unequally favor) any group of citizens in their pursuit of the good as they understand it, religious or otherwise (Rawls, 1971). Similarly, liberals often argue that fairness precludes devoting tax revenues to religious groups because doing so amounts to forcing non-believers to subsidize religions that they reject. A different approach for liberals is to appeal directly to the right to practice one’s religion, which is derivable from a more general right to freedom of conscience. If all people have such a right, then it is morally wrong for the state to force them to participate in religious practices and institutions that they would otherwise oppose, such as forcing them to take part in public prayer. It is also wrong, for the same reason, to force people to support financially (via taxation) religious institutions and communities that they would not otherwise wish to support.

In addition, there are liberal consequentialist concerns about establishment, such as the possibility that it will result in or increase the likelihood of religious repression and curtailment of liberty (Audi, 2000: 37-41). While protections and advantages given to one faith may be accompanied by promises to refrain from persecuting adherents of rival faiths, the introduction of political power into religion moves the state closer to interferences which are clearly unjust, and it creates perverse incentives for religious groups to seek more political power in order to get the upper hand over their rivals. From the perspective of many religious people themselves, moreover, there are worries that a political role for their religion may well corrupt their faith community and its mission.

2. Toleration and Accommodation of Religious Belief and Practice

As European and American societies faced the growing plurality of religious beliefs, communities, and institutions in the early modern era, one of the paramount social problems was determining whether and to what extent they should be tolerated. One of the hallmark treatises on this topic remains John Locke’s A Letter Concerning Toleration. A political exile himself at the time of its composition, Locke argues (a) that it is futile to attempt to coerce belief because it does not fall to the will to accept or reject propositions, (b) that it is wrong to restrict religious practice so long as it does not interfere with the rights of others, and (c) that allowing a wide range of religious groups will likely prevent any one of them from becoming so powerful as to threaten the peace. Central to his arguments is a Protestant view of a religious body as a voluntary society composed only of those people who choose to join it, a view that is in sharp contrast to the earlier medieval view of the church as having authority over all people within a particular geographic domain. It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that the limits of Locke’s toleration are coextensive with Protestantism; atheists and Catholics cannot be trusted to take part in society peacefully because the former do not see themselves as bound by divine law and the latter are beholden to a foreign sovereign (the Pope). Still, Locke’s Letter makes an important step forward toward a more tolerant and pluralistic world. In contrast to Locke, Thomas Hobbes sees religion and its divisiveness as a source of political instability, and so he argues that the sovereign has the right to determine which opinions may be publicly espoused and disseminated, a power necessary for maintaining civil peace (see Leviathan xviii, 9).

Like the issue of establishment, the general issue of whether people should be allowed to decide for themselves which religion to believe in has not received much attention in recent times, again because of the wide consensus on the right of all people to liberty of conscience. However, despite this agreement on liberty of belief, modern states nevertheless face challenging questions of toleration and accommodation pertaining to religious practice, and these questions are made more difficult by the fact that they often involve multiple ideals which pull in different directions. Some of these questions concern actions which are inspired by religion and are either obviously or typically unjust. For example, violent fundamentalists feel justified in killing and persecuting infidels—how should society respond to them? While no one seriously defends the right to repress other people, it is less clear to what extent, say, religious speech that calls for such actions should be tolerated in the name of a right to free speech. A similar challenge concerns religious objections to certain medical procedures that are necessary to save a life. For example, Jehovah’s Witnesses believe that their religion precludes their accepting blood transfusions, even to save their lives. While it seems clearly wrong to force someone to undergo even lifesaving treatment if she objects to it (at least with sufficient rationality, which of course is a difficult topic in itself), and it seems equally wrong to deny lifesaving treatment to someone who needs it and is not refusing it, the issue becomes less clear when parents have religious objections to lifesaving treatment for their children. In such a case, there are at least three values that ordinarily demand great respect and latitude: (a) the right to follow one’s own religion, not simply in affirming its tenets but in living the lifestyle it prescribes; (b) the state’s legitimate interest in protecting its citizens (especially vulnerable ones like children) from being harmed; and (c) the right of parents to raise their children as they see fit and in a way that expresses their values.

A second kind of challenge for a society that generally values toleration and accommodation of difference pertains to a religious minority’s actions and commitments which are not themselves unjust, and yet are threatened by the pursuit of other goals on the part of the larger society, or are directly forbidden by law. For example, Quakers and other religious groups are committed to pacifism, and yet many of them live in societies that expect all male citizens to serve in the military or register for the draft. Other groups perform religious rituals that involve the use of illegal substances, such as peyote. Does the right to practice one’s faith exempt one from the requirement to serve in the military or obey one’s country’s drug policies? Is it fair to exempt such people from the burdens other citizens must bear?

Many examples of this second kind of challenge are addressed in the literature on education and schooling. In developed societies (and developing ones, for that matter), a substantial education is necessary for citizens to be able to achieve a decent life for themselves. In addition, many states see education as a process by which children can learn values that the state deems important for active citizenship and/or for social life. However, the pursuit of this latter goal raises certain issues for religious parents. In the famous case of Mozert v. Hawkins, some parents objected for religious reasons to their children being taught from a reading curriculum that presented alternative beliefs and ways of life in a favorable way, and consequently the parents asked that their children be excused from class when that curriculum was being taught. Against the wishes of these parents, some liberals believe that the importance of teaching children to respect the value of gender equality overrides the merit of such objections, even if they appeal directly to the parents’ religious rights (Macedo, 2000).

Similarly, many proposals for educational curricula are aimed at developing a measure of autonomy in children, which often involves having them achieve a certain critical distance from their family background, with its traditions, beliefs, and ways of life (Callan, 1997; Brighouse, 2000). The idea is that only then can children autonomously choose a way of life for themselves, free of undue influence of upbringing and custom. A related argument holds that this critical distance will allow children to develop a sufficient sense of respect for different social groups, a respect that is necessary for the practice of democratic citizenship. However, this critical distance is antithetical to authentic religious commitment, at least on some accounts (see the following section). Also, religious parents typically wish to pass on their faith to their children, and doing so involves cultivating religious devotion through practices and rituals, rather than presenting their faith as just one among many equally good (or true) ones. For such parents, passing on their religious faith is central to good parenting, and in this respect it does not differ from passing on good moral values, for instance. Thus, politically mandated education that is aimed at developing autonomy runs up against the right of some parents to practice their religion and the right to raise their children as they choose. Many, though not all, liberals argue that autonomy is such an important good that its promotion justifies using techniques that make it harder for such parents to pass on their faith—such a result is an unfortunate side-effect of a desirable or necessary policy.

Yet a different source of political conflict for religious students in recent years concerns the teaching of evolution in science classes. Some religious parents of children in public schools see the teaching of evolution as a direct threat to their faith, insofar as it implies the falsity of their biblical-literalist understanding of the origins of life. They argue that it is unfair to expect them to expose their children to teaching that directly challenges their religion (and to fund it with their taxes). Among these parents, some want schools to include discussions of intelligent design and creationism (some who write on this issue see intelligent design and creationism as conceptually distinct positions; others see no significant difference between them), while others would be content if schools skirted the issue altogether, refusing to teach anything at all about the origin of life or the evolution of species. Their opponents see the former proposal as an attempt to introduce an explicitly religious worldview into the classroom, hence one that runs afoul of the separation of church and state. Nor would they be satisfied with ignoring the issue altogether, for evolution is an integral part of the framework of modern biology and a well-established scientific theory.

Conflicts concerning religion and politics arise outside of curricular contexts, as well. For example, in France, a law was recently passed that made it illegal for students to wear clothing and adornments that are explicitly associated with a religion. This law was especially opposed by students whose religion explicitly requires them to wear particular clothing, such as a hijab or a turban. The justification given by the French government was that such a measure was necessary to honor the separation of church and state, and useful for ensuring that the French citizenry is united into a whole, rather than divided by religion. However, it is also possible to see this law as an unwarranted interference of the state in religious practice. If liberty of conscience includes not simply a right to believe what one chooses, but also to give public expression to that belief, then it seems that people should be free to wear clothing consistent with their religious beliefs.

Crucial to this discussion of the effect of public policy on religious groups is an important distinction regarding neutrality. The liberal state is supposed to remain neutral with regard to religion (as well as race, sexual orientation, physical status, age, etc.). However, as Charles Larmore points out in Patterns of Moral Complexity (1987: 42ff), there are different senses of neutrality, and some policies may fare well with respect to one sense and poorly with respect to another. In one sense, neutrality can be understood in terms of a procedure that is justified without appeal to any conception of the human good. In this sense, it is wrong for the state to intend to disadvantage one group of citizens, at least for its own sake and with respect to practices that are not otherwise unjust or politically undesirable. Thus it would be a violation of neutrality in this sense (and therefore wrong) for the state simply to outlaw the worship of Allah. Alternatively, neutrality can be understood in terms of effect. The state abides by this sense of neutrality by not taking actions whose consequences are such that some individuals or groups in society are disadvantaged in their pursuit of the good. For a state committed to neutrality thus understood, even if it were not explicitly intending to disadvantage a particular group, any such disadvantage that may result is a prima facie reason to revoke the policy that causes it. Thus, if the government requires school attendance on a religious group’s holy days, for example, and doing so makes it harder for them to practice their faith, such a requirement counts as a failure of neutrality. The attendance requirement may nevertheless be unavoidable, but as it stands, it is less than optimal. Obviously, this is a more demanding standard, for it requires the state to consider possible consequences—both short term and long term—on a wide range of social groups and then choose from those policies that do not have bad consequences (or the one that has the fewest and least bad). For most, and arguably all, societies, it is a standard that cannot feasibly be met. Consequently, most liberals argue that the state should be neutral in the first sense, but it need not be neutral in the second sense. Thus, if the institutions and practices of a basically just society make it more challenging for some religious people to preserve their ways of life, it is perhaps regrettable, but not unjust, so long as these institutions and practices are justified impartially.

3. Liberalism and Its Demands on Private Self-Understanding

In addition to examining issues of toleration and accommodation on the level of praxis, there has also been much recent work about the extent to which particular political theories themselves are acceptable or unacceptable from religious perspectives. One reason for this emphasis comes from the emergence of the school of thought known as “political liberalism.” In his book of that name, John Rawls (1996) signaled a new way of thinking about liberalism that is captured by the idea of an “overlapping consensus.” An overlapping consensus refers to reasoned agreement on principles of justice by citizens who hold a plurality of mutually exclusive comprehensive doctrines (a term that includes religious beliefs, metaphysical positions, theories of morality and of the good life, etc., and may also include beliefs such as theories of epistemic justification). Rather than requiring citizens to accept any particular comprehensive doctrine of liberalism, a theory of justice should aim at deriving principles that each citizen may reasonably accept from his or her own comprehensive doctrine. Thus, the consensus is on the principles themselves, rather than the justification for those principles, and as such the conception of justice offered is “political” rather than “metaphysical.” This view of liberal justice marked a break with Rawls’s earlier “metaphysical” liberalism as expressed in A Theory of Justice, although debate continues among commentators about just how sharp a break political liberalism is and whether or not it is an improvement over the earlier view. The aim, then, for a political conception of justice is for all reasonable citizens to be able to affirm principles of justice without having to weaken their hold on their own private comprehensive views. However, some writers have argued that this is impossible—even a “thin” political conception of justice places strains on some comprehensive doctrines, and these strains might be acute for religious citizens. One such argument comes from Eomann Callan, in his book Creating Citizens. Callan points to the role played in Rawls’ theory of “the burdens of judgment” (see Rawls, 1996: § 2): fundamentalists will not be able to accept the burdens of judgment in their private lives, because doing so requires them to view rival faiths and other beliefs as having roughly equal epistemic worth. If Rawlsian liberalism requires acceptance of the burdens of judgment, then the overlapping consensus will not include some kinds of religious citizens.

A different way that liberal citizenship might conflict with a religious person’s self-understanding is if the former requires a commitment to a kind of fallibilism while the latter requires (or at least encourages) certitude in one’s religious belief. Richard Rorty has been read as arguing for the need for liberal democratic citizens to privatize their faith (1999) and to hold their beliefs at an “ironic” distance—that is, provisionally, and with a healthy skepticism about the extent to which they decisively capture reality (1989). But this kind of irony is not possible to maintain along with authentic faith, at least as the latter is understood in many religious traditions that emphasize the importance of certitude in one’s belief and totality of one’s commitment to God.

Thus, a religious citizen could feel an acute conflict between her identity qua citizen and qua religious adherent. One way of resolving the conflict is to argue that one aspect of her identity should take priority over the other. Witness the conflict experienced by the protagonist in Sophocles’ Antigone, as she buries her brother in defiance of Creon’s decree; in doing so, she acknowledges that her religious duties supersede her civic duties, at least in that context. For many religious citizens, political authority is subservient to—and perhaps even derived from—divine authority, and therefore they see their religious commitments as taking precedence over their civic ones. On the other hand, civic republicanism has tended to view a person’s civic role as paramount because it has seen participation in politics as partly constitutive of the human good (Dagger, 1997).

In contrast to these approaches, the liberal tradition has tended to refuse to prioritize one aspect of an individual’s identity over any other, holding that it is the individual’s task to determine which is most important or significant to her; this task is often seen as the reason for the importance of personal autonomy (Kymlicka, 2002). But this tendency makes it more challenging for liberals to adjudicate conflicts between religion and politics. One possibility is for the liberal to argue that the demands of justice are prior to the pursuit of the good (which would include religious practice). If so, and if the demands of justice require one to honor duties of citizenship, then one might argue that people should not allow their religious beliefs and practices to restrict or interfere with their roles as citizens. However, not even all liberals accept the claim that justice is prior to the good, nor is it a settled issue in the literature on political obligation that norms of justice can successfully ground universal duties of citizenship (see “The Obligation to Obey Law” and “Political Obligation”).

4. Religious Reasons in Public Deliberation

One recent trend in democratic theory is an emphasis on the need for democratic decisions to emerge from processes that are informed by deliberation on the part of the citizenry, rather than from a mere aggregation of preferences. As a result, there has been much attention devoted to the kinds of reasons that may or may not be appropriate for public deliberation in a pluralistic society. While responses to this issue have made reference to all kinds of beliefs, much of the discussion has centered on religious beliefs. One reason for this emphasis is that, both historically and in contemporary societies, religion has played a central role in political life, and often it has done so for the worse (witness the wars of religion in Europe that came in the wake of the Protestant Reformation, for example). As such, it is a powerful political force, and it strikes many who write about this issue as a source of social instability and repression. Another reason is that, due to the nature of religious belief itself, if any kind of belief is inappropriate for public deliberation, then religious beliefs will be the prime candidate, either because they are irrational, or immune to critique, or unverifiable, etc. In other words, religion provides a useful test case in evaluating theories of public deliberation.

Much of the literature in this area has been prompted by Rawls’ development of his notion of public reason, which he introduced in Political Liberalism and offered (in somewhat revised form) in his essay “The Idea of Public Reason Revisited.” His view is not as clearly expressed as one would wish, and it evolved after the publication of Political Liberalism, but the idea is something like this: when reasonable citizens engage in public deliberation on constitutional essentials, they must do so by offering reasons that do not appeal to any comprehensive doctrine. Since citizens have sharp disagreements on comprehensive doctrines, any law or policy that necessarily depends on such a doctrine could not be reasonably accepted by those who reject the doctrine. A prime example of a justification for a law that is publicly inaccessible in this way is one that is explicitly religious. For example, if the rationale for a law that outlawed working on Sunday was simply that it displeases the Christian God, non-Christians could not reasonably accept it.

Rawls makes important exceptions to this norm of public discourse, and he seems to have gradually softened its requirements somewhat as he developed his views on public reason, but his intention was to ensure that democratic outcomes could be reasonably accepted by all citizens, and even in his theory’s latest manifestations he seemed to view “public” reasons as those which could reasonably be accepted by everyone rather than explicitly drawing on comprehensive views.

A different explanation of “reasons which could be reasonably accepted by everyone” comes from Robert Audi, who argues that the set of such reasons is restricted to secular reasons. Since only secular reasons are publicly accessible in this way, civic virtue requires offering secular reasons and being sufficiently motivated by them to support or oppose the law or policy under debate. Religious reasons are not suitable for public deliberation since they are not shared by the non-religious (or people of differing religions) and people who reject these reasons would justifiably resent being coerced on the basis of them. However, secular reasons can include non-religious comprehensive doctrines, such as particular moral theories or conceptions of the human good, and so Audi’s conception of public deliberation allows some views to play a role that would be excluded by conceptions that restrict all comprehensive doctrines.

Proponents of the idea that the set of suitable reasons for public deliberation does not include certain or all comprehensive doctrines have come to be known as “exclusivists,” and their opponents as “inclusivists.” The latter group sometimes focuses on weaknesses of exclusivism—if exclusivism is false, then inclusivism is true by default. Others try to show that religious justifications can contribute positively to democratic polities; the two most common examples in support of this position are the nineteenth-century abolitionist movement and the twentieth-century civil rights movement, both of which achieved desirable political change in large part by appealing directly to the Christian beliefs prevalent in Great Britain and the United States.

A third inclusivist argument is that it is unfair to hamstring certain groups in their attempts to effect change that they believe is required by justice. Consider the case of abortion, an example Rawls discusses in a famous footnote in Political Liberalism (243-244) and again in “The Idea of Public Reason Revisited” (169). Many—though not all—who defend the pro-life position do so by appealing to the actual or potential personhood of fetuses. But “person” is a conceptually “thick” metaphysical concept, and as such it is one that is subject to reasonable disagreement. Consequently, on some versions of exclusivism, citizens who wish to argue against abortion should do so without claiming that fetuses are persons. But for these citizens, personhood is the most important part of the abortion issue, for the ascription of “person” is not simply a metaphysical issue—it is a moral issue, as well, insofar as it is an attempt to discern the bounds of the moral community. To ask them to refrain from focusing on this aspect of the issue looks like an attempt to settle the issue by default, then. Instead, inclusivists argue that citizens should feel free to introduce any considerations whatsoever that they think are relevant to the topic under public discussion.

5. Conclusion

Although secularism is proceeding rapidly in many of the world’s societies, and although this trend seems connected in some way to the process of economic development, nevertheless religion continues to be an important political phenomenon throughout the world, for multiple reasons. Even the most secularized countries (Sweden is typically cited as a prime example) include substantial numbers of people who still identify themselves as religious. Moreover, many of these societies are currently experiencing immigration from groups who are more religious than native-born populations and who follow religions that are alien to the host countries’ cultural heritage. These people are often given substantial democratic rights, sometimes including formal citizenship. And the confrontation between radical Islam and the West shows few signs of abating anytime soon. Consequently, the problems discussed above will likely continue to be important ones for political philosophers in the foreseeable future.

6. References and Further Reading

  • Audi, Robert. Religious Commitment and Secular Reason. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
    • Much of this book is an expression of Audi’s position on public deliberation, but there is also discussion of the separation of church and state.
  • Audi, Robert, and Nicholas Wolterstorff. Religion in the Public Square: The Place of Religious Reasons in Political Debate. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997.
    • An accessible, well-reasoned exchange between an inclusivist (Wolterstorff) and an exclusivist (Audi), with rebuttals.
  • Bellah, Robert N. “American Civil Religion.” Daedalus: Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 96.1 (1967): 1-21.
  • Brighouse, Harry. School Choice and Social Justice. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.
    • Portions of this book deal with education for autonomy and religious opposition to such proposals.
  • Burtt, Shelley, “Religious Parents, Secular Schools: A Liberal Defense of Illiberal Education” The Review of Politics 56.1 (1994): 51-70.
  • Callan, Eomann, Creating Citizens: Political Education and Liberal Democracy. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997.
    • An exploration of civic education in light of Rawlsian political liberalism.
  • Carter, Stephen L. The Culture of Disbelief: How American Law and Politics Trivialize Religious Devotion. New York: Basic Books, 1993.
  • Clanton, J. Caleb. Religion and Democratic Citizenship: Inquiry and Conviction in the American Public Square. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2007.
  • Coleman, John A., ed. Christian Political Ethics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007.
    • A collection of essays on political topics from a wide array of Christian traditions.
  • Cuneo, Terence, ed. Religion in the Liberal Polity. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005.
    • A collection of essays on religion, rights, public deliberation, and related topics.
  • Dagger, Richard. Civic Virtues: Rights, Citizenship, and Republican Liberalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.
  • Dante. De monarchia. Tr. Prue Shaw. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.
    • Book 3 of this work concerns the relation (and division) between Church and State.
  • Eberle, Christopher J. Religious Convictions in Liberal Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002
    • A thorough critique of the varieties of exclusivism.
  • Eliot, T. S. “Catholicism and International Order.” Essays, Ancient and Modern. London: Faber and Faber, 1936.
  • Eliot, T. S. “The Idea of a Christian Society” and “Notes Toward the Definition of Culture.” Christianity and Culture. New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1967.
  • Gaus, Gerald F. Justificatory Liberalism: An Essay on Epistemology and Political Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996.
  • Gaus, Gerald F. “The Place of Religious Belief in Liberal Politics.” In Multiculturalism and Moral Conflict, edited by Maria Dimova-Cookson. London: Routledge, 2008.
  • Greenawalt, Kent. Religious Convictions and Political Choice. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991.
  • Greenawalt, Kent. Private Consciences and Public Reasons. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
  • Gutmann, Amy. Democratic Education. Rev. ed. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999.
  • Gutmann, Amy. Identity in Democracy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003.
    • Includes a helpful chapter on religious identity in politics.
  • Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Ed. Edwin Curley. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co., 1994.
  • Kymlicka, Will. Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
  • Kymlicka, Will. Contemporary Political Philosophy: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002.
    • A fine introduction to the field, useful for beginners but detailed enough to interest experienced readers.
  • Larmore, Charles. Patterns of Moral Complexity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987.
  • Locke, John. A Letter Concerning Toleration. Ed. James Tully. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co., 1983.
  • Macedo, Stephen. Diversity and Distrust: Civic Education in a Multicultural Democracy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003.
    • Contains extensive discussion of religion and liberal civic education.
  • MacIntyre, Alasdair. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. 2nd ed. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984.
    • An influential critique of modernity and the philosophies which (he argues) have given rise to it.
  • Mozert v. Hawkins County Board of Education. Nos. 86-6144, 86-6179, and 87-5024. United States Court of Appeals, Sixth Circuit. July 9, 1987.
    • Landmark federal case concerning parental religious objections to particular forms of education.
  • Neuhaus, Richard John. The Naked Public Square: Religion and Democracy in America. Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B Eerdmans, 1986.
    • An influential book among religious conservatives and neoconservatives.
  • Okin, Susan Moller, Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women? Ed. Joshua Cohen, Matthew Howard, and Martha C. Nussbaum. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999.
    • Parts of the discussion in this book concern the status of women in religious minorities.
  • Perry, Michael J. Under God?: Religious Faith and Liberal Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
  • Rawls, John. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1971.
  • Rawls, John. Political Liberalism.New York: Columbia University Press, 1996.
  • Rawls, John. “The Idea of Public Reason Revisited.” The Law of Peoples. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999.
  • Rorty, Richard. Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989.
  • Rorty, Richard. “Religion as Conversation-stopper.” Philosophy and Social Hope. New York: Penguin Putnam, Inc., 1999.
  • Sandel, Michael J. Democracy’s Discontent: America in Search of a Public Philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1996.
  • Sandel, Michael J. Liberalism and the Limits of Justice. Rev. ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
    • A thorough critique of Rawlsian liberalism from a broadly communitarian perspective, although Sandel has tended to resist that label.
  • Scruton, Roger. The Meaning of Conservatism. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1980.
  • Stout, Jeffrey. Democracy and Tradition. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003.
  • Talisse, Robert B. Democracy After Liberalism: Pragmatism and Deliberative Politics. London: Routledge Press, 2004.
  • Weithman, Paul J., ed. Religion and Contemporary Liberalism. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997.
    • This collection of essays concerns many aspects of the intersection of religion and politics.
  • Weithman, Paul J.. Religion and the Obligations of Citizenship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
    • Argues that religion has positive contributions to make toward civic ends.
  • Wisconsin v. Yoder. Nos. 70-110. United States Supreme Court. May 15, 1972.
    • An important case concerning the right of Amish parents to exempt their children from the requirement to attend school up to a specified age.

Author Information

Christopher Callaway
Email: ccallaway@sjcme.edu
Saint Joseph’s College of Maine
U. S. A.

Miracles

The term “miracle” is used very broadly in ordinary language. A quick review of news stories may turn up reports such as that of a “Christmas Miracle,” by which the Texas gulf coast came to be blanketed with snow by a rare storm. We speak of miracle drugs, or of miracle babies, and some household products purport to be miraculous as well. Philosophical discussion of the miraculous, however, is confined to the use to which religion—and in particular, theistic religion—puts that conception. These philosophical discussions center around two overlapping issues.

The first of these issues is a conceptual one: What is a miracle? Controversy over the conception of a miracle focuses primarily on whether a miracle must be, in some sense, contrary to natural law. Must it, in particular, be a violation of natural law? Supposing that it must be, a second question arises, namely, whether the conception of such a violation is a coherent one.

Philosophers have also been concerned about what sort of observable criteria would allow us to identify an event as a miracle, particularly insofar as that means identifying it as a violation of natural law. How, for example, can we tell the difference between a case in which an event is a genuine violation—assuming that some sense can be made of this notion—and one that conforms to some natural law that is unknown to us? And given the occurrence of a genuine violation, how are we to determine whether it is due to divine agency, or whether it is nothing more than a spontaneous lapse in the natural order?

The second main issue is epistemological: Once we settle on what a miracle is, can we ever have good reason to believe that one has taken place? This question is generally connected with the problem of whether testimony, such as that provided by scriptural sources, can ever give us adequate reason to believe that a miracle has occurred.

Table of Contents

  1. The Definition of “Miracle”
  2. Miracles and Worldview
  3. The Credibility of Witnesses
  4. Hume’s Argument
  5. Problems With Hume’s Argument
    1. Does Hume’s Argument Beg the Question?
  6. Conceptual Difficulties I: The Logical Impossibility of a Violation
    1. Violations as Nonrepeatable Counterinstances to Natural Law
    2. Miracles as Outside the Scope of Natural Laws
  7. Conceptual Difficulties II: Identifying Miracles
  8. Supernatural Causes, Supernatural Explanation
  9. Coincidence Miracles
  10. Miracle as Basic Action
  11. Wittgenstein: Miracle as Gesture
  12. References and Further Reading

1. The Definition of “Miracle”

In sketching out a brief philosophical discussion of miracles, it would be desirable to begin with a definition of “miracle;” unfortunately, part of the controversy in regard to miracles is over just what is involved in a proper conception of the miraculous. As a rough beginning, however, we might observe that the term is from the Latin miraculum, which is derived from mirari, to wonder; thus the most general characterization of a miracle is as an event that provokes wonder. As such, it must be in some way extraordinary, unusual, or contrary to our expectations. Disagreement arises, however, as to what makes a miracle something worth wondering about. In what sense must a miracle be extraordinary? One of the earliest accounts is given by St. Augustine, who held (City of God, XXI.8.2) that a miracle is not contrary to nature, but only to our knowledge of nature; miracles are made possible by hidden potentialities in nature that are placed there by God. In Summa Contra Gentiles III:101, St. Thomas Aquinas, expanding upon Augustine’s conception, said that a miracle must go beyond the order usually observed in nature, though he insisted that a miracle is not contrary to nature in any absolute sense, since it is in the nature of all created things to be responsive to God’s will.

In his Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, David Hume offered two definitions of “miracle;” first, as a violation of natural law (Enquiries p. 114); shortly afterward he offers a more complex definition when he says that a miracle is “a transgression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent” (Enquiries, p. 115n). This second definition offers two important criteria that an event must satisfy in order to qualify as a miracle: It must be a violation of natural law, but this by itself is not enough; a miracle must also be an expression of the divine will. This means that a miracle must express divine agency; if we have no reason to think that an event is something done by God, we will have no reason to call it a miracle.

More recently, the idea that a miracle must be defined in terms of natural law has come under attack. R.F. Holland (1965) has argued that a miracle may be consistent with natural law, since a religiously significant coincidence may qualify as miraculous, even though we fully understand the causes that brought it about. Accounts of the miraculous that distance themselves from the requirement that a miracle be in some way contrary to the order of nature, in favor of a focus on their significance to human life, might be said to emphasize their nature as signs; indeed the term semeion, “sign,” is one of the terms used in the New Testament to describe miraculous events.

2. Miracles and Worldview

The outcome of any discussion of miracles seems to depend greatly on our worldview. The usual theistic view of the world is one that presumes the existence of an omnipotent God who, while transcending nature, is nevertheless able to act, or to express his will, within the natural world. Clearly belief in miracles is already plausible if our enquiry may presume this view of things.

The usual way of making this out might be described as supernaturalistic. Those who would defend supernaturalism sometimes do this through a commitment to an ontology of entities that exist in some sense outside of nature, where by “nature” is meant the totality of things that can be known by means of observation and experiment, or more generally, through the methods proper to the natural sciences.

Defenses of supernaturalism may also take a methodological turn by insisting that the natural sciences are incapable of revealing the totality of all that there is. While supernaturalists typically hold that God reveals his nature in part through observable phenomena (as for example in miracles, or more generally, in the order of nature), as we shall understand it here, methodological supernaturalism is committed as well to the view that our knowledge of God must be supplemented by revelation. Revelatory sources for our knowledge of God might, for example, include some form of a priori knowledge, supersensory religious experience, or a direct communication by God of information that would not otherwise be available to us. Knowledge of God that is passed down in scripture, such as the Bible or the Qur’an, is generally conceived by theists to have a revelatory character.

Supernaturalistic accounts of the miraculous very commonly make reference to supernatural causes, which are thought to play a useful role in the construction of supernatural explanations. However, as we will see in sections 10 and 11, belief in miracles does not obviously commit one to belief in supernatural causes or the efficacy of supernatural explanations.

In contrast to supernaturalism, ontological naturalism denies the existence of anything beyond nature; methodological naturalism holds that observation and experiment—or generally speaking, the methods of the empirical sciences—are sufficient to provide us with all of the knowledge that it is possible for us to have. Naturalism is sometimes further characterized as holding that nature is uniform, which is to say that all events in nature conform to generalizations (e.g. laws) which can be verified by means of observation. Naturalists do commonly hold this view—confidence in the uniformity of nature is an important part of the scientific enterprise—but strictly speaking this represents an additional metaphysical commitment regarding the nature of the universe and its susceptibility to human understanding. If nature turns out not to be fully lawlike, this would not require the rejection of naturalism. A failure of uniformity, or what a believer in miracles might refer to as a violation of natural law, would imply only that there are limits to our ability to understand and predict natural phenomena. However, the naturalist is committed to denying the legitimacy of any attempt to explain a natural phenomenon by appeal to the supernatural. Naturalism denies the existence of supernatural entities and denies as well the claim that revelation is capable of providing us with genuine knowledge. Where the supernaturalistic worldview is quite open to the possibility of miracles, naturalism is much less sympathetic, and one might argue that the tenets of naturalism rule out the possibility of miracles altogether; see Lewis (1947:Ch. 1), Martin (1992:192) and Davis (1999:131).

Much, of course, depends on how we conceive of miracles, and on what we take their significance to be. One concern we might have with the miraculous would be an apologetic one. By “apologetic” here is meant a defense of the rationality of belief in God. Historically, apologists have pointed to the occurrence of miracles as evidence for theism, which is to say that they have held that scriptural reports of miracles, such as those given in the Bible, provide grounds for belief in God. While this argument is not as popular now as it was in the 18th century, the modern conception of the miraculous has been strongly influenced by this apologetic interest. Such an interest puts important constraints on an account of miracles. If we wish to point to a miracle as supporting belief in a supernatural deity, obviously we cannot begin by assuming the supernaturalistic worldview; this would beg the question. If we are trying to persuade a skeptic of God’s existence, we are trying to demonstrate to him that there is something beyond or transcending nature, and he will demand to be persuaded on his own terms; we must make use of no assumptions beyond those that are already acknowledged by the naturalistic worldview.

Because the history of modern thought regarding miracles has been strongly influenced by apologetic interests, the emphasis of this entry will be on the apologetic conception of the miraculous—that is, on the concept of miracle as it has been invoked by those who would point to the reports of miracles in scripture as establishing the existence of a supernatural God. It is important to bear in mind, however, that any difficulty associated with this apologetic appeal to miracles does not automatically militate against the reasonableness of belief in miracles generally. A successful criticism of the apologetic appeal will show at most that a warranted belief in miracles depends on our having independent reasons for rejecting naturalism; again, see Lewis (1947:11).

3. The Credibility of Witnesses

A major concern with the rationality of belief in miracles is with whether we can be justified in believing that a miracle has occurred on the basis of testimony. To determine whether the report of a miracle is credible, we need to consider the reliability of the source. Suppose subject S reports some state of affairs (or event) E. Are S’s reports generally true? Clearly if she is known to lie, or to utter falsehoods as jokes, we should be reluctant to believe her. Also, if she has any special interest in getting us to believe that E has occurred—if, for example, she stands to benefit financially—this would give us reason for skepticism. It is also possible that S may be reporting a falsehood without intending to do so; she may sincerely believe that E occurred even though it did not, or her report may be subject to unconscious exaggeration or distortion. Aside from the possibility that she may be influenced by some tangible self-interest, such as a financial one, her report may also be influenced by emotional factors—by her fears, perhaps, or by wishful thinking. We should also consider whether other reliable and independent witnesses are available to corroborate her report.

We must also ask whether S is herself a witness to E, or is passing on information that was reported to her. If she witnessed the event personally, we may ask a number of questions about her observational powers and the physical circumstances of her observation. There are quite a few things that can go wrong here; for example, S may sincerely report an event as she believed it to occur, but in fact her report is based on a misperception. Thus she may report having seen a man walk across the surface of a lake; this may be her understanding of what happened, when in fact he was walking alongside the lake or on a sand bar. If it was dark, and the weather was bad, this would have made it difficult for S to have a good view of what was happening. And of course we should not neglect the influence of S’s own attitudes on how she interprets what she sees; if she is already inclined to think of the man she reports as walking on water as being someone who is capable of performing such an extraordinary feat, this may color how she understands what she has seen. By the same token, if we are already inclined to agree with her about this person’s remarkable abilities, we will be all the more likely to believe her report.

If S is merely passing on the testimony of someone else to the occurrence of E, we may question whether she has properly understood what she was told. She may not be repeating the testimony exactly as it was given to her. And here, too, her own biases may color her understanding of the report. The possibility of distortions entering into testimony grows with each re-telling of the story.

It will be fruitful to consider these elements in evaluating the strength of scriptural testimony to the miracles ascribed to Jesus. The reports of these miracles come from the four gospel accounts. Some of these accounts seem to have borrowed from others, or to have been influenced by a common source; even if this were not the case, they still cannot be claimed to represent independent reports. Assuming they originate with the firsthand testimony of Jesus’ followers, these people were closely associated and had the opportunity to discuss among themselves what they had seen before their stories were recorded for posterity. They were all members of the same religious community, and shared a common perspective as well as common interests. While the gospel accounts tell us that miracles took place in front of hostile witnesses, we do not have the testimony of these witnesses. (Later acknowledgments of Jesus’ miracles by hostile parties is, the skeptic will argue, evidence only for the gullibility of these writers.)

It is sometimes suggested that these men undertook grave risk by reporting what they did, and they would not have risked their lives for a lie. But this establishes, at best, only that their reports are sincere; unfortunately, their conviction is not conclusive evidence for the truth of their testimony. We could expect the same conviction from someone who was delusional.

Let us consider a particular report of Jesus’ resurrection in applying these considerations. Popular apologetic sometimes points to the fact that according to Paul in 1 Corinthians (15:6), the resurrected Jesus was seen by five hundred people at once, and that it is highly improbable that so many people would have the experience of seeing Jesus if Jesus were not actually there. After all, it may be argued, they could not have shared a mass hallucination, since hallucinations are typically private; there is no precedent for shared hallucination, and it may seem particularly far-fetched to suppose that a hallucination would be shared among so many people. Accordingly it may be thought much more likely that Jesus really was there and, assuming there is sufficient evidence that he had died previously to that time, it becomes reasonable to say that he was resurrected from the dead.

While this report is sometimes taken as evidence of Jesus’ physical resurrection, Paul says only that he appeared to the five hundred without saying explicitly that it was a physically reconstituted Jesus that these people saw. But let us suppose that Paul means to report that the five hundred saw Jesus in the flesh. Unfortunately we do not have the reports of the five hundred to Jesus’ resurrection; we have only Paul’s hearsay testimony that Jesus was seen by five hundred. Furthermore Paul does not tell us how this information came to him. It is possible that he spoke personally to some or all of these five hundred witnesses, but it is also possible that he is repeating testimony that he received from someone else. This opens up the possibility that the report was distorted before it reached Paul; for example, the number of witnesses may have been exaggerated, or the original witnesses may have merely reported feeling Jesus’ presence in some way without actually seeing him. For the sake of argument, however, let us suppose that there was at one time a group of five hundred people who were all prepared to testify that they had seen a physically resurrected Jesus. This need not be the result of any supposed mass hallucination; the five hundred might have all seen someone who they came to believe, after discussing it amongst themselves, was Jesus. In such a case, the testimony of the five hundred would be to an experience together with a shared interpretation of it.

It is also possible that the text of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians has not been accurately preserved. Thus, no matter how reliable Paul himself might be, his own report may have been modified through one, or several, redactions.

There are, therefore, quite a few points at which error or distortion might have entered into the report in 1 Corinthians: (1) The original witnesses may have been wrong, for one reason or another, about whether they saw Jesus; (2) the testimony of these witnesses may have been distorted before reaching Paul; (3) Paul may have incorrectly reported what he heard about the event, and (4) Paul’s own report, as given in his original letter to the Christian community in Corinth, may have been distorted. The apologist may argue that it would be very surprising if errors should creep into the report at any of these four points. The question we must ask now, however, is which of these alternatives would be more surprising: That some error should arise in regard to 1-4 above, or that Jesus really was resurrected from the dead.

4. Hume’s Argument

In Section X of his Enquiry Concerning Human UnderstandingHume tells us that it is not reasonable to subscribe to any “system of religion” unless that system is validated by the occurrence of miracles; he then argues that we cannot be justified in believing that a miracle has occurred, at least when our belief is based on testimony—as when, for example, it is based on the reports of miracles that are given in scripture. (Hume did not explicitly address the question of whether actually witnessing an apparent miracle would give us good reason to think that a miracle had actually occurred, though it is possible that the principles he invokes in regard to testimony for the miraculous can be applied to the case of a witnessed miracle.) His stated aim is to show that belief in miracle reports is not rational, but that “our most holy religion is founded on Faith, not on reason” (Enquiries, p. 130). Hume surely intends some irony here, however, since he concludes by saying that anyone who embraces a belief in miracles based on faith is conscious of “a continued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the principles of his understanding” (Enquiries, p. 131); this seems very far from an endorsement of a faith-based belief in miracles.

There is some dispute as to the nature of Hume’s argument against miracles, and the Enquiry seems to contain more than one such argument. The most compelling of these is the one I will call the Balance of Probabilities Argument. (For a brief discussion of some of the other arguments, see the entry “David Hume: Writings on Religion.”) Hume tells us that we ought to proportion our certainty regarding any matter of fact to the strength of the evidence. We have already examined some of the considerations that go into assessing the strength of testimony; there is no denying that testimony may be very strong indeed when, for example, it may be given by numerous highly reliable and independent witnesses.

Nevertheless, Hume tells us that no testimony can be adequate to establish the occurrence of a miracle. The problem that arises is not so much with the reliability of the witnesses as with the nature of what is being reported. A miracle is, according to Hume, a violation of natural law. We suppose that a law of nature obtains only when we have an extensive, and exceptionless, experience of a certain kind of phenomenon. For example, we suppose that it is a matter of natural law that a human being cannot walk on the surface of water while it is in its liquid state; this supposition is based on the weight of an enormous body of experience gained from our familiarity with what happens in seas, lakes, kitchen sinks, and bathtubs. Given that experience, we always have the best possible evidence that in any particular case, an object with a sufficiently great average density, having been placed onto the surface of a body of water, will sink. According to Hume, the evidence in favor of a miracle, even when that is provided by the strongest possible testimony, will always be outweighed by the evidence for the law of nature which is supposed to have been violated.

Considerable controversy surrounds the notion of a violation of natural law. However, it would appear that all Hume needs in order to make his argument is that a miracle be an exception to the course of nature as we have previously observed it; that is, where we have had a substantial experience of a certain sort of phenomenon—call it A—and have an exceptionless experience of all As being B, we have very strong reason to believe that any given A will be a B. Thus given that we have a very great amount of experience regarding dense objects being placed onto water, and given that in every one of these cases that object has sunk, we have the strongest possible evidence that any object that is placed onto water is one that will sink. Accordingly we have the best possible reasons for thinking that any report of someone walking on water is false—and this no matter how reliable the witness.

While objections are frequently made against Hume’s conception of natural law, in fact no particularly sophisticated account of natural law seems to be necessary here, and Hume’s examples are quite commonsensical: All human beings must die, lead cannot remain suspended in the air, fire consumes wood and is extinguished by water (Enquiries p. 114). This may be a naive conception of natural law; nevertheless it is true that, all things being equal, we can assign a minimal probability to the occurrence of a counterinstance to any of these generalizations.

At times Hume sounds as though he thinks the probability of such an event is zero, given its unprecedented nature, and some commentators have objected that the fact that we have never known such an event to occur does not imply that it cannot occur. Past regularities do not establish that it is impossible that a natural law should ever be suspended (Purtill 1978). However, regardless of Hume’s original intent, this is a more extravagant claim than his argument requires. He is free to admit that some small probability may be attached to the prospect that a dense object might remain on the surface of a lake; it is sufficient for his purposes that it will always be more likely that any witness who reports such an event is attempting to deceive us, or is himself deceived. After all, there is no precedent for any human being walking on water, setting this one controversial case aside, but there is ample precedent for the falsehood of testimony even under the best of circumstances.

Accordingly Hume says (Enquiries p. 115ff) that “no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavors to establish.” We must always decide in favor of the lesser miracle. We must ask ourselves, which would be more of a miracle: That Jesus walked on water, or that the scriptural reports of this event are false? While we may occasionally encounter testimony that is so strong that its falsehood would be very surprising indeed, we never come across any report, the falsehood of which would be downright miraculous. Accordingly, the reasonable conclusion will always be that the testimony is false.

Thus to return to Paul’s report of Jesus’ resurrection in 1 Corinthians: It may be highly unlikely that the original witnesses were wrong, for one reason or another, about whether they saw Jesus; it may be highly unlikely that the testimony of these witnesses may have been distorted before reaching Paul; it may be highly unlikely that Paul incorrectly reported what he heard about the event, and it may be highly unlikely that Paul’s original letter to the Christian community in Corinth has not been accurately preserved in our modern translations of the New Testament. Suppose the apologist can argue that a failure in the transmission of testimony at any of these points might be entirely without precedent in human experience. But the physical resurrection of a human being is also without precedent, so that the very best the apologist can hope for is that both alternatives—that the report is incorrect, or that Jesus returned to life—are equally unlikely, which seems only to call for a suspension of judgment. Apologetic appeals frequently focus on the strength of testimony such as Paul’s, and often appear to make a good case for its reliability. Nevertheless such an appeal will only persuade those who are already inclined to believe in the miracle—perhaps because they are already sympathetic to a supernaturalistic worldview—and who therefore tend to downplay the unlikelihood of a dead man returning to life.

Having said all this, it may strike us as odd that Hume seems not to want to rule out the possibility, in principle, that very strong testimony might establish the occurrence of an unprecedented event. He tells us (Enquiries p. 127) that if the sun had gone dark for eight days beginning on January 1, 1600, and that testimony to this fact continued to be received from all over the world and without any variation, we should believe it—and then look for the cause. Thus even if we were convinced that such an event really did take place—and the evidence in this case would be considerably stronger than the evidence for any of the miracles of the Bible—we should suppose that the event in question really had a natural cause after all. In this case the event would not be a violation of natural law, and thus according to Hume’s definition would not be a miracle.

Despite this possibility, Hume wants to say that the quality of miracle reports is never high enough to clear this hurdle, at least when they are given in the interest of establishing a religion, as they typically are. People in such circumstances are likely to be operating under any number of passional influences, such as enthusiasm, wishful thinking, or a sense of mission driven by good intentions; these influences may be expected to undermine their critical faculties. Given the importance to religion of a sense of mystery and wonder, that very quality which would otherwise tend to make a report incredible—that it is the report of something entirely novel—becomes one that recommends it to us. Thus in a religious context we may believe the report not so much in spite of its absurdity as because of it.

5. Problems with Hume’s Argument

There is something clearly right about Hume’s argument. The principle he cites surely resembles the one that we properly use when we discredit reports in tabloid newspapers about alien visitors to the White House or tiny mermaids being found in sardine cans. Nevertheless the argument has prompted a great many criticisms.

Some of this discussion makes use of Bayesian probabilistic analysis; John Earman, for example, argues that when the principles of Hume’s arguments “are made explicit and examined under the lens of Bayesianism, they are found to be either vapid, specious, or at variance with actual scientific practice” (Earman 2000). The Bayesian literature will not be discussed here, though Earman’s discussion of the power of multiple witnessing deserves mention. Earman argues that even if the prior probability of a miracle occurring is very low, if there are enough independent witnesses, and each is sufficiently reliable, its occurrence may be established as probable. Thus if Hume’s concern is to show that we cannot in principle ever have good reason to believe testimony to a miracle, he would appear to be wrong about this (Earman 2000: See particularly Ch. 18 and following). Of course the number of witnesses required might be very large, and it may be that none of the miracles reported in any scripture will qualify. It is true that some of the miracles of the Bible are reported to have occurred in the presence of a good number of witnesses; the miracle of the loaves and fishes is a good example, which according to Mark (Mark 6:30-44) was witnessed by 5,000 people. But we have already noticed that the testimony of one person, or even of four, that some event was witnessed by a multitude is not nearly the same as having the testimony of the multitude itself.

Another objection against Hume’s argument is that it makes use of a method that is unreliable; that is, it may have us reject reports that are true or accept those that are false. Consider the fact that a particular combination of lottery numbers will generally be chosen against very great odds. If the odds of the particular combination chosen in the California Lottery last week were 40 million to 1, the probability of that combination being chosen is very low. Assuming that the likelihood of any given event being misreported in the Los Angeles Times is greater than that, we would not be able to trust the Times to determine which ticket is the winner.

The unreliability objection, made out in this particular way, seems to have a fairly easy response. There is no skeptical challenge to our being justified in believing the report of a lottery drawing; that is, reports of lottery drawings are reports of ordinary events, like reports of rainstorms and presidential press conferences. They do not require particularly strong testimony to be credible, and in fact we may be justified in believing the report of a lottery drawing even if it came from an otherwise unreliable source, such as a tabloid newspaper. This is surely because we know in advance that when the lottery is drawn, whatever particular combination of numbers may be chosen will be chosen against very great odds, so that we are guaranteed to get one highly improbable combination or another. Despite the fact that the odds against any particular combination are very great, all of the other particular outcomes are equally unlikely, so we have no prejudice against any particular combination.  We know that people are going to win the lottery from time to time; we have no comparable assurance that anyone will ever be raised from the dead.

Nevertheless if we are to be able to make progress in science, we must be prepared to revise our understanding of natural law, and there ought to be circumstances in which testimony to an unprecedented event would be credible. For example, human beings collectively have seen countless squid, few of which have ever exceeded a length of two feet. For this reason reports of giant squid have, in the past, been sometimes dismissed as fanciful; the method employed by Hume in his Balance of Probabilities Argument would seem to rule out the possibility of our coming to the conclusion, on the basis of testimony, that such creatures exist—yet they have been found in the deep water near Antarctica. Similarly, someone living beyond the reach of modern technology might well reject reports of electric lighting and airplanes. Surely we should be skeptical when encountering a report of something so novel. But science depends for its progress on an ability to revise even its most confident assertions about the natural world.

Discussion of this particular problem in Hume tends to revolve around his example of the Indian and the ice. Someone from a very hot climate such as that of India, living during Hume’s time, might refuse to believe that water was capable of taking solid form as ice or frost, since he has an exceptionless experience against this. Yet in this case he would come to the wrong conclusion. Hume argues that such a person would reason correctly, and that very strong testimony would properly be required to persuade him otherwise. Yet Hume refers to this not as a miracle but as a marvel; the difference would appear to lie in the fact that while water turning to ice does not conform to the experience of the Indian, since he has experienced no precedent for this, it is also notcontrary to his experience, because he has never had a chance to see what will happen to water when the temperature is sufficiently low (Enquiries, p. 113). By the same token, we ought to be cautious when it comes to deciding how large squid may grow in the Antarctic deeps, when our only experience of them has been in warm and relatively shallow water. The circumstances of an Antarctic habitat are not analogous to those in which we normally observe squid.

On the other hand, when someone reports to us that they have witnessed a miracle, such as a human being walking on water, our experience of ordinary water is analogous to this case, and therefore counts against the likelihood that the report is true. And of course our usual experience must be analogous to this case, for if the water that someone walks upon is somehow unlike ordinary water, or there is something else in the physical circumstances that can account for how it was possible in this one instance for someone to walk on water when this is impossible in the ordinary case, then it is not a violation of natural law after all, and therefore, by Hume’s definition, not a miracle. Jesus’ walking on water will only qualify as a miracle on the assumption that this case is analogous in all relevant respects to those cases in which dense objects have sunk.

The distinction between a miracle and a marvel is an important one for Hume; as he constructs an epistemology that he hopes will rule out belief in miracles in principle, he must be careful that it does not also hinder progress in science. Whether Hume is successful in making this distinction is a matter of some controversy.

a. Does Hume’s Argument Beg the Question?

Many commentators have suggested that Hume’s argument begs the question against miracles. (See for example Lewis 1947:103, Houston 1994:133) Suppose I am considering whether it is possible for a human being to walk on water. I consider my past experience with dense objects, such as human bodies, and their behavior in water; I may even conduct a series of experiments to see what will happen when a human body is placed without support on the surface of a body of water, and I always observe these bodies to sink. I now consider what is likely to occur, or likely to have occurred, in some unknown case. Perhaps I am wondering what will happen the next time I step out into the waters of Silver Lake. Obviously I will expect, without seriously considering the matter, that I will sink rather than walk on its surface. My past experience with water gives me very good reason to think that this is what will happen. But of course in this case, I am not asking whether nature will be following its usual course. Indeed, I am assuming that it will be, since otherwise I would not refer to my past experience to judge what was likely in this particular case; my past experience of what happens with dense bodies in water is relevant only in those cases in which the uniformity of nature is not in question. But this means that to assume that our past experience is relevant in deciding what has happened in an unknown case, as Hume would have us do, is to assume that nature was following its usual course—it is to assume that there has been no break in the uniformity of nature. It is, in short, to assume that no miracle has occurred. In order to take seriously the possibility that a miracle has occurred, we must take seriously the possibility that there has been a breach in the uniformity of nature, which means that we cannot assume, without begging the question, that our ordinary observations are relevant.

It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that this criticism represents a victory for apologetic. While the apologist may wish to proceed by asking the skeptic to abandon his assumption that ordinary experience is relevant to assessing the truth of miracle reports, this seems to beg the question in the opposite direction. Ordinary experience will only fail to be relevant in those cases in which there was in fact a break in the uniformity of nature, i.e. in those cases in which a miracle has occurred, and this is precisely what the skeptic requires to be shown. It is tempting to suppose that there is a middle ground; perhaps the skeptic need only admit that it is possible that ordinary experience is not relevant in this case. However, it is difficult to determine just what sort of possibility this would be. The mere logical possibility that an exceptional event may have occurred is not something that the skeptic has ever questioned; when I infer that I will sink in the waters of Silver Lake, I do so in full recognition of the fact that it is logically possible that I will not.

If the apologist is asking for any greater concession than this, the skeptic may be forgiven for demanding that he be given some justification for granting it. He may be forgiven, too, for demanding that he be persuaded of the occurrence of a miracle on his own terms—i.e. on purely naturalistic grounds, without requiring him to adopt any of the assumptions of supernaturalism. Of course the most natural place to look for evidence that there may occasionally be breaks in the natural order would be to testimony, but for reasons that are now obvious, this will not do.

It would appear that the question of whether miracle reports are credible turns on a larger question, namely, whether we ought to hold the supernaturalistic worldview, or the naturalistic one. One thing seems certain, however, and that is that the apologist cannot depend on miracle reports to establish the supernaturalistic worldview if the credibility of such reports depends on our presumption that the supernaturalistic worldview is correct.

6. Conceptual Difficulties I: The Logical Impossibility of a Violation

Recent criticisms of belief in miracles have focused on the concept of a miracle. In particular, it has been held that the notion of a violation of natural law is self-contradictory. No one, of course, thinks that the report of an event that might be taken as a miracle—such as a resurrection or a walking on water—is logically self-contradictory. Nevertheless some philosophers have argued that it is paradoxical to suggest both that such an event has occurred, and that it is a violation of natural law. This argument dates back at least as far as T.H. Huxley, who tells us that the definition of a miracle as contravening the order of nature is self-contradictory, because all we know of the order of nature is derived from our observation of the course of events of which the so-called miracle is a part (1984:157). Should an apparent miracle take place, such as a suspension in the air of a piece of lead, scientific methodology forbids us from supposing that any law of nature has been violated; on the contrary, Huxley tells us (in a thoroughly Humean vein) that “the scientist would simply set to work to investigate the conditions under which so highly unexpected an occurrence took place; and modify his, hitherto, unduly narrow conception of the laws of nature” (1894:156). More recently this view has been defended by Antony Flew (1966, 1967, 1997) and Alastair McKinnon (1967). McKinnon has argued that in formulating the laws of nature, the scientist is merely trying to codify what actually happens; thus to claim that some event is a miracle, where this is taken to imply that it is a violation of natural law, is to claim at once that it actually occurred, but also, paradoxically, that it is contrary to the actual course of events.

Let us say that a statement of natural law is a generalization of the form “All As are Bs;” for example, all objects made of lead (A) are objects that will fall when we let go of them (B). A violation would be represented by the occurrence of an A that is not a B, or in this case, an object made of lead that does not fall when we let go of it. Thus to assert that a violation of natural law has occurred is to say at once that all As are Bs, but to say at the same time that there exists some A that is not a B; it is to say, paradoxically, that all objects made of lead will fall when left unsupported, but that this object made of lead did not fall when left unsupported. Clearly we cannot have it both ways; should we encounter a piece of lead that does not fall, we will be forced to admit that it is not true that all objects made of lead will fall. On McKinnon’s view, a counterinstance to some statement of natural law negates that statement; it shows that our understanding of natural law is incorrect and must be modified—which implies that no violation has occurred after all.

Of course this does not mean that no one has ever parted the Red Sea, walked on water, or been raised from the dead; it only means that such events, if they occurred, cannot be violations of natural law. Thus arguably, this criticism does not undermine the Christian belief that these events really did occur (Mavrodes 1985:337). But if Antony Flew is correct (1967:148), for the apologist to point to any of these events as providing evidence for the existence of a transcendent God or the truth of a particular religious doctrine, we must not only have good reason to believe that they occurred, but also that they represent an overriding of natural law, an overriding that originates from outside of nature. To have any apologetic value, then, a miracle must be a violation of natural law, which means that we must (per impossibile) have both the law and the exception.

a. Violations as Nonrepeatable Counterinstances to Natural Law

The conception of a violation may, however, be defended as logically coherent. Suppose we take it to be a law of nature that a human being cannot walk on water; subsequently, however, we become convinced that on one particular occasion (O)—say for example, April 18th, 1910—someone was actually able to do this. Yet suppose that after the occurrence of O water goes back to behaving exactly as it normally does. In such a case our formulation of natural law would continue to have its usual predictive value, and surely we would neither abandon it nor revise it. The only revision possible in this case would be to say “Human beings cannot walk on water, except on occasion O.” Yet the amendment in this case is entirely ad hoc; in its reference to a particular event, the revision fails to take the generalized form that statements of natural law normally possess, and it adds no explanatory power to the original formulation of the law. It gives us no better explanation of what has happened in the past, it does nothing to account for the exceptional event O, and it fares no better than the original formulation when it comes to predicting what will happen in the future. In this case O is what might be called a nonrepeatable counterinstance to natural law. Faced with such an event we would retain our old formulation of the law, which is to say that the exceptional event O does not negate that formulation. This means that there is no contradiction implied by affirming the law together with its exception.

Things would be different if we can identify some feature (F) of the circumstances in which O occurred which will explain why O occurred in this one case when normally it would not. F might be some force operating to counteract the usual tendency of a dense object, such as a human body, to sink in water. In this case, on discovery of F we are in a position to reformulate the law in a fruitful way, saying that human beings cannot walk on water except when F is present. Since the exception in this case now has a generalized form (i.e. it expresses the proposition that human beings can walk on water whenever F is present), our reformulation has the kind of generality that a statement of natural law ought to have. It explains the past interaction of dense bodies with water as well as the original formulation did, and it explains why someone was able to walk on water on occasion O. Finally, it will serve to predict what will happen in the future, both when F is absent and when it is present.

We may now, following Ninian Smart (1964:37) and Richard Swinburne (1970:26), understand a violation as a nonrepeatable counterinstance to natural law. We encounter a nonrepeatable counterinstance when someone walks on water, as in case O, and having identified all of the causally relevant factors at work in O, and reproducing these, no one is able to walk on water. Since a statement of natural law is falsified only by the occurrence of a repeatable counterinstance, it is paradoxical to assert a particular statement of law and at the same time insist that a repeatable counterinstance to it has occurred. However there is no paradox in asserting the existence of the law together with the occurrence of a counterinstance that is not repeatable.

b. Miracles as Outside the Scope of Natural Laws

The force of this line of reasoning is to deny that natural laws must describe the actual course of events. Natural laws do not describe absolutely the limits of what can and cannot happen in nature. They only describe nature to the extent that it operates according to laws. To put the matter differently, we might say that natural laws only describe what can happen as a result of natural causes; they do not tell us what can happen when a supernatural cause is present. As Michael Levine (1989:67) has put the point:

Suppose the laws of nature are regarded as nonuniversal or incomplete in the sense that while they cover natural events, they do not cover, and are not intended to cover, non-natural events such as supernaturally caused events if there are or could be any. A physically impossible occurrence would not violate a law of nature because it would not be covered by (i.e. would not fall within the scope of) such a law.

On this understanding, a physically impossible event would be one that could not occur given only physical, or natural, causes. But what is physically impossible is not absolutely impossible, since such an event might occur as the result of a supernatural cause. One way to make this out is to say that all laws must ultimately be understood as disjunctions, of the form “All As are Bs unless some supernatural cause is operating.” (Let us refer to this as a supernaturalistic formulation of law, where of course it is causal supernaturalism that is at work here, as opposed to a naturalistic formulation, which simply asserts that all As are Bs, without taking account the possibility of any supernatural cause.) If this is correct, then it turns out that strictly speaking, a miracle is not a violation of natural law after all, since it is something that occurs by means of a supernatural intervention. Furthermore, since statements of natural law are only intended to describe what happens in the absence of supernatural intrusions, the occurrence of a miracle does not negate any formulation of natural law.

The supernaturalistic conception of natural law appears to offer a response to Hume’s Balance of Probabilities argument; the evidence for natural laws, gathered when supernatural causes are absent, does not weigh against the possibility that a miracle should occur, since a miracle is the result of a supernatural intervention into the natural order. Thus there is a failure of analogy between those cases that form the basis for our statements of natural law, and the circumstances of a miracle. Probabilistic considerations, based on our ordinary experience, are only useful in determining what will happen in the ordinary case, when there are no supernatural causes at work.

7. Conceptual Difficulties II: Identifying Miracles

We have seen two ways in which the concept of a miracle, described as an event that nature cannot produce on its own, may be defended as coherent. We may say that a miracle is a violation of natural law and appeal to the conception of a violation as a nonrepeatable counterinstance, or we may deny that miracles are violations of natural law since, having supernatural causes, they fall outside the scope of these laws. Nevertheless, conceptual difficulties remain. Antony Flew (1966, 1967, 1997) has argued that if a miracle is to serve any apologetic purpose, as evidence for the truth of some revelation, then it must be possible to identify it as a miracle without appealing to criteria given by that revelation; in particular, there must be natural, or observable, criteria by which an event can be determined to be one which nature cannot produce on its own. Flew refers to this as the Problem of Identifying Miracles.

Let us see how this problem arises in connection with these two conceptions of the miraculous. Are there natural criteria by which we can distinguish a repeatable from a nonrepeatable counterinstance to some natural law? Suppose some formulation of natural law (All As are Bs) and some event that is a counterinstance to that formulation (an A that is not a B). The counterinstance will be repeatable just in case there is some natural force F present in the circumstances that is causally responsible for the counterinstance, such that every time F is present, a similar counterinstance will occur. But suppose we do our best to reproduce the circumstances of the event and are unable to do so. We cannot assume that the event is nonrepeatable, for we have no way to eliminate the possibility that we have failed to identify all of the natural forces that were operating to produce the original counterinstance. The exceptional event may have been produced by a natural force that is unknown to us. No observable distinction can be made between a case in which an exception is repeatable, having been produced by some as-yet undiscovered natural force, and one that is not. Worse yet, the naturalist will argue that the very occurrence of the exception is evidence that there is in fact some previously unknown natural force at work; where there is a difference in effects, there must be a difference in causes—which for the naturalist means, of course, natural causes.

Nor does the difficulty go away if we adopt the supernaturalistic view of natural law. On this view, natural laws only describe what happens when supernatural forces are absent; a genuine miracle does not violate natural law because it is the effect of a supernatural cause. Suppose an extraordinary event occurs, which the apologist would like to attribute to a supernatural cause. The following two states of affairs appear to be empirically indistinguishable:

1. The event is the result of a natural cause that we are as yet unable to identify.

2. The event is the result of a supernatural cause.

This, of course, is due to the fact that we do not observe the cause of the event in either of these cases—in the first, it is because the cause is unknown to us, and in the second, because supernatural causes are unobservable ex hypothesi. Thus the issue here is whether we should suppose that our failure to observe any cause for the event is due to our (perhaps temporary) inability to fully identify all of the natural forces that were operating to produce it, or whether it is because the cause, being supernatural, is in principle unobservable. If Flew is right, then in order to identify the event as a miracle, we must find some way to rule out the possibility of ever finding a natural cause for it; furthermore, if the identification of this event as a miracle is to serve any apologetic purpose, we must find some empirical grounds for doing this.

To complicate matters even further, there is yet a third possibility, which is that:

3. The event has no cause at all.

That is, it is possible that the event is simply uncaused or spontaneous. It is clear that there can be no observable difference between an event that has a supernatural cause, since such a cause is in principle unobservable, and one that fails to have a cause. The challenge for an account of miracles as supernaturally caused is to show what the difference is between conceiving an event as having a supernatural cause, and conceiving of it as simply lacking any cause at all.

The implications of this are quite significant: Even if the naturalist were forced to admit that an event had no natural cause, and that nature is, therefore, not fully lawlike, this does not commit him to supernaturalism. It is possible that nature undergoes spontaneous lapses in its uniformity. Such events would be nonrepeatable counterinstances to natural law, but they would not be miracles. They would fall within the unaided potentialities of nature; the naturalist need not admit the necessity of supernatural intervention to produce such events, because their occurrence requires no appeal to any transcendent reality. Indeed, should we become persuaded that an event has occurred that has no natural cause, the naturalist may argue that simplicity dictates that we forgo any appeal to the supernatural, since this would involve the introduction of an additional entity (God) without any corresponding benefit in explanatory power.

8. Supernatural Causes and Supernatural Explanation

The apologist, however, will insist that this is precisely the point. Describing an extraordinary event as the effect of a supernatural cause, and attributing it to divine intervention, is justified by the fact that it offers us a chance to explain it where no natural explanation is available. Assuming (as the naturalist typically does) that nature operates according to physical laws, the occurrence of an apparent exception points to some difference in the circumstances. If no difference in the physical circumstances can be found, then the only explanation available is that there is some supernatural force at work. It is unreasonable to reject such a supernatural explanation in the purely speculative hope that one day a natural explanation may become available.

The notion of a supernatural explanation deserves careful attention. The naturalist will surely argue that the conception of a supernatural explanation—together with its cognate, the notion of a supernatural cause—is confused. This position is motivated by the conviction that the notions of an explanation and of a cause are fundamentally empirical conceptions.

First, as regards the conception of a cause: Paradigmatically, causation is a relation between two entities, a cause (or some set of causal circumstances) and an effect. Now there are many cases in which we witness the effect of a cause that is not seen; I might for example hear the sound of a gunshot, and not see the gun that produced it. Furthermore I will be able to infer that there is a gun somewhere nearby that produced that sound. This is an inference from effect to cause, and is similar to what the apologist would like to do with a miracle, inferring the existence of God (as cause) from the occurrence of the miracle (as effect). But what makes my inference possible in this case is, as Hume would point out, the fact that I have observed a regular conjunction of similar causes with similar effects. This is precisely what is lacking when it comes to supernatural causes. I cannot ever experience the conjunction of a supernatural cause with its effect, since supernatural causes are (by hypothesis) unobservable—nor can I make an inference from any phenomenon in nature to its supernatural cause without such an experience. Indeed given the very uniqueness of God’s miraculous interventions into nature, it is difficult to see how the notion of divine causation could draw on any kind of regularity at all, as empirical causes do.

It is true that science often appeals to invisible entities such as electrons, magnetic fields, and black holes; perhaps the apologist conceives her own appeal as having a similar character (Geivett 1997:183). These things, one may argue, are known only through their observable effects. But the causal properties of such natural entities as electrons and magnetic fields are analogous to those of entities that are observable; this is what entitles us to refer to them as natural entities. Furthermore, these properties may be described in terms of observable regularities, which means that entities like electrons and magnetic fields may play a role in theories that have predictive power. Thus for example, an appeal to electrons can help us predict what will happen when we turn on a light switch. God is not a theoretical entity of this kind. Far from being able to play a role in any empirical regularities, God’s miraculous interventions into nature, as these are conceived by the supernaturalist, are remarkable for their uniqueness.

Another reason for doubting that God can possess causal powers analogous to those enjoyed by natural objects arises from the fact that God is typically conceived as lacking any location in space—and on the view of some philosophers, as being outside of time as well. Causal relationships among natural entities play out against a spatio-temporal background. Indeed it would seem that to speak of God as the cause of events in nature encounters something similar to the Problem of Mind-Body Interaction. (This should not be surprising given the usual conception of God as a nonmaterial entity, i.e. as mind or spirit.) All of the cases of causal interaction of which we are aware occur between physical entities that are fundamentally similar to one another in terms of possessing physical properties such as mass, electrical charge, location in space etc. Thus we know for example how one billiard ball may move another by virtue of the transfer of momentum. But God possesses none of these qualities, and cannot therefore interact with physical objects in any way that we can understand. God cannot, for example, transfer momentum to a physical object if God does not possess mass.

It may be argued that the conception of an explanation is inextricably intertwined with that of causation, so that if the conception of a supernatural cause is an empty one, the notion of a supernatural explanation can hardly be expected to get off the ground. The apologist may respond by distinguishing the sort of explanation she intends to give, when she attributes a miracle to divine agency, from the sort of explanation that is common to the natural sciences. In particular, she might characterize them as personal explanations, which work to explain a phenomenon by reference to the intentions of an agent—in this case God. (See for example Swinburne 1979: Ch. 2) Now, it is true that personal explanations do not have quite the same empirical basis as do scientific ones; nevertheless, like scientific explanations, they do typically have empirical consequences. For example, if I explain Bertrand’s running a red light by saying that he wanted to be on time to his meeting, I have given a personal explanation for Bertrand’s behavior, and it is one that is testable. It will be supported by any observations that tend to confirm the hypothesis that Bertrand is due for a meeting and that being on time is something that he desires, and it will be undermined by any that are contrary to it, such as discovering that Bertrand does not believe that any meeting is imminent. Furthermore this explanation also serves as a basis for rough predictions about other actions that Bertrand might be expected to perform, e.g. he will likely take other steps (possibly involving additional traffic violations) in order to make it to his meeting on time.

The most obvious way in which appeals to divine agency fail to be analogous to the usual sort of personal explanation is in their failure to yield even the vaguest of predictions. (See Nowell-Smith 1955) Suppose, for example, that we attribute a walking on water to divine intervention; from this description, nothing follows about what we can expect to happen in the future. Unless we can introduce additional information provided by revelation, we have no grounds for inferring that God will bring it about that additional miracles will occur; he may, or he may not. Indeed, as far as this kind of predictive expansion is concerned, we seem no better off saying that some event came about because God willed it to occur than we would be if we said of it simply that it had no cause, or that it occurred spontaneously. (Indeed, often when someone says “It was God’s will,” they are calling attention to the inscrutability of events.) In light of this fact, there is no reason why the naturalist should find such a supernatural explanation compelling; on the contrary, faced with a putative miracle, if his concern was to explain the event, he would be justified in following Hume’s advice and continuing to hold out for a natural cause and a natural explanation—one that possesses predictive power—or in the worst case, to simply shrug off the incident as inexplicable, while denying that this inexplicability warrants any appeal to the divine.

An objection here may be that all of this makes use of an unnecessarily narrow conception of causation—one which arbitrarily seeks to restrict their use to the natural sciences. Undoubtedly the word “cause” is used in a very diverse number of ways, and it is surely wrong to say that no sense can ever be attached to a statement of the form “God caused x to occur.” The same may be said regarding the notion of an explanation. But it is the apologist who tries to understand supernatural causes as analogous to the sort of causes that are of interest to natural science. If supernatural causes are not sufficiently similar to natural ones, they cannot be expected to fill the gap when natural causes are found to be lacking.

The most fundamental challenge to someone who wishes to appeal to the existence of supernatural causes is to make it clear just what the difference is between saying that an event has a supernatural cause, and saying that it has no cause at all. Similarly when it comes to the prospect of giving a supernatural explanation: Supposing that someone walks on water and we are unable to find any natural explanation for this, what warrants our saying that such an event has a supernatural explanation, as opposed to saying that it is inexplicable and being done with it?

9. Coincidence Miracles

Given the difficulties that arise in connection with the suggestion that God causes a miracle to occur, a non-causal account deserves consideration. R.F. Holland (1965) has suggested that a religiously significant coincidence may qualify as a miracle. Suppose a child who is riding a toy motor-car gets stuck on the track at a train crossing. A train is approaching from around a curve, and the engineer who is driving it will not be able to see the child until it is too late to stop. By coincidence, the engineer faints at just the right moment, releasing his hand on the control lever, which causes the train to stop automatically. The child, against all expectations, is saved, and his mother thanks God for his providence; she continues to insist that a miracle has occurred even after hearing the explanation of how the train came to stop when it did. Interestingly, when the mother attributes the stopping of the train to God she is not identifying God as its cause; the cause of the train’s stopping is the engineer’s fainting. Nor is she, in any obvious way, offering an explanation for the event—at least none that is intended to compete with the naturalistic explanation made possible by reference to the engineer’s medical condition. What makes this event a miracle, if it is, is its significance, which is given at least in part by its being an apparent response to a human need.

Like a violation miracle, such a coincidence occurs contrary to our expectations, yet it does this without standing in opposition to our understanding of natural law. To conceive of such an event as a miracle does seem to satisfy the notion of a miracle as an event that elicits wonder, though the object of our wonder seems not so much to be how the train came to stop as the simple fact that it should stop when it did, when we had every reason to think it would not.

A similar account of the miraculous comes from John Hick’s conception of religious faith as a form of “experiencing-as.” Inspired by Wittgenstein‘s discussion of seeing-as in the Philosophical Investigations (194e), Hick has argued that while the theist and the atheist live in the same physical environment, they experience it differently; the theist sees a significance in the events of her life that prompts her to describe her experience as a continuing interaction with God (1973:Ch. 2). A theist, for example, might benefit from an unexpected job opportunity and experience this as an expression of divine providence; the same event might not move an atheist in this way. Regarding miracles in particular, Hick (1973:51) writes:

A miracle, whatever else it may be, is an event through which we become vividly and immediately conscious of God as acting towards us. A startling happening, even if it should involve a suspension of natural law, does not constitute for us a miracle in the religious sense of the word if it fails to make us intensely aware of God’s presence. In order to be miraculous, an event must be experienced as religiously significant.

Holland gives no indication that he wants to describe the miracle of the train in terms of experiencing-as. Nevertheless it seems reasonable to say, with Hick, that in Holland’s example, while the child’s mother has seen the same thing that the skeptic has—the stopping of the train—she understands it differently, experiencing it as a miracle, and as an expression of divine providence.

But now a new problem emerges: If the question of whether an event is a miracle lies in its significance, and if its significance is a matter of how we understand it, then it is hard to see how the determination that some event is a miracle can avoid being an entirely subjective matter. In this case, whether or not a miracle has occurred depends on how the witnesses see it, and so (arguably) is more a fact about the witnesses, and their response to the event, than it is to the event itself. (See Smart 1964:35) But we do not typically analyze human agency in this way; whether or not Caesar crossed the Rubicon is not a matter of how anyone experiences things. The question of whether Caesar crossed the Rubicon is an objective one. Surely the theist wishes to say that the question of whether God has acted in the world, in the occurrence of a miracle, is objective as well. And surely this fact accounts for the attractiveness of a causal account of miracles; any dispute over the cause of a putative miracle is a dispute over the facts, not a dispute about how people view the facts.

10. Miracle as Basic Action

This is a serious criticism, but it overlooks something very important about the character of actions generally. To ask whether a human being has acted is surely to ask an objective question, but it is not always to ask a question about causes. Arthur Danto (1965) has argued for a distinction between two types of action: Those that are mediated, and those that are basic. (See also Davidson 1982, who refers to basic actions as primitive.)  I act in a mediated way when I perform action x by doing y; for example, if I turn on the light in my study by flicking a switch, my turning on the light is a mediated action. My flicking the switch is also a mediated action if I flick the switch by moving my fingers.  Notice that, when we say that I turned on the light in a mediated sort of way, this may carry causal implications: In this case, the light’s coming on was caused by the switch’s being flicked, and the switch’s being flicked was caused by my fingers’ moving.  But not all of our actions are like this. When I move my fingers in order to flip the switch, I do not bring about their movement by doing anything else; I just move them. Thus to say I have acted in moving my fingers does not imply that I caused anything to happen. Yet clearly it is, in some sense of “fact,” a fact that I moved my fingers.

It is possible, of course, that my fingers’ moving has a cause, such as the firing of various neurons. But my neural firings are not actions of mine; they are not things that I do. It is not as though I set about to fire my neurons as part of a procedure aimed ultimately at bringing it about that my muscles contract and my fingers move. And even if I did, there would have to be something that I did immediately in order to set the chain of causes going, or there would be an infinite series of actions I would have to perform in order to turn on the light—I could never so much as start to act . Thus the possibility of being able to describe my fingers’ moving in terms of physical causes, and of thereby being able to give a natural explanation for this in terms of neural firings and the like, does not rule out the possibility of saying that in moving my fingers, I have acted.

Some philosophers believe that the truth of a libertarian account of free will implies that the free actions of human beings have no natural cause. This parallels the way that the traditional view of miracles has understood the manner of God’s action in a miracle. (J.P. Moreland has discussed the analogy between free human actions and miracles in this regard; see Moreland 1997.) Such a libertarian view of human action may be correct. It is important to recognize, however, that we do not have to settle the matter; we do not have to show that someone’s moving of their fingers has no natural cause in order to attribute this movement to their agency. Thus analogously, a believer in miracles may insist that there is no natural explanation for various miracles such as the creation of the universe, Moses’ parting of the Red Sea, or Jesus’ resurrection. But if miracles are basic actions on the part of God, then our attribution of divine agency to such events does not require us to show that these things cannot be explained by reference to natural causes. Whatever we must do to identify an event as a miracle, if a miracle is conceived as a basic action on the part of God, it cannot involve a requirement to show that it has no natural cause.

To ascribe a basic action to its agent is not to make any claim about its cause; thus if miracles are properly conceived as basic actions on the part of God, it is not the case that “any assertion that a miracle has occurred is implicitly a causal assertion” (Levine 1994:39), though this view is widely held. On the contrary, the ascription of a miracle to God will be logically independent of any causal analysis. (For a detailed discussion of this point see Corner 2007, and particularly Ch. 4.)

11. Wittgenstein: Miracle as Gesture

This leaves open the question of how we are to identify an event as a miracle, if this does not involve a causal analysis.  One approach is to think of a miracle as a gesture on the part of God. In Culture and Value (1980:45e), Ludwig Wittgenstein writes:

A miracle is, as it were, a gesture that God makes. As a man sits quietly and then makes an impressive gesture, God lets the world run on smoothly and then accompanies the words of a saint by a symbolic occurrence, a gesture of nature. It would be an instance if, when a saint has spoken, the trees around him bowed, as if in reverence.

It is interesting that Wittgenstein should speak of a gesture as a symbolic occurrence. A human bodily movement becomes a gesture when it takes on a particular kind of significance. The significance of a bow, for example, lies in the fact that it is an expression of reverence or respect. Being able to identify a bending at the waist as a bow requires us to be familiar with the culture in which this particular bodily movement has the significance that it does. Nevertheless, the question of whether someone has bowed is an objective one—it is, we might say, a question about the facts. Thus the analogy of a miracle to a gesture may give us a way to view miracles at once as signs, allowing us to say that the character of a miracle lies, at least in part, in its significance within what Wittgenstein would call a “form of life,” and at the same time insist that the question of its significance is an objective matter.

If a miracle is like a gesture in the way Wittgenstein thinks it is, then supposing that a miraculous event should occur, part of what makes it possible to identify that event as a miracle is an appreciation of its significance. But a miracle does not take on its significance in a vacuum; the significance of a miracle, like the significance of a gesture, is dependent on a certain sort of context. This context is established, at least to some degree, by one’s view of the world; whether one is able to identify an event as a miracle will depend on one’s ability to integrate it with a worldview in which the possibility of God’s acting in nature is already acknowledged. Such a limitation poses no problem for theology generally, which might legitimately regard such a view of things as its starting point. It will, however, be fatal to any apologetic appeal that seeks to establish the credentials of theistic religion by pointing to the occurrence of a putative miracle and attempting to establish, on grounds that are consistent with naturalism, that this event gives compelling evidence for the existence of God.

Peter Winch has recently taken up Wittgenstein’s comparison of a miracle to a gesture:

A certain disposition, or movement, of a human body can be called a ‘gesture’ only within a context where it is possible for it to be recognised and/or reacted to as a gesture… Such a possibility depends, at least in large part, on the reigning culture within which the action occurs. (1995:211, emphasis in the original)

Winch observes that our recognition of a gesture is typically immediate rather than inferred. Thus for example, if we are introduced to someone and they bow, we would not normally arrive at the conclusion that they are bowing by means of an inference, after first eliminating the possibility that their movement has a natural explanation; on the contrary, if we are sufficiently familiar with bowing as a cultural institution we will immediately recognize the character of their act. Furthermore, our recognition of the fact that they have bowed will typically be shown in our reaction to their gesture, e.g. in our bowing in return. Analogously, we express our recognition of a miracle not by looking to see if it has any natural cause, but by responding in the manner characteristic of theistic religion; with awe, perhaps, or with gratitude for God’s beneficence. (This is the response of the mother in Holland’s miracle of the train.) But, just as our ability to recognize, and to react appropriately to, a bow depends on our being immersed in a particular culture, so might our ability to recognize a miracle and react to it in the characteristically religious way. If Winch is correct, then the skeptic, who seeks to show that a putative miracle has a natural cause, is proceeding in the wrong direction—but then so is the theist who tries to show that the event cannot be explained scientifically. Such a theist commits the same error as one would who thinks that in order to show that a particular gesture is a bow, we must show that no physiological explanation can be given for it.

The mainstream theistic approach to miracles is, at the moment, one that would prefer to employ a method similar to that used in the natural sciences. Philosophers taking this approach are unlikely to be satisfied with the conception of a miracle as a gesture. But if Winch is right, this is an indication of how deeply embedded science has become in modern western culture, and an indication as well of a drift away from the kind of religious culture in which the conception of a miracle originally found its home.

12. References and Further Reading

  • Aquinas, Thomas, Summa Contra Gentiles, III:100-103
  • Augustine, The City of God, XXI:8
  • Beardsmore, R.W, “Hume and the Miraculous,” Religions and Hume’s Legacy, ed. Phillips, D.Z. and Tessin, Timothy, Claremont Studies in the Philosophy of Religion, New York: St. Martin’s Press
  • Corner, David (2007), The Philosophy of Miracles, London: Continuum
  • Danto, Arthur C. (1965), “Basic Actions,” American Philosophical Quarterly, 2:141-8
  • Davidson, Donald (1982), Essays on Action and Events, New York: Oxford University Press
  • Davis, Stephen T (1999), “Beardsmore on Hume on Miracles,” Religions and Hume’s Legacy, ed. Phillips, D.Z. and Tessin, Timothy, Claremont Studies in the Philosophy of Religion, New York: St. Martin’s Press
  • Earman, John (2000), Hume’s Abject Failure: The Argument Against Miracles, New York: Oxford University Press
  • Hume, David (1975), Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding, Ed. L.A. Selby-Bigge 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press
  • Flew, Anthony (1966), God and Philosophy, New York: Harcourt, Brace and World
  • Flew, Anthony (1967), “Miracles,” Encyclopedia of Philosophy. New York: Macmillan and Free Press, 1967, vol. 5, pp. 346-353
  • Flew, Anthony (1997), Hume’s Philosophy of Belief, Bristol: Thoemmes Press
  • Fogelin, Robert J. (2003), A Defense of Hume on Miracles, Princeton: Princeton University Press
  • Geivett, R. Douglas (1997), “The Evidential Value of Miracles,” in Geivett, R. Douglas and Habermas, Gary R. eds (1997), In Defense of Miracles: A Comprehensive Case for God’s Action in History, Downers Grove: Intervarsity Press
  • Hick, John (1973), God and the Universe of Faiths, Oxford: Oneworld Publications Ltd.
  • Holland, R.F. (1965), “The Miraculous,” American Philosophical Quarterly 2:43-51
  • Houston, J. (1994), Reported Miracles, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press
  • Huxley, T.H., (1894) Collected Essays, Vol. VI, Hume:, With Helps to the Study of Berkeley, New York: D. Appleton and Company
  • Lewis, C.S. (1947), Miracles, New York: Macmillan
  • Levine, Michael, P. (1989), Hume and the Problem of Miracles: A Solution, Dordrecht: Kluwer Publishers
  • Locke, John (2000), A Discourse of Miracles, in Earman, John, Hume’s Abject Failure: The Argument Against Miracles, New York: Oxford University Press
  • Mackie. J.L. (1982), The Miracle of Theism: Arguments for and against the Existence of God New York: Oxford University Press
  • Martin, Michael (1992), Atheism: A Philosophical Justification, Philadelphia: Temple University Press
  • Mavrodes, George I. (1985), “Miracles and the Laws of Nature,” Faith and Philosophy, Vol. 2 No. 4, October 1985
  • McKinnon, Alastair (1967), “Miracle’ and ‘Paradox,” American Philosophical Quarterly, 4:308-314
  • Moore, Gareth (1996), Believing in God, Edinburgh: T & T Clark
  • Nowell-Smith, Patrick (1955), “Miracles,” in New Essays in Philosophical Theology, ed. Antony Flew and Alastair MacIntyre, New York: Macmillan
  • Melden, A.I. (1961), Free Action, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul
  • Moreland, J.P (1997), “Science, Miracles, Agency Theory & the God-of-the-Gaps,” in Geivett, R. Douglas and Habermas, Gary R. eds (1997), In Defense of Miracles: A Comprehensive case for God’s Action in History,Downers Grove: Intervarsity Press
  • Purtill, Richard (1978), “Thinking about Religion: A Philosophical Introduction to Religion,” Prentice-Hall
  • Smart, Ninian (1964), Philosophers and Religious Truth, New York: Macmillan
  • Swinburne, Richard (1970), The Concept of Miracle, London: Macmillan
  • Swinburne, Richard (1979), The Existence of God, Oxford: Clarendon Press
  • Swinburne, Richard ed. (1989), Miracles, from the series Philosophical Topics ed. Paul Edwards, New York: Macmillan
  • Winch, Peter (1995), “Asking Too Many Questions,” in Tessin, Timothy and von der Ruhr, Mario eds, Philosophy and the Grammar of Religious Belief, Claremont Studies in the Philosophy of Religion, New York: St. Martin’s Press.
  • Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1958), Philosophical Investigations, 3rd edition, tr. G.E.M. Anscombe, Basil Blackwell & Mott, Ltd.
  • Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1980), Culture and Value, tr. Peter Winch, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Author Information

David Corner
Email: dcorner@csus.edu
California State University Sacramento
U. S. A.

Just War Theory

Just war theory deals with the justification of how and why wars are fought. The justification can be either theoretical or historical. The theoretical aspect is concerned with ethically justifying war and the forms that warfare may or may not take. The historical aspect, or the “just war tradition,” deals with the historical body of rules or agreements that have applied in various wars across the ages. For instance, international agreements such as the Geneva and Hague conventions are historical rules aimed at limiting certain kinds of warfare which lawyers may refer to in prosecuting transgressors, but it is the role of ethics to examine these institutional agreements for their philosophical coherence as well as to inquire into whether aspects of the conventions ought to be changed. The just war tradition may also consider the thoughts of various philosophers and lawyers through the ages and examine both their philosophical visions of war’s ethical limits (or absence of) and whether their thoughts have contributed to the body of conventions that have evolved to guide war and warfare.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. The Jus Ad Bellum Convention
  3. The Principles Of Jus In Bello
  4. Jus post bellum
  5. Conclusion
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Introduction

Historically, the just war tradition–a set of mutually agreed rules of combat—may be said to commonly evolve between two culturally similar enemies. That is, when an array of values are shared between two warring peoples, we often find that they implicitly or explicitly agree upon limits to their warfare. But when enemies differ greatly because of different religious beliefs, race, or language, and as such they see each other as “less than human”, war conventions are rarely applied. It is only when the enemy is seen to be a people, sharing a moral identity with whom one will do business in the following peace, that tacit or explicit rules are formed for how wars should be fought and who they should involve and what kind of relations should apply in the aftermath of war. In part, the motivation for forming or agreeing to certain conventions, can be seen as mutually benefiting—preferable, for instance, to the deployment of any underhand tactics or weapons that may provoke an indefinite series of vengeance acts, or the kinds of action that have proved to be detrimental to the political or moral interests to both sides in the past.

Regardless of the conventions that have historically formed, it has been the concern of the majority of just war theorists that the lack of rules to war or any asymmetrical morality between belligerents should be denounced, and that the rules of war should apply to all equally. That is, just war theory should be universal, binding on all and capable in turn of appraising the actions of all parties over and above any historically formed conventions.

The just war tradition is indeed as old as warfare itself. Early records of collective fighting indicate that some moral considerations were used by warriors to limit the outbreak or to rein in the potential devastation of warfare. They may have involved consideration of women and children or the treatment of prisoners (enslaving them rather than killing them, or ransoming or exchanging them). Commonly, the earlier traditions invoked considerations of honor: some acts in war have always been deemed dishonorable, whilst others have been deemed honorable. However, what is “honorable” is often highly specific to culture: for instance, a suicidal attack or defense may be deemed the honorable act for one people but ludicrous to another. Robinson (2006) notes that honor conventions are also contextually slippery, giving way to pragmatic or military interest when required. Whereas the specifics of what is honorable differ with time and place, the very fact that one moral virtue is alluded to in the great literature (for example, Homer’s Iliad) is sufficient for us to note that warfare has been infused with some moral concerns from the beginning rather than war being a mere Macbethian bloodbath.

The just war theory also has a long history. Parts of the Bible hint at ethical behavior in war and concepts of just cause, typically announcing the justice of war by divine intervention; the Greeks may have paid lip service to the gods, but, as with the Romans, practical and political issues tended to overwhelm any fledgling legal conventions: that is, interests of state or Realpolitik (the theory known as political realism would take precedence in declaring and waging war. Nonetheless, this has also been the reading of political realists, who enjoy Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War as an example of why war is necessarily the extension of politics and hence permeated by hard-nosed state interest rather than “lofty” pretensions to moral behavior.

Although St. Augustine provided comments on the morality of war from the Christian perspective (railing against the love of violence that war can engender) as did several Arabic commentators in the intellectual flourishing from the 9th to 12th centuries, but the most systematic exposition in the Western tradition and one that still attracts attention was outlined by Saint Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century. In the Summa Theologicae, Aquinas presents the general outline of what becomes the traditional just war theory as discussed in modern universities. He discusses not only the justification of war but also the kinds of activity that are permissible (for a Christian) in war (see below). Aquinas’s thoughts become the model for later Scholastics and Jurists to expand and to gradually to universalize beyond Christendom – notably, for instance, in relations with the peoples of America following European incursions into the continent. The most important of these writers are: Francisco de Vitoria (1486-1546), Francisco Suarez (1548-1617), Hugo Grotius (1583-1645), Samuel Pufendorf (1632-1704), Christian Wolff (1679-1754), and Emerich de Vattel (1714-1767).

In the twentieth century, just war theory has undergone a revival mainly in response to the invention of nuclear weaponry and American involvement in the Vietnam war. The most important contemporary texts include Michael Walzer’s Just and Unjust Wars (1977), Barrie Paskins and Michael Dockrill The Ethics of War (1979), Richard Norman Ethics, Killing, and War (1995), Brian Orend War and International Justice (2001) and Michael Walzer on War and Justice (2001), as well as seminal articles by Thomas Nagel “War and Massacre”, Elizabeth Anscombe “War and Murder”, and a host of others, commonly found in the journals Ethics or The Journal of Philosophy and Public Affairs.

Since the terrorist attacks on the USA on 9/11 in 2001, academics have turned their attention to just war once again with international, national, academic, and military conferences developing and consolidating the theoretical aspects of the conventions. Just war theory has become a popular topic in International Relations, Political Science, Philosophy, Ethics, and Military History courses. Conference proceedings are regularly published, offering readers a breadth of issues that the topic stirs: for example, Alexander Moseley and Richard Norman, eds. Human Rights and Military Intervention, Paul Robinson, ed., Just War in a Comparative Perspective, Alexsander Jokic, ed., War Crimes and Collective Wrongdoing. What has been of great interest is that in the headline wars of the past decade, the dynamic interplay of the rules and conventions of warfare not only remain intact on the battlefield but their role and hence their explication have been awarded a higher level of scrutiny and debate. In the political circles, justification of war still requires even in the most critical analysis a superficial acknowledgement of justification. On the ground, generals have extolled their troops to adhere to the rules, soldiers are taught the just war conventions in the military academies (for example, explicitly through military ethics courses or implicitly through veterans’ experiences). Yet despite the emphasis on abiding by war’s conventions, war crimes continue – genocidal campaigns have been waged by mutually hating peoples, leaders have waged total war on ethnic groups within or without their borders, and individual soldiers or guerilla bands have committed atrocious, murderous, or humiliating acts on their enemy. But, arguably, such acts do remain atrocities by virtue of the just war conventions that some things in war are deemed to be inexcusable, regardless of the righteousness of the cause or the noise and fog of battle.

Yet increasingly, the rule of law – the need to hold violators and transgressors responsible for their actions in war and therefore after the battle – is making headway onto the battlefield. In chivalrous times, the Christian crusader could seek priestly absolution for atrocities committed in war, a stance supported by Augustine for example; today, the law courts are seemingly less forgiving: a violation of the conventions assumes that the soldier is responsible and accountable and should be charged for a crime. Nonetheless, the idealism of those who seek the imposition of law and responsibility on the battlefield (cf. Geoffrey Robertson’s Crimes Against Humanity), often runs ahead of the traditions and customs, or plain state interests, that demean or weaken the justum bellum that may exist between warring factions. And in some cases, no just war conventions and hence no potential for legal acknowledgement of malfeasance, exist at all; in such cases, the ethic of war is considered, or is implicitly held to be, beyond the norms of peaceful ethics and therefore deserving a separate moral realm where “fair is foul and foul is fair” (Shakespeare, Macbeth I.i). In such examples (e.g, Rwanda, 1994), a people’s justification of destructiveness and killing to whatever relative degree they hold to be justifiable triumphs over attempts to establish the laws of peaceful interaction into this separate bloody realm; and in some wars, people fighting for their land or nation prefer to pick up the cudgel rather than the rapier, as Leo Tolstoy notes in War and Peace (Book 4.Ch.2), to sidestep the etiquette or war in favor securing their land from occupational or invading forces.

The continued brutality of war in the face of conventions and courts of international law lead some to maintain that the application of morality to war is a nonstarter: state interest or military exigency would always overwhelm moral concerns. But there are those of a more skeptical persuasion who do not believe that morality can or should exist in war: its very nature precludes ethical concerns. But as there are several ethical viewpoints, there are also several common reasons laid against the need or the possibility of morality in war. Generally, consequentialists and act utilitarians may claim that if military victory is sought then all methods should be employed to ensure it is gained at a minimum of expense and time. Arguments from ‘military necessity’ are of this type; for example, to defeat Germany in World War II, it was deemed necessary to bomb civilian centers, or in the US Civil War, for General Sherman to burn Atlanta. However, intrinsicists (who claim that there are certain acts that are good or bad in themselves) may also decree that no morality can exist in the state of war: they may claim that it can only exist in a peaceful situation in which, for instance, recourse exists to conflict resolving institutions. Alternatively, intrinsicists may claim that possessing a just cause (the argument from righteousness) is a sufficient condition for pursuing whatever means are necessary to gain a victory or to punish an enemy. A different skeptical argument, one advanced by Michael Walzer, is that the invention of nuclear weapons alters war so much that our notions of morality—and hence just war theories—become redundant. However, against Walzer, it can be reasonably argued that although such weapons change the nature of warfare (for example, the timing, range, and potential devastation) they do not dissolve the need to consider their use within a moral framework: a nuclear warhead remains a weapon and weapons can be morally or immorally employed.

Whilst skeptical positions may be derived from consequentialist and intrinsicist positions, they need not be. Consequentialists can argue that there are long-term benefits to having a war convention. For example, by fighting cleanly, both sides can be sure that the war does not escalate, thus reducing the probability of creating an incessant war of counter-revenges. Intrinsicists, on the other hand, can argue that certain spheres of life ought never to be targeted in war; for example, hospitals and densely populated suburbs.

The inherent problem with both ethical models is that they become either vague or restrictive when it comes to war. Consequentialism is an open-ended model, highly vulnerable to pressing military or political needs to adhere to any code of conduct in war: if more will be gained from breaking the rules than will be lost, the consequentialist cannot but demur to military “necessity.” On the other hand, intrinsicism can be so restrictive that it permits no flexibility in war: whether it entails a Kantian thesis of dutifully respecting others or a classical rights position, intrinsicism produces an inflexible model that would restrain warriors’ actions to the targeting of permissible targets only. In principle such a prescription is commendable, yet the nature of war is not so clean cut when military targets can be hidden amongst civilian centers.

Against these two ethical positions, just war theory offers a series of principles that aim to retain a plausible moral framework for war. From the just war (justum bellum) tradition, theorists distinguish between the rules that govern the justice of war (jus ad bellum) from those that govern just and fair conduct in war (jus In bello) and the responsibility and accountability of warring parties after the war (jus post bellum). The three aspects are by no means mutually exclusive, but they offer a set of moral guidelines for waging war that are neither unrestricted nor too restrictive. The problem for ethics involves expounding the guidelines in particular wars or situations.

2. The Jus Ad Bellum Convention

The principles of the justice of war are commonly held to be: having just cause, being a last resort, being declared by a proper authority, possessing right intention, having a reasonable chance of success, and the end being proportional to the means used. One can immediately detect that the principles are not wholly intrinsicist nor consequentialist—they invoke the concerns of both models. Whilst this provides just war theory with the advantage of flexibility, the lack of a strict ethical framework means that the principles themselves are open to broad interpretations. Examining each in turn draws attention to the relevant problems.

Possessing just cause is the first and arguably the most important condition of jus ad bellum. Most theorists hold that initiating acts of aggression is unjust and gives a group a just cause to defend itself. But unless “aggression” is defined, this proscription is rather open-ended. For example, just cause resulting from an act of aggression can ostensibly be a response to a physical injury (for example, a violation of territory), an insult (an aggression against national honor), a trade embargo (an aggression against economic activity), or even to a neighbor’s prosperity (a violation of social justice). The onus is then on the just war theorist to provide a consistent and sound account of what is meant by just cause. Whilst not going into the reasons why the other explanations do not offer a useful condition of just cause, the consensus is that an initiation of physical force is wrong and may justly be resisted. Self-defense against physical aggression, therefore, is putatively the only sufficient reason for just cause. Nonetheless, the principle of self-defense can be extrapolated to anticipate probable acts of aggression, as well as in assisting others against an oppressive government or from another external threat (interventionism). Therefore, it is commonly held that aggressive war is only permissible if its purpose is to retaliate against a wrong already committed (for example, to pursue and punish an aggressor), or to pre-empt an anticipated attack. In recent years, the argument for preemption has gained supporters in the West: surely, the argument goes, it is right on consequentialist grounds to strike the first blow if a future war is to be avoided? By acting decisively against a probable aggressor, a powerful message is sent that a nation will defend itself with armed force; thus preemption may provide a deterrent and a more peaceful world. However, critics complain that preemptive strikes are based on conjectured rather than impending aggression and in effect denounce the moral principle that an agent is presumed innocent – posturing and the building up of armaments do not in themselves constitute aggression, just a man carrying a weapon is not a man using a weapon, Consequentialist critics may also reject preemption on the grounds that it is more likely to destabilize peace, while other realists may complain that a preemptive strike policy is the ploy of a tyrannical or bullying power that justifies other nations to act in their self-interest to neutralize either through alliances or military action – such is the principle behind the “balance of power” politics in which nations constantly renew their alliances and treatises to ensure that not one of them becomes a hegemonic power. It is also feared that the policy of preemption slips easily into the machinations of “false flag operations” in which a pretext for war is created by a contrived theatrical or actual stunt – of dressing one’s own soldiers up in the enemy’s uniforms, for instance, and having them attack a military or even civilian target so as to gain political backing for a war. Unfortunately, false flag operations tend to be quite common. Just war theory would reject them as it would reject waging war to defend a leader’s “honor” following an insult. Realists may defend them on grounds of a higher necessity but such moves are likely to fail as being smoke screens for political rather than moral interests.

War should always be a last resort. This connects intimately with presenting a just cause – all other forms of solution must have been attempted prior to the declaration of war. It has often been recognized that war unleashes forces and powers that soon get beyond the grips of the leaders and generals to control – there is too much “fog” in war, as Clausewitz noted, but that fog is also a moral haze in which truth and trust are early casualties. The resulting damage that war wrecks tends to be very high for most economies and so theorists have advised that war should not be lightly accepted: once unleashed, war is not like a sport that can be quickly stopped at the blow of a whistle (although the Celtic druids supposedly had the power to stop a battle by virtue of their moral standing) and its repercussions last for generations. Holding “hawks” at bay though is a complicated task – the apparent ease by which war may resolve disputes, especially in the eyes of those whose military might is apparently great and victory a certainty, does present war as a low cost option relative to continuing political problems and economic or moral hardship. Yet the just war theorist wishes to underline the need to attempt all other solutions but also to tie the justice of the war to the other principles of jus ad bellum too.

The notion of proper authority seems to be resolved for most of the theorists, who claim it obviously resides in the sovereign power of the state. But the concept of sovereignty raises a plethora of issues to consider here. If a government is just, i.e., most theorists would accept that the government is accountable and does not rule arbitrarily, then giving the officers of the state the right to declare war is reasonable, so the more removed from a proper and just form a government is, the more reasonable it is that its claim to justifiable political sovereignty disintegrates. A historical example can elucidate the problem: when Nazi Germany invaded France in 1940 it set up the Vichy puppet regime. What allegiance did the people of France under its rule owe to its precepts and rules? A Hobbesian rendition of almost absolute allegiance to the state entails that resistance is wrong (so long as the state is not tyrannical and imposes war when it should be the guardian of peace); whereas a Lockean or instrumentalist conception of the state entails that a poorly accountable, inept, or corrupt regime possesses no sovereignty, and the right of declaring war (to defend themselves against the government or from a foreign power) is wholly justifiable. The notion of proper authority therefore requires thinking about what is meant by sovereignty, what is meant by the state, and what is the proper relationship between a people and its government.

The possession of right intention is ostensibly less problematic. The general thrust of the concept being that a nation waging a just war should be doing so for the cause of justice and not for reasons of self-interest or aggrandizement. Putatively, a just war cannot be considered to be just if reasons of national interest are paramount or overwhelm the pretext of fighting aggression. However, “right intention” masks many philosophical problems. According to Kant, possessing good intent constitutes the only condition of moral activity, regardless of the consequences envisioned or caused, and regardless, or even in spite, of any self interest in the action the agent may have. The extreme intrinsicism of Kant can be criticized on various grounds, the most pertinent here being the value of self-interest itself. At what point does right intention separate itself from self-interest – is the moral worthiness of intent only gained by acting in favor of one’s neighbor, and if so, what does that imply for moral action – that one should woo one’s neighbor’s spouse to make him/her feel good? Acting with proper intent requires us to think about what is proper and it is not certain that not acting in self interest is necessarily the proper thing to do. On the one hand, if the only method to secure a general peace (some thing usually held to be good in itself) is to annex a belligerent neighbor’s territory, political aggrandizement becomes intimately connected with the proper intention of maintaining the peace for all or the majority. On the other hand, a nation may possess just cause to defend an oppressed group, and may rightly argue that the proper intention is to secure their freedom, yet such a war may justly be deemed too expensive or too difficult to wage; i.e., it is not ultimately in their self-interest to fight the just war. On that account, the realist may counter that national interest is paramount: only if waging war on behalf of freedom is also complemented by the securing of economic or other military interests should a nation commit its troops. The issue of intention raises the concern of practicalities as well as consequences, both of which should be considered before declaring war.

The next principle is that of reasonable success. This is another necessary condition for waging just war, but again is insufficient by itself. Given just cause and right intention, the just war theory asserts that there must be a reasonable probability of success. The principle of reasonable success is consequentialist in that the costs and benefits of a campaign must be calculated. However, the concept of weighing benefits poses moral as well as practical problems as evinced in the following questions. Should one not go to the aid of a people or declare war if there is no conceivable chance of success? Is it right to comply with aggression because the costs of not complying are too prohibitive? Would it be right to crush a weak enemy because it would be marginally costless? Is it not sometimes morally necessary to stand up to a bullying larger force, as the Finns did when Russia invaded in 1940, for the sake of national self-esteem or simple interests of defending land? Historically, many nations have overcome the probability of defeat: the fight may seem hopeless, but a charismatic leader or rousing speech can sometimes be enough to stir a people into fighting with all their will. Winston Churchill offered the British nation some of the finest of war’s rhetoric when it was threatened with defeat and invasion by Nazi Germany in 1940. For example: “Let us therefore brace ourselves to do our duty, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Commonwealth and its Empire lasts for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’“ ….And “What is our aim?….Victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror; victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.” (Speeches to Parliament, 1940). However, the thrust of the reasonable success principle emphasizes that human life and economic resources should not be wasted in what would obviously be an uneven match. For a nation threatened by invasion, other forms of retaliation or defense may be available, such as civil disobedience, or even forming alliances with other small nations to equalize the odds.

The final guide of jus ad bellum is that the desired end should be proportional to the means used. This principle overlaps into the moral guidelines of how a war should be fought, namely the principles of jus In bello. With regards to just cause, a policy of war requires a goal, and that goal must be proportional to the other principles of just cause. Whilst this commonly entails the minimizing of war’s destruction, it can also invoke general balance of power considerations. For example, if nation A invades a land belonging to the people of nation B, then B has just cause to take the land back. According to the principle of proportionality, B’s counter-attack must not invoke a disproportionate response: it should aim to retrieve its land and not exact further retribution or invade the aggressor’s lands, or in graphic terms it should not retaliate with overwhelming force or nuclear weaponry to resolve a small border dispute. That goal may be tempered with attaining assurances that no further invasion will take place, but for B to invade and annex regions of A is nominally a disproportionate response, unless (controversially) that is the only method for securing guarantees of no future reprisals. For B to invade and annex A and then to continue to invade neutral neighboring nations on the grounds that their territory would provide a useful defense against other threats and a putative imbalance of power is even more unsustainable.

On the whole the principles offered by jus ad bellum are useful guidelines for reviewing the morality of going to war that are not tied to the intrinsicist’s absolutism or consequentialist’s open-endedness. Philosophically however they invoke a plethora of problems by either their independent vagueness or by mutually inconsistent results – a properly declared war may involve improper intention or disproportionate ambitions. But war is a complicated issue and the principles are nonetheless a useful starting point for ethical examination and they remain a guide for both statesmen and women and for those who judge political proceedings.

3. The Principles Of Jus In Bello

The rules of just conduct within war fall under the two broad principles of discrimination and proportionality. The principle of discrimination concerns who are legitimate targets in war, whilst the principle of proportionality concerns how much force is morally appropriate. A third principle can be added to the traditional two, namely the principle of responsibility, which demands an examination of where responsibility lies in war.

One strong implication of the justice of warfare being a separate topic of analysis to the justice of war is that the theory thus permits the judging of acts within war to be dissociated from it cause. This allows the theorist to claim that a nation fighting an unjust cause may still fight justly, or a nation fighting a just cause may be said to fight unjustly. It is a useful division but one that does not necessarily sever all ties between the two great principles of warfare: the justice of a cause remains a powerful moral guide by which warfare is to be judged, for what does it matter, it can be asked, if a nation wages a war of aggression but does so cleanly?

In waging war it is considered unfair and unjust to attack indiscriminately since non-combatants or innocents are deemed to stand outside the field of war proper. Immunity from war can be reasoned from the fact that their existence and activity is not part of the essence of war, which is the killing of combatants. Since killing itself is highly problematic, the just war theorist has to proffer a reason why combatants become legitimate targets in the first place, and whether their status alters if they are fighting a just or unjust war. Firstly, a theorist may hold that being trained and/or armed constitutes a sufficient threat to combatants on the other side and thereby the donning of uniform alters the person’s moral status to legitimate target; whether this extends to peaceful as well as war duties is not certain though. Voluntarists may invoke the boxing ring analogy: punching another individual is not morally supportable in a civilized community, but those who voluntarily enter the boxing ring renounce their right not to be hit. Normally, a boxer does not retain the right to hit another boxer outside of the ring, yet perhaps a soldier’s training creates a wholly different expectation governing his or her status and that wearing the uniform or merely possessing the training secures their legitimacy as a target both on and off the battlefield. Such an argument would imply that it is right to attack unarmed soldiers or soldiers who have surrendered or who are enjoying the normality of civilian life, which just war theorists and historical conventions have traditionally rejected on the claim that when a soldier lays down his weapons or removes his uniform, he or she returns to civilian life and hence the status of the non-combatant even if that return is temporary. Conversely, in joining an army the individual is said to renounce his or her rights not to be targeted in war – the bearing of arms takes a person into an alternative moral realm in which killing is the expectation and possible norm: it is world removed from civilian structures and historically has evolved rites of passage and exit that underline the alteration in status for cadets and veterans; all analogies to the fair play of sports fail at this juncture, for war involves killing and what the British Army call “unlimited liability.” On entering the army, the civilian loses the right not to be targeted, yet does it follow that all who bear uniform are legitimate targets, or are some more so than others – those who are presently fighting compared to those bearing arms but who are involved in supplies or administration, for instance?

Others, avoiding a rights analysis for it produces many problems on delineating the boundaries of rights and the bearers, may argue that those who join the army (or who have even been pressed into conscription) come to terms with being a target, and hence their own deaths. This is argued for example by Barrie Paskins and Michael Dockrill in The Ethics of War (1979). However, since civilians can just as readily come to terms with their own deaths and it is not necessarily the case that a soldier has, their argument, although interesting, is not sufficient to defend the principle of discrimination and why soldiers alone should be targeted legitimately in war. In turn, rights-based analyses may be more philosophically productive in giving soldiers and critics crucial guidelines, especially those analyses that focus on the renouncing of rights by combatants by virtue of their war status, which would leave nominally intact a sphere of immunity for civilians. Yet what is the status of guerrilla fighters who use civilian camouflage in order to press their attacks or to hide? Similarly, soldiers on covert operations present intricate problems of identification and legitimization: is there a difference between the two? Referring back to the fighters’ cause (for example, the guerrilla is a “freedom fighter” and thus carries a moral trump card) creates its own problems, which the just war theory in dividing the justice of the cause from the justice of the manner in which war is fought attempts to avoid: the guerrilla fighter may breach codes of conduct just as the soldier on a politically sensitive covert operations may avoid targeting the wrong people.

Walzer, in his Just and Unjust Wars (1977) claims that the lack of identification does not give a government the right to kill indiscriminately—the onus is on the government to identify the combatants, and so, the implication goes, if there is any uncertainty involved then an attack must not be made. Others have argued that the nature of modern warfare dissolves the possibility of discrimination: civilians are just as necessary causal conditions for the war machine as are combatants, therefore, they claim, there is no moral distinction in targeting an armed combatant and a civilian involved in arming or feeding the combatant. The distinction is, however, not closed by the nature of modern economies, since a combatant still remains a very different entity from a non-combatant, if not for the simple reason that the former is presently armed (and hence has renounced rights or is prepared to die, or is a threat), whilst the civilian is not. On the other hand, it can be argued that being a civilian does not necessarily mean that one is not a threat and hence not a legitimate target. If Mr Smith is the only individual in the nation to possess the correct combination that will detonate a device that could kill thousands, then he becomes not only causally efficacious in the firing of a weapon of war, but also morally responsible; reasonably he also becomes a legitimate military target. His job effectively militarizes his status even though he does not bear arms.

The underlying issues that ethical analysis must deal with involve the logical nature of an individual’s complicity and the aiding and abetting the war machine, with greater weight being imposed on those logically closer than those logically further from the war machine in their work. At a deeper level, one can consider the role that civilians play in supporting an unjust war: to what extent are they morally culpable, and if they are culpable in giving moral, financial, or economic support to some extent, does that mean they may become legitimate targets? This invokes the issue of collective versus individual responsibility that is in itself a complex topic but one that the principle of discrimination tries to circumvent by presenting guidelines for soldiers that keep their activity within the realms of war and its effects rather than murder. It would be wrong, on the principle of discrimination, to group the enemy into one targetable mass of people – some can not be responsible for a war or its procedures, notably children. Yet, on the other hand, if a civilian bankrolls a war or initiates aggression as a politician, surely he or she bears some moral responsibility for the ensuing deaths: some may argue that the war’s justification rests upon such shoulders but not the manner in which it is fought, while others may prefer to saddle the leader or initiator with the entire responsibility for how a war is fought on the argument that each combatant is responsible for those below him or her in rank – so the political or civilian leaders are analogously responsible for all operating in the military field.

The second principle of just conduct is that any offensive action should remain strictly proportional to the objective desired. This principle overlaps with the proportionality principle of just cause, but it is distinct enough to consider it in its own light. Proportionality for jus In bello requires tempering the extent and violence of warfare to minimize destruction and casualties. It is broadly utilitarian in that it seeks to minimize overall suffering, but it can also be understood from other moral perspectives, for instance, from harboring good will to all (Kantian ethics), or acting virtuously (Aristotelian ethics). Whilst the consideration of discrimination focuses on who is a legitimate target of war, the principle of proportionality deals with what kind of force is morally permissible. In fighting a just war in which only military targets are attacked, it is still possible to breach morality by employing disproportionate force against an enemy. Whilst the earlier theoreticians, such as Thomas Aquinas, invoked the Christian concepts of charity and mercy, modern theorists may invoke either consequentialist or intrinsicist prescriptions, both of which remain problematic as the foregoing discussions have noted. However, it does not seem morally reasonable to completely gun down a barely armed albeit belligerent tribe. At the battle of Omdurman in 1898 in the Sudan, six machine gunners killed thousands of dervishes—the gunners may have been in the right to defend themselves, but the principle of proportionality implies that a battle end before it becomes a massacre. Similarly, following the battle of Culloden in 1746 in Scotland, Cumberland ordered “No Quarter”, which was not only a breach of the principle of discrimination, for his troops were permitted to kill the wounded as well as supporting civilians, but also a breach of the principle of proportionality, since the battle had been won, and the Jacobite cause effectively defeated on the battle field.

What if a war and all of its suffering could be avoided by highly selective killing? Could just war theory endorse assassination for instance? Assassination programs have often been secretly accepted and employed by states throughout the centuries and appeal, if challenged, is often to a “higher” value such as self-defense, killing a target guilty of war crimes and atrocities, or removing a threat to peace and stability. The CIA manual on assassination (1954, cf. Belfield), sought to distinguish between murder and assassination, the latter being justifiable according to the higher purposes sought. This is analogous to just war theorists seeking to put mass killing on a higher moral ground than pure massacre and slaughter and is fraught with the same problems raised in this article and in the just war literature. On grounds of discrimination, assassination would be justifiable if the target were legitimate and not, say, the wife or children of a legitimate target. On grounds of proportionality, the policy would also be acceptable, for if one man or woman (a legitimate target by virtue of his or her aggression) should die to avoid further bloodshed or to secure a quicker victory, then surely assassination is covered by the just war theory? The founder of the Hashshashin society (c.11-13thC), Hasan ibn el Sabah preferred to target or threaten warmongers rather than drag innocents and noncombatants into bloody and protracted warfare: his threats were often successful for he brought the reality of death home to the leaders who otherwise would enjoy what lyricist Roger Waters calls “the bravery of being out of range.” In recent years, the US and UK proclaimed that the war in the Gulf was not with the Iraqi people but with its leader and his regime; the US government even issued a bounty on the heads of key agents in the Ba’ath party; indeed, Saddam Hussein’s sons, Uday and Qusay with a bounty of £15m, were killed in a selective hunt and destroy mission rather than being captured and brought to trial for the crimes asserted of them. Assassination would apparently clear the two hurdles of discrimination and proportionality, yet the intrinsicist wing of just war theorists would reasonably claim that underhand and covert operations, including assassination, should not form a part of war on grounds that they act to undermine the respect due one’s enemy (not matter how cruel he or she is) as well as the moral integrity of the assassin; the consequentialists would also counter that such policies also encourage the enemy to retaliate in similar manner, and one of the sustaining conclusions of just war theory is that escalation or retaliatory measures (tit for tat policies) should be avoided for their destabilizing nature. Once initiated, assassination tends to become the norm of political affairs – indeed, civil politics would thus crumble into fearful and barbaric plots and conspiracies (as did Rome in its last centuries) in a race to gain power and mastery over others rather than to forge justifiable sovereignty.

The principles of proportionality and discrimination aim to temper war’s violence and range; while they may ostensibly imply the acceptance of some forms of warfare, their malleability also implies that we continuously look afresh upon seemingly acceptable acts. Accordingly, they are complemented by other considerations that are not always explicitly taken up in the traditional exposition of jus In bello, this is especially true in the case of the issue of responsibility.

Jus in bello requires that the agents of war be held responsible for their actions. This ties in their actions to morality generally. Some, such as Saint Augustine argues against this assertion: “who is but the sword in the hand of him who uses it, is not himself responsible for the death he deals.” Those who act according to a divine command, or even God’s laws as enacted by the state and who put wicked men to death “have by no means violated the commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’” Whilst this issue is connected to the concepts of just cause, it does not follow that individuals waging a just, or unjust war, should be absolved of breaching the principles of just conduct. Readily it can be accepted that soldiers killing other soldiers is part of the nature of warfare for which soldiers ought to be prepared and trained, but when soldiers turn their weapons against non-combatants, or pursue their enemy beyond what is reasonable, then they are no longer committing legitimate acts of war but acts of murder. The principle of responsibility re-asserts the burden of abiding by rules in times of peace on those acting in war to remind them that one day they will once more take up civilian status and should be prepared to do so conscientiously, free of any guilt from war crimes. The issues that arise from this principle include the morality of obeying orders (for example, when one knows those orders to be immoral), as well as the moral status of ignorance (not knowing of the effects of one’s actions either reasonably or literally).

Responsibility for acts of war relate back to the tenets of jus ad bellum as well as jus in bello, for the justification of going to war involves responsibility as well as the acts ordered and committed in war. In reviewing the stories from military ethics readers, the acts of bravery that attract our attention involve soldiers standing up to do the “right thing” against either the prevailing momentum of the platoon or the orders from higher up; the realist rejects such acts as infrequent or unnecessary performances that do not alter the main characteristic of war and its innate brutality, yet such acts also remind the critic as well as the soldier of the importance of returning to the civilian mode with good conscience.

The aftermath of war involves the relinquishing of armed conflict as a means of resolving disputes and the donning of more civil modes of conduct but it also raises questions concerning the nature of the post bellum justice.

4. Jus post bellum

Following the cessation of a war, three possibilities emerge: either the army has been defeated, has been victorious, or it has agreed to a ceasefire. Principles of justice may then be applied to each situation. Orend presents a useful summary of the principles of jus post bellum : the principle of discrimination should be employed to avoid imposing punishment on innocents or non-combatants; the rights or traditions of the defeated deserve respect; the claims of victory should be proportional to the war’s character; compensatory claims should be tempered by the principles of discrimination and proportionality; and, controversially, the need to rehabilitate or re-educate an aggressor should also be considered.

It has often been remarked that justice, like history, is written by the victors. A defeated army and indeed the civilian body from which the army stems should thus be prepared to subject itself to the imposition of rules and forms of punishments, humiliation, and even retributions that it would not otherwise agree to. The lives, values, and resources that have been fought for must now be handed over to the conquerors. When put this way, when one readily imagines one’s own country’s army falling to an aggressive enemy, the terms immediately appear fearful and unjust and may stir a greater endeavor to make the victory hollow by the raising of guerrilla or even terrorist organizations to thwart the conquerors’ designs.

Yet when one’s own army is victorious, the partiality of victory can be so easily dismissed on the enthusiastic wave that accompanies triumph: victory is so often associated with the greater right when one’s own country vanquishes its enemy, and assumedly with that right comes the justification to impose conditions upon the vanquished. In so many wars in history, both ancient and modern, victory has provided the winners with the means of exploiting the defeated nation and for claiming rights over its lands and people whether in the form of enslavement or in monopolistic mercantile contracts; sometimes an appeal to divine justice is made; at other times the supremacy of one’s nation, race, creed, or political order is lauded over the defeated. Economic exploitation is not the only means of subjugating the defeated: new political or religious frameworks can also be imposed sometimes as a means of “rehabilitating the defeated” or as a means to avoid the circumstances (political or economic) that may bring about further warfare; the philosopher must naturally inquire as to the justice of such measures.

The just war theorist is keen to remind warriors and politicians alike that the principles of justice following war should be universalizable and morally ordered and that victory should not provide a license for imposing unduly harsh or punitive measures or that state or commercial interests should not dictate the form of the new peace. Similarly, imposing an alternative political or religious is not likely to be conducive to peace, as Edmund Burke prophetically warned about decreeing for the “rights of man” in an unprepared culture; re-educating a defeated military or bureaucracy may seem reasonable and arguably was successful in post-war Germany (1945), yet such a program may also be so superficial or condescending as to have only short term and illusory benefits or act to further humiliate the defeated into seething desire for revenge. In post-war Iraq (2003-date), the rehabilitation programs have met with mixed success and have often been criticized for favoring some ethnic groups over others, i.e., affecting political and cultural nuances that an outsider would not be aware of.

Criticism may stem from either intrinsicist reasons (that the defeated should still be viewed as a people deserving moral respect and their traditions held as sacrosanct) or consequentialist reasons (that punitive impositions are likely to produce a backlash); but again it is worth reminding that just war theory tends to merge the two to avoid awkward implications derived from either position singly.

At this point, the attraction for jus post bellum thinkers is to return to the initial justice of the war. Consider a war of self-defense: this is considered by most, except absolute pacifists, to be the most justifiable of all wars. If the people are defeated but their cause remains just, should they then continue the fight to rid their country of all the vestiges of occupation? What if fighting is impossible? Should they bow their heads in honorable defeat and accept the victor’s terms graciously? Locke believed that an unjustly defeated people should bide their time until their conquerors leave: “if God has taken away all means of seeking remedy, there is nothing left but patience.” (Second Treatises, §177); however, the right always remains with those who fought against an unjust war but they do not gain any moral right to attack indiscriminately or disproportionately (such as terrorizing the invader’s own civilians or soldiers at rest), although they may carry on their claim for freedom over the generations. A realist, however, may ask how a people are to regain their freedom if they do not raise arms against their sea of troubles? Nonetheless, if the “good fight” is to continue, most theorists follow Locke and prohibit breaches of the jus in bello principles: while it would be wrong to bow to a tyrant or conquering army, it would be immoral to target their families in order to encourage the occupying army to leave. Others may counsel civil disobedience and other forms of intransigence to signal displeasure.

If, on the other hand, the victors have won a just war against an aggressor, Locke argues that the victor’s right does not extend to the aggressive nation’s civilian population, but that it does extend to all those engaged in the aggression and that it extends absolutely: that is, the just conqueror has absolute rights of life and death over the defeated aggressors. The aggressor, one who initiates war, puts the individual or the community into a state of war, he argues, and so the defender has an absolute prerogative to use whatever force necessary to secure freedom and peace: accordingly, in victory, the victors may enslave or kill the aggressors. Locke’s is an extreme although not logically incoherent position and his exhortations may be compared to other moral positions (often emerging from religious thinking) to temper the justice in favor of other virtues such as charity, liberality, and justice. Indeed, King Alfred the Great of Wessex (c.878AD) defeated the Viking invader Guthrum in battle and rather than executing him as the Vikings would have done Alfred, he ordered them to join the Christian religion and then, and probably more importantly, offered them a stake in the land: toleration merged with prudence and self-interest ensured Guthrum was no longer a threat. Indeed, Machiavelli warned that killing an opponent’s family is likely to raise their ire but taking away their land is guaranteed to continue the fight over generations. It may be reasonably held that the aggressors deserve punishment of some sort, although Alfred’s example highlights an alternative view of dealing with an enemy, one that reminds the theorist that peace not further war remains the goal. But what if the defeated aggressors are guilty of atrocities, surely they should be made to stand trial to send a signal to other “war criminals” as well as to punish them for their own misdeeds? Here we enter the debates regarding punishment: does punishing a violator make any sense except to exact either retribution, revenge, or to promote a deterrence? Can the victors be sure of their claim to punish the aggressors and what good could possibly flow from bringing more violence or enslavement to the world? In asserting the need to find universalisable principles, the just war theorist is usually keen to insist that any war crimes trials are held in neutral states and presided over by neutral parties, rather than the victors whose partiality in proceedings must be presumed: after all, in the Nuremberg and Tokyo trials, no allied generals or politicians were held accountable for the atrocities created by bombing civilian centers in Germany and Japan and the dropping of nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The end game and hence the jus post bellum certainly merit attention before the battles are lost or won: what should be the ruling affairs once the peace is proclaimed? Should the terms of war’s end be elaborated and publicly pronounced as to ensure all parties are aware of the costs of defeat? Is it right that an army should demand unconditional surrender, for instance, when such a policy may entail a protracted war for no incentive is given to the other side to surrender; on the other hand, unconditional surrender implies a derogatory view of the enemy as one not to be respected either in or after war. Yet if an unconditional surrender policy does suitably raise the stakes of fighting war it may act as a sufficient deterrent against possible aggressors or act as a useful diplomatic tool to bring a worried enemy back to peaceful overtures. Similarly, is it right that an army should demand reparations in advance rather than leave them undisclosed and thereby risk the uncertainty of punishment creating a backlash from the defeated, who may not wish to be so subjected? To keep the expected conditions of war’s end secretive does not seem a wise move in that uncertainty generates fear, and fear can generate a harder campaign than otherwise would be necessary; but if the publicized conditions appear onerous to the enemy, then they have good reasons to prolong and/or intensify their own fight. Of course, if promises of an amnesty or fair treatment of prisoners is reneged on by the victor, then all trust for future arrangements is lost and the consequences imply embedding hatreds and mistrust for generations.

Assume that victory is given, that the army has defeated its enemy on the battlefield so attention turns to the nature of the post bellum justice of dealing with the defeated regardless of its intentions beforehand. Arguably, the very nature of the warring participants’ vision of each other and of themselves will color the proceedings both politically and morally. A victorious side, for instance, that sees itself as rightfully triumphant is more likely to impose its will and exactions upon the defeated in a more stringent manner in which a victorious side that sees itself as its enemy’s equal; but universality demands seeing one’s enemy as oneself and understanding not just the Realpolitik of state interests and state gains in victory but also the conventions of magnanimity and honor in victory (or defeat).

Consider the demands for reparations. A defeated aggressor may just be asked to pay for the damage incurred by the war (as justice demands of criminals that they pay for their crimes). But to what extent should the reparations extend? Should there be demands for retribution and deterrence added in, so that those deemed responsible for their aggression should be put on trial and suitably punished (and what would “suitable” mean in this instance – that Saddam Hussein stand trial for his invasion of Kuwait implies that George W Bush similarly stand trial for his invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq?). In forming the conditions of defeat, should neutral third parties be turned to so as to avoid later accusations of “victor’s justice” and the partiality that such justice can invoke or imply, or does victory present the victor with the ultimate moral wreath to justify whatever demands seen appropriate or fitting?

Should a war be indecisive though, the character of the peace would presumably be formed by the character of the ceasefire – namely, the cessation of fighting would imply a mere hiatus in which the belligerents regain the time and resources to stock their defenses and prepare for further fighting. As such, a ceasefire would be merely a respite for the military to regain its strengths. However, just war theory also acts to remind contenders that war is a last resort and that its essential aim is always peace, so if peace is forthcoming in any guise, it is morally critical for all parties to seek a return to a permanent peace rather than a momentary lapse of war.

5. Conclusion

This article has described the main tenets of the just war theory, as well as some of the problems that it entails. The theory bridges theoretical and applied ethics, since it demands an adherence, or at least a consideration of meta-ethical conditions and models, as well as prompting concern for the practicalities of war. A few of those practicalities have been mentioned here. Other areas of interest are: hostages, innocent threats, international blockades, sieges, the use of weapons of mass destruction or of anti-personnel weapons (for example, land mines), and the morality and practicalities of interventionism.

6. References and Further Reading

  • Anscombe, Elizabeth. (1981) “War and Murder”. In Ethics, Religion, and Politics. University of Minnesota Press. pp. 51-71.
  • Aquinas, St Thomas. (1988). Politics and Ethics. Norton.
  • Augustine, St. (1984). City of God. Penguin.
  • Belfield, Richard (2005). Assassination: The Killers and their Paymasters Revealed. Magpie Books.
  • Burke, Edmund (1986). Reflections on the Revolution in France. Penguin.
  • Dockrill, Michael and Barrie Paskins (1979). The Ethics of War.
  • Hobbes, Thomas (1988). Leviathan. Penguin.
  • Jokic Alexsander, and Anthony Ellis eds. (2001), War Crimes and Collective Wrongdoing. WileyBlackwell.
  • Locke, John (1963). Two Treatises of Government. Cambridge University Press.
  • Machiavelli, Nicolo (1988). The Prince. Cambridge University Press.
  • Minear, Richard (1971). Victor’s Justice: The Tokyo War Crimes Trial. Princeton.
  • Moseley, Alexander and Richard Norman, eds. (2001) Human Rights and Military Intervention. Ashgate.
  • Moseley, Alexander (2006). An Introduction to Political Philosophy. Continuum.
  • Nagel, Thomas (1972). “War and Massacre.” Philosophy and Public Affairs . Vol. 1, pp. 123-44.
  • Norman, Richard (1995). Ethics, Killing, and War.
  • Orend, Brian (2001). War and International Justice. Wilfrid Laurier Press.
  • Orend, Brian (2006). The Morality of War. Broadview.
  • Robertson, Geoffrey (1999). Crimes Against Humanity.
  • Robinson, Paul ed., (2003) Just War in a Comparative Perspective. Ashgate.
  • Robinson, Paul. (2006). Military Honour and the Conduct of War. Routledge.
  • Thucydides (1974). History of the Peloponnesian War. Penguin.
  • Tolstoy, Leo (1992). War and Peace. Everyman.
  • Walzer, Michael (1978). Just and Unjust Wars. Basic Books.

Author Information

Alexander Moseley
Email: alexandermoseley@icloud.com
United Kingdom

Benedict de Spinoza: Political Philosophy

spinozaThe body of Benedict de Spinoza’s writings on political philosophy in the 17th century should be seen as a paradigmatic species of European Enlightenment Philosophy. Spinoza rejected the teleological account of human nature and its implications to political societies in favor of rational, scientific understanding with its contractual implications. Hence, political societies to Spinoza are not natural organisms but artificial entities “designed” and “manufactured” by human beings for certain ends. Such designs are, however, constrained by an understanding of human nature. It is, indeed, Spinoza’s conception of human nature that forms the foundation for his political philosophy.One of the aims of Spinoza’s political writings is to demonstrate that, given the central role played by emotions in human motivations, political authority is a necessary evil. Human beings, as they are, are not the kind of beings capable of surviving without it. In addition, Spinoza does not think that politics are good for much more besides keeping us from chaos, murder, anarchy. In this, he is in agreement with Thomas Hobbes. On the other hand, if Spinoza affirms security as the fundamental political value, as will be argued, he does not necessarily think that such a value is consistent only with a certain form of government. In this he differs from Hobbes.

It is only once we understand Spinoza’s picture of what human beings are like, particularly the source of their motivations, that we are in a position to derive the ends of political societies, which in turn leads us to explain the sources and justification of political authority, and why Spinoza is ultimately non-committal as to the kind of political form best embodying the endorsed fundamental political values.

Table of Contents

  1. Human Nature
    1. Interpretation of the Conatus Principle
    2. Ethical Egoism and the Salience of Passions
  2. The Necessity for Political Authority: State of Nature
    1. Objective Account
    2. Psychological Account
  3. The Transition from State of Nature to Political Authority: The Social Contract
    1. Civil vs. Natural Rights in Locke
    2. Civil vs. Natural Rights in Spinoza
    3. Transfer of Powers or Abilities
  4. Obligations
    1. Citizens
    2. Sovereign
  5. The Purpose and Preferred Form of Political Authority
  6. Conclusion
  7. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Human Nature

Spinoza’s political philosophy proceeds from the idea, also found in Hobbes, that political ends, or goals, should be derived from understanding human nature such as it is, and not as it should or could be. This fundamental starting point can be contrasted with a utopian tradition of political philosophy emblematic, for example, in Plato’s Republic and the early writings of Karl Marx. While utopian political philosophers argue that correct political institutions can transform human nature into something more desirable or virtuous than its current state, Spinoza instead commences with a contrarian conviction, by and large rejecting such a possibility. This conviction proceeds from Spinoza’s interpretation of human nature.

a. Interpretation of the Conatus Principle

Human nature, according to Spinoza, must be studied and understood just like the nature of any other organism in the universe, in the following sense; human beings are subsumed in nature along with all other natural organisms and cannot thus transcend, and are therefore subject to, natural laws. This includes our nature as physiological beings and as psychological and cognitive beings. Furthermore, the laws of nature are to be understood, according to Spinoza, in a non-teleological fashion. Nature/God does not act with an end in view; hence, human nature cannot be derived from any such purposes. Instead, the most fundamental principle guiding all organisms, and therefore also human beings is what Spinoza calls the Conatus Principle:

Each thing, as far as it can by its own power, strives to persevere in being. (E:III:P6)

While it is not immediately obvious how Spinoza intends to support this principle when it comes to the kinds of organisms called human beings—particularly in the context of political philosophy—it later becomes clear that the principle, in its current and descriptive, form, is intended epistemologically as an a priori analytic proposition, or a necessary truth:

Since reason demands nothing contrary to Nature, it demands that everyone love himself, seek his own advantage, what is really useful to him, want what will really lead a man to greater perfection, and absolutely, that everyone should strive to preserve his own being as far as he can. This, indeed, is as necessarily true as that the whole is greater than its part. (E: IV:P18S)

Hence, the Conatus principle, when applied in the context of human beings, appears to describe human beings as egoistic beings. This, as stated, is intended as a truth not based upon empirical observation or self-reflection, but put forth as a necessary truth—a truth as necessary as the truth that the whole is greater than its part. According to the descriptive interpretation of the principle (E:III:P6), we are necessarily egoistic creatures. However, the quoted passage from (E:IV:P18S) also gives credence to a prescriptive understanding of the Conatus principle, for Spinoza says that “everyone should strive to preserve his own being as far as he can.” On this reading, we should always act according to our self-interest. This position is known as ethical egoism since it urges us to be egoists rather than describing us as already being egoists.

Now, if both of these interpretations of the Conatus Principle are plausible, then we need an answer to the following question: If the descriptive interpretation tells us that we are necessarily actuated by the Principle, then why bother prescribing this action as desirable? That is, if we already necessarily act in accordance with the descriptive version of the Conatus Principle, then why are we also urged to act this way? Urging us to do something we already necessarily do is surely redundant.

One way out of this dilemma might be to say that the prescriptive version of the Conatus Principle is necessary because we do not, in fact, in all circumstances, act in accordance with our self-interest. Because we do not do so, Spinoza is urging us to do so. This interpretation would certainly be in agreement with the empirical reality of human motivations. We certainly do not always act in ways that are conducive to the sustenance and enhancement of our being. Self-sacrificing behavior, such as sacrificing one’s life for one’s family, friend, or nation is all too familiar. Surely Spinoza was aware of such actions. But if this is true, then why advance the descriptive version of the Conatus Principle at all? After all, if it can be refuted through empirical counterexamples, then isn’t this enough to show that this version of the principle is simply false? But Spinoza does not, as we have seen, advance the principle as an a posteriori truth, but as an a priori truth. Hence offering empirical counterexamples appears to be beside the point, and offering this way out of the dilemma will thus not do. But if it is indeed true, that we do not always act in accordance with our self-interest, then just what is the force and the meaning of the a priori descriptive version of the Conatus principle?

Perhaps the solution is to say that the prescriptive version of the Conatus principle is intended to us human beings as empirical, affective beings while the descriptive version of the principle is intended for what humanity could look like, if ideally rational. So, on this reading, Spinoza is urging us to act according to the dictates of ethical egoism since we, as empirical beings primarily motivated by our desires, sometimes fail to do so. This does not change the fact that we do act according to the principles of self-interest more often than not; it simply means that we do not always know what is in our best interest—since we are not ideally rational.

If this is plausible, then the descriptive version of the principle could indeed be interpreted as a metaphysical truth necessarily true for ideal humans, and not as a psychological truth. Fully rational individuals will never fail to seek whatever aids or enhances their being. But this would not be the case for beings like us, who need to be exhorted into self-interested behavior. If this is correct, the descriptive version of the principle describes human beings in their ideal state while the prescriptive version of the principle is designed for humans in their current state. Therefore, it is the prescriptive version of the Conatus Principle that is mainly of importance for the purposes of political philosophy.

b. Ethical Egoism and the Salience of Passions

If the prescriptive interpretation of the Conatus Principle is correct for all imperfect human beings, then Spinoza is pressing us to act in accordance with our best interests. This is not, however, tantamount to telling us to act selfishly or to see ourselves as individualistic, non-social beings. In fact, it is Spinoza’s thesis that acting in a selfish or individualistic manner is not in our best interest and hence a violation of the dictates of the Conatus Principle. And the reason why humans do not see what is in their best interests is due to the centrality of passions in their very being:

But human nature is framed in a different fashion: every one, indeed, seeks his own interest, but does not do so in accordance with the dictates of sound reason, for most men’s ideas of desirability and usefulness are guided by their fleshly instincts and emotions, which take no thought beyond the present and immediate object. (TP: V:72-73)

On the other hand, acting according to the Conatus Principle—and hence in one’s best interest–is to act in accordance with the dictates of sound reason. And to act in accordance with the dictates of sound reason is to realize the impossibility of persevering in one’s being without mutual assistance. Providing mutual assistance is in the best interest of human beings. Indeed, Spinoza argues that it is necessary for even providing the basic needs for survival (TP:V:73). Spinoza wants us to act in accordance with the principle of ethical egoism while arguing that it is precisely this that we are not capable of doing because of our “fleshy instincts and emotions” which run fundamentally counter to the social dictates of reason.

The anti-social nature of our passions is also an inevitable source of conflict:

In so far as men are tormented by anger, envy, or any passion implying hatred, they are drawn asunder and made contrary one to another, and therefore are so much the more to be feared, as they are more powerful, crafty, and cunning than the other animals. And because men are in the highest degree liable to these passions, therefore men are naturally enemies. (PT: II: 296)

This emphasis on the passions as the cause for conflict implies that ideally, if guided by full reason, human beings might be capable of avoiding conflict. Again, to act fully in accordance with the dictates of reason is to avoid conflict as was demonstrated above. Conflict does not enhance one’s being; quite to the contrary—it can annihilate one’s being. So, the emphasis on Spinoza’s ethical egoism is on the “ethical” since such behavior, instead of resulting in conflict, would embrace the social values of stability and harmony.

2. The Necessity for Political Authority: State of Nature

a. Objective Account

Spinoza’s description of human beings as “natural enemies,” and the consequent inevitability of conflict is an account of the human condition in a state of nature. This is mostly a non-historical, “conceptual device” used to depict the human condition in the absence of political authority. While Spinoza’s use of it is unsystematic compared to Hobbes and Locke, he nevertheless presumes something like it, and argues, along with Hobbes and Locke, that political authority is necessary for the survival of human societies: “[n]o society can exist without government, and force, and laws to restrain and repress men’s desires and immoderate impulses.” (TP:V: 74). Again, it is our affective nature that gets us into trouble. Since human beings are motivated by their self-interested desires for which they seek immediate gratification, they cannot exist without government. Thus, Spinoza rejects the possibility of anarchism for human beings primarily motivated by their desires as we have seen, this is not necessarily the case for fully rational beings).

Spinoza’s account here closely resembles that of Hobbes who similarly argued that human life without political authority would be undesirable due to the nature of human desires. Famously, such a life would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” (Leviathan: I: xiii, p. 76). Spinoza also significantly agrees with Hobbes that it is the individual who decides what is in his or her best interest in a given situation and can hence procure his or her interests by force, cunning, entreaty or any other means (TP: XVI: 202).

b. Psychological Account

Third-person explanations of why political authority would be necessary for creatures like us has not yet to offer a first-person explanation, from the point of view of the very individuals in state of nature, of why they would actually prefer living under conditions of political authority rather than under the conditions of anarchy. Spinoza’s explanation of this proceeds from what he regards as self-evident, axiomatic laws of human psychology.

Spinoza argues that no one ever neglects what he regards as good, except with the hope of gaining something even better, or for the fear of some greater evil; and no one ever endures and evil, except for the sake of even greater evil, or gaining something good (TP: XVI: 203). The corollary of this is that all of us, given a choice of two goods, choose the one we think is the greatest and, given a choice of two evils, choose the least evil. When we combine this axiom with the Conatus Principle, we can see that we determine what is good and what is evil for us by judging what is most or least conducive to our survival.

Now, Spinoza argues, based upon this psychological axiom, that we would forsake the state of nature in favor of some form of political authority, because we would judge the situation under political authority to be a greater good (or a lesser evil) than the state of nature. But why would we judge the affair this way? Why not favor the state of nature over political authority? While Spinoza is not explicit regarding this matter, he nevertheless alludes to the fact that it is worse—again, from the point of view of our survival—to be at the mercy of innumerable individuals than at the mercy of one single entity: the state (TP: XVI: 202-3). Admittedly, this seems far from obvious as Locke argued later, but Spinoza might defend this conclusion on the grounds that dispersion of potential evil is more difficult to countenance than a concentration of potential evil. At least, in this way, while one may not necessarily be able to do anything about it, one can at least know where the potential evil is coming from.

3. The Transition from State of Nature to Political Authority: The Social Contract

It is clear, from the foregoing, that Spinoza’s rejection of anarchy is based upon the conjunction of the Conatus Principle and his psychological axiom. It is also clear that political authority for Spinoza is not something intrinsically good or desirable, but a necessary evil. It is the least evil choice of two evils. By utilizing the “state of nature” device, Spinoza is also implicitly conceding that the state is not a natural organism but an artificial entity “designed” and “manufactured” by human beings. While these considerations answer the ontological status of the state and why political authority is necessary at all, it is still necessary to see what Spinoza’s view is on the transfer of power from the state-of-nature-individuals to the state. Here it is perhaps useful to illuminate Spinoza’s position by briefly contrasting it to another social contract theorist, John Locke.

a. Civil vs. Natural Rights in Locke

Locke held that the state of nature was conditioned by what he called “law of nature” and that these natural laws could be discovered by reason. Two of the most important natural laws for our comparative purposes, mentioned by Locke, were (a) that no one ought to harm another in his or her life, health, liberty, or possessions; and (b) that should such violations occur, everyone had the right to punish the transgressor(s). The first of these laws indicate that human beings in state of nature possess rights to life, health, liberty, and possessions, and that it is wrong to violate such rights. So, while the state of nature for Locke is non-political, it is far from being non-moral: moral terms and actions are applicable in the non-political, state-of-nature realm. Now, while human beings can and do sometimes act morally in the state of nature, Locke also recognizes that often this will not be the case, and because of this, the survival of the individual is much more likely under a political authority which would possess a monopoly on punishment. So, according to Locke, humans still retain their rights to life, health, liberty, and possessions (this is collective called “property” in Locke’s theory) in the political realm. Such natural rights are now expressed through the form of civil rights in positive law. So, the distinction between natural and civil rights in Locke is derived from the distinction between natural law and positive law. Furthermore, it is clear that Locke regards such rights as moral constraints on the political realm; there are natural moral limits to what the state can do.

In contrast to our retention of the natural rights to property expressed through civil laws, we do not retain our right to punish the transgressors of property rights according to Locke. Instead, it is precisely our abrogation of the right to punish which is transferred to a state that makes the political realm possible.

b. Civil vs. Natural Rights in Spinoza

Unlike Locke, Spinoza makes no distinction between natural law and civil law, nor the corollary derivatives of natural rights and civil rights. Spinoza undermines such distinctions by arguing that “right” is simply synonymous with any agent’s “power” or “ability.” So, for Spinoza, to say that someone has a natural right to life, liberty, health, and possessions, is just to say that someone has a power to preserve their life, liberty, health, and possessions—to the best of their ability. In other words, our “right” to self-preservation is coextensive with our “power” or with our “ability” for self-preservation; “…the rights of an individual extend to the utmost limits of its power as it has been conditioned [by nature].” (TP: XVI: 200)

Denying such a distinction already foreshadows Spinoza’s refusal to regard the state of nature in Lockean terms, as a non-political but moral sphere. Instead, Spinoza is insistent that the state of nature is both a non-political and a non-moral sphere; “The state of nature…must be conceived as without either religion or law, and consequently without sin or wrong” (TP: XVI: 210). So, moral terms proper, such as “right,” “wrong,” “just,” and “unjust” are inconceivable in the state of nature. It is not just that there are no limits to what we can do to one another in state of nature; it is also the case that ordinary moral terms do not possess any meaning. Hence, it follows from that that “the right and ordinance of nature, under which all men are born, and under which they mostly live, only prohibits such things as no one desires, and no one can attain: it does not forbid strife, nor hatred, nor anger, nor deceit, nor indeed, any of the means suggested by desire…” (TP: XVI: 202).

To use Spinoza’s parlance, everyone has a “right” to act deceitfully, angrily, discordantly, violently, etc. towards others, or in general, in whatever manner they see fit as long as they are able to do so; their rights are only limited by their ability. As such, the only things we do not have a “right” to in the state of nature are things that none of us wants anyway, or things that are impossible for us to attain.

c. Transfer of Powers or Abilities

Although Spinoza would agree with Locke that the reasons for forsaking the state of nature comes from potentially enhanced capacities for self-preservation under political authority, it is less clear how Spinoza accounts for this transition. At first blush, it looks as if Spinoza is simply offering a story very similar to Locke’s: the political realm is made possible by the transference of our natural rights to punish. In this case, the use of force would belong solely to the state, just as it does in Locke’s account. However, as explained earlier, this right is conceived by Spinoza in manner very different from that of Locke. For while Locke thinks that the right to punish the transgressor of one’s rights is a natural, moral right, having nothing necessarily to do with whether one in fact is capable of punishing or not, in Spinoza’s conceptual apparatus this right is, once again, synonymous with one’s power or ability to punish the transgressor. One only has the “right” to the extent that one possesses the power. In other words, no ability or capacity, no “right.” Due to Spinoza’s identification of “right” and “power,” the transition from the non-political and the non-moral-state-of-nature to the political and moral sphere of the state does not appear to take place through the abrogation of our “right” to punish, as it does in Locke. Rather, if the interpretation is correct, Spinoza is committed to the position that, instead of our natural moral rights, we are in fact transferring our powers or capacities.

But there is a sense in which this is hardly intelligible. For one can argue that “powers” or “abilities” or “capacities” are not the kinds of things that is possible to transfer. One’s capacity to walk, for example, cannot be transferred to another in the sense that once the transfer has taken place, the agent having transferred the capacity no longer is able to walk while the agent having received the capacity now is able to walk. One can only lose one’s capacity (for example, when one is dead) but not transfer it. The same considerations are applicable to one’s capacity to defend oneself: one can lose that capacity but not transfer it. So, Spinoza’s identification of “right” with one’s power or ability does not seem to allow him to make the concept of transferring this “right” intelligible.

A distinction between “power” and the “use-of-power” is necessary. With such a distinction, Spinoza could make the transition from state of nature to a political sphere more plausible since he could now concede that while one cannot indeed transfer “powers” or “capacities,” one can nevertheless transfer one’s use of those powers and capacities. On this interpretation, the Lockean rights to life, liberty, health, and possession, would be understood by Spinoza not as one’s ability to defend or enhance one’s rights, liberties, health, and possessions, but instead as the actual use of that ability.

4. Obligations

The notion of obligations in Spinoza is relevant only in the political realm, not in the state of nature since, as we have seen, the state of nature for Spinoza is not only a nonpolitical but also a non-moral realm. The orthodox story about obligations tells us they are customarily derived from either voluntary agreements or someone having certain rights. Thus, if two parties voluntary agree to a contract, e.g. marriage, then the two parties incur obligations stipulated in the contract; or, for example, if someone has a right to free speech, then it is everybody’s obligation not to interfere with that someone’s right. That is the traditional story. But since Spinoza has argued that rights are synonymous with power, his story about obligations is anything but traditional. We shall take a look at obligations with respect to the relation between citizens and the sovereign.

a. Citizens

Spinoza stated that all contracts or promises derive their obligations from utility. Utility or disutility of a contract, in turn, is decided by the application of the aforementioned psychological axiom which tells us that no one ever neglects what he regards as good, except with the hope of gaining something even better, or for the fear of some greater evil; and no one ever endures and evil, except for the sake of even greater evil, or gaining something good. According to Spinoza, we have an obligation to fulfill a contract only if the violation of the contract would not gain us something better, or if the violation of the contract would result in a greater evil. If either or both conditions hold, then we a “right” to violate the contract (TP:XVI:203-205). The implication of such an analysis is, at the very least, that all contracts are revocable at any time, subject to the kind of analysis stated.

Now, with respect to the specific contract in question here, the contract to transfer our use of power to a given political authority, the implication is clear: the citizen’s “obligation” to obey the authority is also contingent on the psychological axiom. “It is…foolish to ask a man to keep his faith with us forever, unless we also endeavour that the violation of the compact we enter into shall involve for the violator more harm than good” (TP:XVI:204). Spinoza, then, offers a decisive “right” to rebellion for citizens.

Spinoza’s equation of “right” to power also has implications to the issue of citizens’ obligations. If the “right” of the sovereign is also coextensive to its power, then it would seem to follow that the citizens’ obligations extend only so far as the power of the sovereign. One is “obligated” to obey the sovereign only if one does not have the power to disobey it.

b. Sovereign

Presumably the obligations and the rights of the sovereign (there is here no presupposition as to the preferred form of government—that topic is discussed later—so that by “sovereign” one could mean a democracy, monarchy, oligarchy, etc.) is subject to similar analysis as the obligations and rights of the citizens. Since the citizens’ “rights” are coextensive with their power, the sovereign’s “obligations” to the citizens are limited only by the power of both parties. On the other hand, the sovereign’s “rights” are also only limited by the powers of the respective parties. Hence, the sovereign has the right to do whatever it wants, and wherever it meets the counterforce of the citizens, there lay its obligations. Furthermore, Spinoza is also clear that the sovereign’s power is not limited by laws, but only by its intellectual and physical abilities. There are no constitutional limitations to the sovereign’s actions.

Needless to say, these are devastating implications from the point of view of individual freedom, but Spinoza is quick to point out that both the citizens and the sovereign are constrained by the Conatus Principle as well. Therefore, a sovereign concerned to advance its being will rarely impose “irrational” commands toward the citizens, because…”they are bound to consult their own interests, and retain their power by consulting the public good and acting according to the dictates of reason…(TP:XVI:205). Presumably, similar things can be asserted about the citizenry, given the caveat that they also act in accordance with the dictates of reason. However, the problem with this sort of argument is that we have already seen Spinoza’s reservations regarding the ability of humans to act in accordance with the dictates of reason, and even if this was plausible, the force of Spinoza’s argument here is purely speculative. In other words, Spinoza is not making a principled point but arguing, instead, that the kinds of irrational commands (perhaps “tyrannical” would be better) would not likely occur since the sovereign will act in accordance with his or her best interests. But this sort of argument can surely only be assessed through empirical means by consulting the available historical record regarding the purported rationality of sovereigns’ behavior, and such a record has not been kind to Spinoza’s speculative point.

These kinds of considerations demonstrate, among other things, Spinoza’s unorthodox and perhaps incoherent use of the concepts like “rights,” “obligations,” and even “contract.” After all, what exactly does the social contract that Spinoza employs accomplish since its force does not come from the contract itself but rather from the kind of cost-benefit analysis carried out by the psychological axiom? What exactly would be lost from Spinoza’s political philosophy if the notion of contract and its correlative notions were simply omitted?

5. The Purpose and Preferred Form of Political Authority

Explaining Spinoza’s political philosophy has so far concentrated on his view of the relevant features of human psychology to political theory. Humans are creatures driven by passions and desires for survival that will always be characterized by hope for something better and fear for something worse. Hence, as has been explained, none of us ever neglects what he regards as good, except with the hope of gaining something even better, or for the fear of some greater evil; and none of us ever endures an evil, except for the sake of even greater evil, or gaining something good (TP: XVI: 203). Because of these fundamental features of human psychology, we would judge the state of nature to be a greater evil, or as something worse, than living under political authority. But what exactly does the political realm offer us that we cannot enjoy without it? What is the purpose of the political realm?

One answer to this question can be gathered from the account so far. We enter into the political realm in order to secure/enhance our existence better than we could without it—given the central role of passions in our nature. This is no less than a Hobbesian answer; the purpose of the political realm is escaping perpetual war in order to secure our lives and material possessions. Spinoza confirms this view: “…for the ends of every social organization and commonwealth are…security and comfort” (TP: III: 47). To reiterate, a good society is one which will be “most secure, most stable, and least liable to reverses…” (TP: III: 46). Spinoza appears to assert security as the fundamental political value. Such an affirmation can be contrasted, on the one hand, with political thinkers like Plato, Aristotle, and Hegel, all of whom saw the realm of politics as essential to the moral realization of the individual and, on the other hand, with thinkers like Locke and Kant who emphasized the instrumental nature of the state in guaranteeing individual freedom.

In spite of these explicit pronouncements on behalf of security by Spinoza, the issue of the purpose of political authority remains controversial in Spinoza scholarship. There are many commentators who do not interpret Spinoza as a Hobbesian with respect to the ends of political authority, but instead read him either as an advocate of individual freedom or moral perfection, or perhaps as both. One of the common threads to all of these accounts is Spinoza’s alleged preference for democracy as a political form. It is argued that because Spinoza advocates democracy and the democratic political rule is most conducive to freedom or perhaps virtue, that Spinoza is therefore affirming either freedom or virtue as the fundamental political value.

There is some textual as well as inferential evidence for such views. For example, Spinoza explicitly announces democracy as the most consonant with individual liberty; “I think I have now shown sufficiently clearly the basis of a democracy: I have especially desired to do so, for I believe it to be of all forms of government the most natural, and the most consonant with individual liberty” (TP: XVI: 207). Also, because Spinoza sees only de facto human beings as motivated by their passions and self-interested desires, and claims that human beings are potentially capable of being guided by reason which dictates cooperative behavior, perhaps it is the role of politics to nudge us from the irrational, passionate creatures to rational creatures by inculcation of virtue. Either way, the argument goes, security for Spinoza is only an instrumental value, or a necessary condition for the true political ends of individual freedom or virtue.

However, while commenting on the absolute obligation to obey existing laws, Spinoza entertains an objection that his philosophy is turning subjects into slaves which sheds light to the controversy at hand. Spinoza rejects the objection as unfounded because real—or true—freedom is not freedom from the laws of the sovereign, no matter how oppressive such laws might be, but real freedom is to live “under the entire guidance of reason” (TP: XVI: 206). Indeed, Spinoza claims that freedom is specifically a private, not a political virtue while “…the virtue of the state is its security” (PT: I: 290).

But to live under the entire guidance of reason is, at least minimally, to control one’s unruly passions, whatever else it may also be. However, if this is the case, then the pressing political question must be to ask, what political form, if any, is best for achieving this kind of liberation? And the suggestion here is that there is no obvious answer to this question. One might, for example, think that an authoritarian regime might be able to restrain humans’ irrational desires more effectively than a democratic one. Or, alternatively, one might think that no political regime of any kind is necessary or sufficient for this kind of realization. So, one cannot easily claim that because Spinoza is an advocate of democracy, he is thereby accepting freedom or virtue as the fundamental political end.

There is also textual evidence for the view that Spinoza does not reject other forms of government in favor of democracy. One of the central aims of A Political Treatise is precisely to demonstrate how different forms of governments can meet the fundamental political value of stability. For example, Spinoza explains that, historically, monarchies have enjoyed the most stability of any form of government (PT: VI:317), and that their potential instability results from the divergent interests between the sovereign and the citizens. In light of this, Spinoza advises the sovereign to act in his or her own interests which is to act in the interests of the citizensIn the case of aristocracy, instability is said to result from inequality of political power among the ruling aristocrats, the remedy for which consists of equalizing such power as far as possible. Spinoza’s considered thoughts on the stability of democracy were interrupted by his untimely death, but while he thought it most consistent with freedom, he nevertheless regarded it as the most unstable of all political forms. Indeed, Spinoza comments that democracies naturally evolve into aristocracies, and aristocracies naturally evolve into monarchies. At least on one understanding of “natural,” democracies may be interpreted as less natural than aristocracies and monarchies (PT: VIII: 351).

If stability, as has been argued, is the fundamental political value for Spinoza, then many forms of government are consistent with it, and monarchies and aristocracies appear more stable than democracies.

6. Conclusion

Spinoza’s political philosophy is a logical extension of his view of human nature. To understand ends, sources, and justification of political authority, one does well to begin with the Conatus Principle and the associated psychological axioms employed by Spinoza. The source of problems for Spinoza’s political theory, specifically the moral notions of “contract,” “rights,” and “obligations” can also be traced to his view of human nature. But what needs to be adjusted? Are the problems in the political theory an indication that Spinoza’s view of human nature needs to amended, or is his view of humanity unassailable and the problems in political theory simply a part of the package?

7. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Hobbes, Thomas, Leviathan, ed. Edwin Curley, Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994.
  • Locke, John, Second Treatise of Government, ed. C.B. Macpherson, Indianapolis: Hackett, 1980.
  • Spinoza, Benedict de, A Theologico-Political Treatise and A Political Treatise, trans. R.H.M. Elwes, New York: Dover, 1951.
    • The references to the first work cited in the text as TP, chapter, page. References to the second work cited as PT, chapter, page.
  • Spinoza, Benedict de, Ethics, trans. R.H.M Elwes, New York: Dover, 1955.
    • All references to this work cited in the text as E, part, proposition.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Feuer, Lewis Samuel, Spinoza and the Rise of Liberalism, New Brunswick: Transaction Books, 1958.
  • McShea, Robert J, The Political Philosophy of Spinoza, New York: Columbia University, 1968.
  • Negri, Antonio, The Savage Anomaly: The Power of Spinoza’s Methaphysics and Politics, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1991.
  • Rosen, Stanley, “Benedict Spinoza” in History of Political Philosophy, eds. Leo Strauss, Robert Cropsey, Chicago: University of Chicago, 1987.

Author Information

Jari Niemi
Email: Jniemi@fau.edu
Florida Atlantic University
U. S. A.

Jeremy Bentham (1748—1832)

benthamJeremy Bentham was an English philosopher and political radical. He is primarily known today for his moral philosophy, especially his principle of utilitarianism, which evaluates actions based upon their consequences. The relevant consequences, in particular, are the overall happiness created for everyone affected by the action. Influenced by many enlightenment thinkers, especially empiricists such as John Locke and David Hume, Bentham developed an ethical theory grounded in a largely empiricist account of human nature. He famously held a hedonistic account of both motivation and value according to which what is fundamentally valuable and what ultimately motivates us is pleasure and pain. Happiness, according to Bentham, is thus a matter of experiencing pleasure and lack of pain.

Although he never practiced law, Bentham did write a great deal of philosophy of law, spending most of his life critiquing the existing law and strongly advocating legal reform. Throughout his work, he critiques various natural accounts of law which claim, for example, that liberty, rights, and so on exist independent of government. In this way, Bentham arguably developed an early form of what is now often called “legal positivism.” Beyond such critiques, he ultimately maintained that putting his moral theory into consistent practice would yield results in legal theory by providing justification for social, political, and legal institutions.

Bentham’s influence was minor during his life. But his impact was greater in later years as his ideas were carried on by followers such as John Stuart Mill, John Austin, and other consequentialists.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Method
  3. Human Nature
  4. Moral Philosophy
  5. Political Philosophy
    1. Law, Liberty and Government
    2. Rights
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Bentham’s Works
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Life

A leading theorist in Anglo-American philosophy of law and one of the founders of utilitarianism, Jeremy Bentham was born in Houndsditch, London on February 15, 1748. He was the son and grandson of attorneys, and his early family life was colored by a mix of pious superstition (on his mother’s side) and Enlightenment rationalism (from his father). Bentham lived during a time of major social, political and economic change. The Industrial Revolution (with the massive economic and social shifts that it brought in its wake), the rise of the middle class, and revolutions in France and America all were reflected in Bentham’s reflections on existing institutions. In 1760, Bentham entered Queen’s College, Oxford and, upon graduation in 1764, studied law at Lincoln’s Inn. Though qualified to practice law, he never did so. Instead, he devoted most of his life to writing on matters of legal reform—though, curiously, he made little effort to publish much of what he wrote.

Bentham spent his time in intense study, often writing some eight to twelve hours a day. While most of his best known work deals with theoretical questions in law, Bentham was an active polemicist and was engaged for some time in developing projects that proposed various practical ideas for the reform of social institutions. Although his work came to have an important influence on political philosophy, Bentham did not write any single text giving the essential principles of his views on this topic. His most important theoretical work is the Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation (1789), in which much of his moral theory—which he said reflected “the greatest happiness principle”—is described and developed.

In 1781, Bentham became associated with the Earl of Shelburne and, through him, came into contact with a number of the leading Whig politicians and lawyers. Although his work was admired by some at the time, Bentham’s ideas were still largely unappreciated. In 1785, he briefly joined his brother Samuel in Russia, where he pursued his writing with even more than his usual intensity, and he devised a plan for the now infamous “Panopticon”—a model prison where all prisoners would be observable by (unseen) guards at all times—a project which he had hoped would interest the Czarina Catherine the Great. After his return to England in 1788, and for some 20 years thereafter, Bentham pursued—fruitlessly and at great expense—the idea of the panopticon. Fortunately, an inheritance received in 1796 provided him with financial stability. By the late 1790s, Bentham’s theoretical work came to have a more significant place in political reform. Still, his influence was, arguably, still greater on the continent. (Bentham was made an honorary citizen of the fledgling French Republic in 1792, and his The Theory of Legislation was published first, in French, by his Swiss disciple, Etienne Dumont, in 1802.)

The precise extent of Bentham’s influence in British politics has been a matter of some debate. While he attacked both Tory and Whig policies, both the Reform Bill of 1832 (promoted by Bentham’s disciple, Lord Henry Brougham) and later reforms in the century (such as the secret ballot, advocated by Bentham’s friend, George Grote, who was elected to parliament in 1832) reflected Benthamite concerns. The impact of Bentham’s ideas goes further still. Contemporary philosophical and economic vocabulary (for example, “international,” “maximize,” “minimize,” and “codification”) is indebted to Bentham’s proclivity for inventing terms, and among his other disciples were James Mill and his son, John (who was responsible for an early edition of some of Bentham’s manuscripts), as well as the legal theorist, John Austin.

At his death in London, on June 6, 1832, Bentham left literally tens of thousands of manuscript pages—some of which was work only sketched out, but all of which he hoped would be prepared for publication. He also left a large estate, which was used to finance the newly-established University College, London (for those individuals excluded from university education—that is, non-conformists, Catholics and Jews), and his cadaver, per his instructions, was dissected, embalmed, dressed, and placed in a chair, and to this day resides in a cabinet in a corridor of the main building of University College. The Bentham Project, set up in the early 1960s at University College, has as its aim the publishing of a definitive, scholarly edition of Bentham’s works and correspondence.

2. Method

Influenced by the philosophes of the Enlightenment (such as Beccaria, Helvétius, Diderot, D’Alembert, and Voltaire) and also by Locke and Hume, Bentham’s work combined an empiricist approach with a rationalism that emphasized conceptual clarity and deductive argument. Locke’s influence was primarily as the author of the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, and Bentham saw in him a model of one who emphasized the importance of reason over custom and tradition and who insisted on precision in the use of terms. Hume’s influence was not so much on Bentham’s method as on his account of the underlying principles of psychological associationism and on his articulation of the principle of utility, which was then still often annexed to theological views.

Bentham’s analytical and empirical method is especially obvious when one looks at some of his main criticisms of the law and of moral and political discourse in general. His principal target was the presence of “fictions”—in particular, legal fictions. On his view, to consider any part or aspect of a thing in abstraction from that thing is to run the risk of confusion or to cause positive deceit. While, in some cases, such “fictional” terms as “relation,” “right,” “power,” and “possession” were of some use, in many cases their original warrant had been forgotten, so that they survived as the product of either prejudice or inattention. In those cases where the terms could be “cashed out” in terms of the properties of real things, they could continue to be used, but otherwise they were to be abandoned. Still, Bentham hoped to eliminate legal fictions as far as possible from the law, including the legal fiction that there was some original contract that explained why there was any law at all. He thought that, at the very least, clarifications and justifications could be given that avoided the use of such terms.

3. Human Nature

For Bentham, morals and legislation can be described scientifically, but such a description requires an account of human nature. Just as nature is explained through reference to the laws of physics, so human behavior can be explained by reference to the two primary motives of pleasure and pain; this is the theory of psychological hedonism.

There is, Bentham admits, no direct proof of such an analysis of human motivation—though he holds that it is clear that, in acting, all people implicitly refer to it. At the beginning of the Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, Bentham writes:

Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure. It is for them alone to point out what we ought to do, as well as to determine what we shall do. On the one hand the standard of right and wrong, on the other the chain of causes and effects, are fastened to their throne. They govern us in all we do, in all we say, in all we think: every effort we can make to throw off our subjection, will serve but to demonstrate and confirm it. (Ch. 1)

From this we see that, for Bentham, pleasure and pain serve not only as explanations for action, but they also define one’s good. It is, in short, on the basis of pleasures and pains, which can exist only in individuals, that Bentham thought one could construct a calculus of value.

Related to this fundamental hedonism is a view of the individual as exhibiting a natural, rational self-interest—a form of psychological egoism. In his “Remarks on Bentham’s Philosophy” (1833), Mill cites Bentham’s The Book of Fallacies (London: Hunt, 1824, pp. 392-3) that “[i]n every human breast… self-regarding interest is predominant over social interest; each person’s own individual interest over the interests of all other persons taken together.” Fundamental to the nature and activity of individuals, then, is their own well-being, and reason—as a natural capability of the person—is considered to be subservient to this end.

Bentham believed that the nature of the human person can be adequately described without mention of social relationships. To begin with, the idea of “relation” is but a “fictitious entity,” though necessary for “convenience of discourse.” And, more specifically, he remarks that “the community is a fictitious body,” and it is but “the sum of the interests of the several members who compose it.” Thus, the extension of the term “individual” is, in the main, no greater and no less than the biological entity. Bentham’s view, then, is that the individual—the basic unit of the social sphere—is an “atom” and there is no “self” or “individual” greater than the human individual. A person’s relations with others—even if important—are not essential and describe nothing that is, strictly speaking, necessary to its being what it is.

Finally, the picture of the human person presented by Bentham is based on a psychological associationism indebted to David Hartley and Hume; Bentham’s analysis of “habit” (which is essential to his understanding of society and especially political society) particularly reflects associationist presuppositions. On this view, pleasure and pain are objective states and can be measured in terms of their intensity, duration, certainty, proximity, fecundity and purity. This allows both for an objective determination of an activity or state and for a comparison with others.

Bentham’s understanding of human nature reveals, in short, a psychological, ontological, and also moral individualism where, to extend the critique of utilitarianism made by Graeme Duncan and John Gray (1979), “the individual human being is conceived as the source of values and as himself the supreme value.”

4. Moral Philosophy

As Elie Halévy (1904) notes, there are three principal characteristics of which constitute the basis of Bentham’s moral and political philosophy: (i) the greatest happiness principle, (ii) universal egoism and (iii) the artificial identification of one’s interests with those of others. Though these characteristics are present throughout his work, they are particularly evident in the Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, where Bentham is concerned with articulating rational principles that would provide a basis and guide for legal, social and moral reform.

To begin with, Bentham’s moral philosophy reflects what he calls at different times “the greatest happiness principle” or “the principle of utility”—a term which he borrows from Hume. In adverting to this principle, however, he was not referring to just the usefulness of things or actions, but to the extent to which these things or actions promote the general happiness. Specifically, then, what is morally obligatory is that which produces the greatest amount of happiness for the greatest number of people, happiness being determined by reference to the presence of pleasure and the absence of pain. Thus, Bentham writes, “By the principle of utility is meant that principle which approves or disapproves of every action whatsoever, according to the tendency which it appears to have to augment or diminish the happiness of the party whose interest is in question: or, what is the same thing in other words, to promote or to oppose that happiness.” And Bentham emphasizes that this applies to “every action whatsoever” (Ch. 1). That which does not maximize the greatest happiness (such as an act of pure ascetic sacrifice) is, therefore, morally wrong. (Unlike some of the previous attempts at articulating a universal hedonism, Bentham’s approach is thoroughly naturalistic.)

Bentham’s moral philosophy, then, clearly reflects his psychological view that the primary motivators in human beings are pleasure and pain. Bentham admits that his version of the principle of utility is something that does not admit of direct proof, but he notes that this is not a problem as some explanatory principles do not admit of any such proof and all explanation must start somewhere. But this, by itself, does not explain why another’s happiness—or the general happiness—should count. And, in fact, he provides a number of suggestions that could serve as answers to the question of why we should be concerned with the happiness of others.

First, Bentham says, the principle of utility is something to which individuals, in acting, refer either explicitly or implicitly, and this is something that can be ascertained and confirmed by simple observation. Indeed, Bentham held that all existing systems of morality can be “reduced to the principles of sympathy and antipathy,” which is precisely that which defines utility. A second argument found in Bentham is that, if pleasure is the good, then it is good irrespective of whose pleasure it is. Thus, a moral injunction to pursue or maximize pleasure has force independently of the specific interests of the person acting. Bentham also suggests that individuals would reasonably seek the general happiness simply because the interests of others are inextricably bound up with their own, though he recognized that this is something that is easy for individuals to ignore. Nevertheless, Bentham envisages a solution to this as well. Specifically, he proposes that making this identification of interests obvious and, when necessary, bringing diverse interests together would be the responsibility of the legislator.

Finally, Bentham held that there are advantages to a moral philosophy based on a principle of utility. To begin with, the principle of utility is clear (compared to other moral principles), allows for objective and disinterested public discussion, and enables decisions to be made where there seem to be conflicts of (prima facie) legitimate interests. Moreover, in calculating the pleasures and pains involved in carrying out a course of action (the “hedonic calculus”), there is a fundamental commitment to human equality. The principle of utility presupposes that “one man is worth just the same as another man” and so there is a guarantee that in calculating the greatest happiness “each person is to count for one and no one for more than one.”

For Bentham, then, there is no inconsistency between the greatest happiness principle and his psychological hedonism and egoism. Thus, he writes that moral philosophy or ethics can be simply described as “the art of directing men’s action to the production of the greatest possible quantity of happiness, on the part of those whose interest is in view.”

5. Political Philosophy

Bentham was regarded as the central figure of a group of intellectuals called, by Elie Halévy (1904), “the philosophic radicals,” of which both Mill and Herbert Spencer can be counted among the “spiritual descendants.” While it would be too strong to claim that the ideas of the philosophic radicals reflected a common political theory, it is nevertheless correct to say that they agreed that many of the social problems of late eighteenth and early nineteenth century England were due to an antiquated legal system and to the control of the economy by a hereditary landed gentry opposed to modern capitalist institutions. As discussed in the preceding section, for Bentham, the principles that govern morals also govern politics and law, and political reform requires a clear understanding of human nature. While he develops a number of principles already present in Anglo-Saxon political philosophy, he breaks with that tradition in significant ways.

In his earliest work, A Fragment on Government (1776), which is an excerpt from a longer work published only in 1928 as Comment on Blackstone’s Commentaries, Bentham attacked the legal theory of Sir William Blackstone. Bentham’s target was, primarily, Blackstone’s defense of tradition in law. Bentham advocated the rational revision of the legal system, a restructuring of the process of determining responsibility and of punishment, and a more extensive freedom of contract. This, he believed, would favor not only the development of the community, but the personal development of the individual.

Bentham’s attack on Blackstone targeted more than the latter’s use of tradition however. Against Blackstone and a number of earlier thinkers (including Locke), Bentham repudiated many of the concepts underlying their political philosophies, such as natural right, state of nature, and social contract. Bentham then attempted to outline positive alternatives to the preceding “traditionalisms.” Not only did he work to reform and restructure existing institutions, but he promoted broader suffrage and self (that is, representative) government.

a. Law, Liberty and Government

The notion of liberty present in Bentham’s account is what is now generally referred to as “negative” liberty—freedom from external restraint or compulsion. Bentham says that “[l]iberty is the absence of restraint” and so, to the extent that one is not hindered by others, one has liberty and is “free.” Bentham denies that liberty is “natural” (in the sense of existing “prior to” social life and thereby imposing limits on the state) or that there is an a priori sphere of liberty in which the individual is sovereign. In fact, Bentham holds that people have always lived in society, and so there can be no state of nature (though he does distinguish between political society and “natural society”) and no “social contract” (a notion which he held was not only unhistorical but pernicious). Nevertheless, he does note that there is an important distinction between one’s public and private life that has morally significant consequences, and he holds that liberty is a good—that, even though it is not something that is a fundamental value, it reflects the greatest happiness principle.

Correlative with this account of liberty, Bentham (as Thomas Hobbes before him) viewed law as “negative.” Given that pleasure and pain are fundamental to—indeed, provide—the standard of value for Bentham, liberty is a good (because it is “pleasant”) and the restriction of liberty is an evil (because it is “painful”). Law, which is by its very nature a restriction of liberty and painful to those whose freedom is restricted, is a prima facie evil. It is only so far as control by the state is limited that the individual is free. Law is, Bentham recognized, necessary to social order and good laws are clearly essential to good government. Indeed, perhaps more than Locke, Bentham saw the positive role to be played by law and government, particularly in achieving community well-being. To the extent that law advances and protects one’s economic and personal goods and that what government exists is self-government, law reflects the interests of the individual.

Unlike many earlier thinkers, Bentham held that law is not rooted in a “natural law” but is simply a command expressing the will of the sovereign. (This account of law, later developed by Austin, is characteristic of legal positivism.) Thus, a law that commands morally questionable or morally evil actions, or that is not based on consent, is still law.

b. Rights

Bentham’s views on rights are, perhaps, best known through the attacks on the concept of “natural rights” that appear throughout his work. These criticisms are especially developed in his Anarchical Fallacies (a polemical attack on the declarations of rights issued in France during the French Revolution), written between 1791 and 1795 but not published until 1816, in French. Bentham’s criticisms here are rooted in his understanding of the nature of law. Rights are created by the law, and law is simply a command of the sovereign. The existence of law and rights, therefore, requires government. Rights are also usually (though not necessarily) correlative with duties determined by the law and, as in Hobbes, are either those which the law explicitly gives us or those within a legal system where the law is silent. The view that there could be rights not based on sovereign command and which pre-exist the establishment of government is rejected.

According to Bentham, then, the term “natural right” is a “perversion of language.” It is “ambiguous,” “sentimental” and “figurative” and it has anarchical consequences. At best, such a “right” may tell us what we ought to do; it cannot serve as a legal restriction on what we can or cannot do. The term “natural right” is ambiguous, Bentham says, because it suggests that there are general rights—that is, rights over no specific object—so that one would have a claim on whatever one chooses. The effect of exercising such a universal, natural “right” would be to extinguish the right altogether, since “what is every man’s right is no man’s right.” No legal system could function with such a broad conception of rights. Thus, there cannot be any general rights in the sense suggested by the French declarations.

Moreover, the notion of natural rights is figurative. Properly speaking, there are no rights anterior to government. The assumption of the existence of such rights, Bentham says, seems to be derived from the theory of the social contract. Here, individuals form a society and choose a government through the alienation of certain of their rights. But such a doctrine is not only unhistorical, according to Bentham, it does not even serve as a useful fiction to explain the origin of political authority. Governments arise by habit or by force, and for contracts (and, specifically, some original contract) to bind, there must already be a government in place to enforce them.

Finally, the idea of a natural right is “anarchical.” Such a right, Bentham claims, entails a freedom from all restraint and, in particular, from all legal restraint. Since a natural right would be anterior to law, it could not be limited by law, and (since human beings are motivated by self-interest) if everyone had such freedom, the result would be pure anarchy. To have a right in any meaningful sense entails that others cannot legitimately interfere with one’s rights, and this implies that rights must be capable of enforcement. Such restriction, as noted earlier, is the province of the law.

Bentham concludes, therefore, that the term “natural rights” is “simple nonsense: natural and imprescriptible rights, rhetorical nonsense,—nonsense upon stilts.” Rights—what Bentham calls “real” rights—are fundamentally legal rights. All rights must be legal and specific (that is, having both a specific object and subject). They ought to be made because of their conduciveness to “the general mass of felicity,” and correlatively, when their abolition would be to the advantage of society, rights ought to be abolished. So far as rights exist in law, they are protected; outside of law, they are at best “reasons for wishing there were such things as rights.” While Bentham’s essays against natural rights are largely polemical, many of his objections continue to be influential in contemporary political philosophy.

Nevertheless, Bentham did not dismiss talk of rights altogether. There are some services that are essential to the happiness of human beings and that cannot be left to others to fulfill as they see fit, and so these individuals must be compelled, on pain of punishment, to fulfill them. They must, in other words, respect the rights of others. Thus, although Bentham was generally suspicious of the concept of rights, he does allow that the term is useful, and in such work as A General View of a Complete Code of Laws, he enumerates a large number of rights. While the meaning he assigns to these rights is largely stipulative rather than descriptive, they clearly reflect principles defended throughout his work.

There has been some debate over the extent to which the rights that Bentham defends are based on or reducible to duties or obligations, whether he can consistently maintain that such duties or obligations are based on the principle of utility, and whether the existence of what Bentham calls “permissive rights”—rights one has where the law is silent—is consistent with his general utilitarian view. This latter point has been discussed at length by H.L.A. Hart (1973) and David Lyons (1969).

6. References and Further Reading

a. Bentham’s Works

The standard edition of Bentham’s writings is The Works of Jeremy Bentham, (ed. John Bowring), London, 1838-1843; Reprinted New York, 1962. The contents are as follows:

  • Volume 1: Introduction; An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation; Essay on the Promulgation of Laws, Essay on the Influence of Time and Place in Matters of Legislation, A Table of the Springs of Action, A Fragment on Government: or A Comment on the Commentaries; Principles of the Civil Code; Principles of Penal Law
  • Volume 2: Principles of Judicial Procedure, with the outlines of a Procedural Code; The Rationale of Reward; Leading Principles of a Constitutional Code, for any state; On the Liberty of the Press, and public discussion; The Book of Fallacies, from unfinished papers; Anarchical Fallacies; Principles of International Law; A Protest Against Law Taxes; Supply without Burden; Tax with Monopoly
  • Volume 3: Defence of Usury; A Manual of Political Economy; Observations on the Restrictive and Prohibitory Commercial System; A Plan for saving all trouble and expense in the transfer of stock; A General View of a Complete Code of Laws; Pannomial Fragments; Nomography, or the art of inditing laws; Equal Dispatch Court Bill; Plan of Parliamentary Reform, in the form of a catechism; Radical Reform Bill; Radicalism Not Dangerous
  • Volume 4: A View of the Hard Labour Bill; Panopticon, or, the inspection house; Panopticon versus New South Wales; A Plea for the Constitution; Draught of a Code for the Organisation of Judicial Establishment in France; Bentham’s Draught for the Organisation of Judicial Establishments, compared with that of a national assembly; Emancipate Your Colonies; Jeremy Bentham to his Fellow Citizens of France, on houses of peers and Senates; Papers Relative to Codification and Public Instruction; Codification Proposal
  • Volume 5: Scotch Reform; Summary View of the Plan of a Judiciary, under the name of the court of lord’s delegates; The Elements of the Art of Packing; “Swear Not At All”; Truth versus Ashhurst; The King against Edmonds and Others; The King against Sir Charles Wolseley and Joseph Harrison; Optical Aptitude Maximized, Expense Minimized; A Commentary on Mr Humphreys’ Real Property Code; Outline of a Plan of a General Register of Real Property; Justice and Codification Petitions; Lord Brougham Displayed
  • Volume 6: An Introductory View of the Rationale of Evidence; Rationale of Judicial Evidence, specially applied to English Practice, Books I-IV
  • Volume 7: Rationale of Judicial Evidence, specially applied to English Practice, Books V-X
  • Volume 8: Chrestomathia; A Fragment on Ontology; Essay on Logic; Essay on Language; Fragments on Universal Grammar; Tracts on Poor Laws and Pauper Management; Observations on the Poor Bill; Three Tracts Relative to Spanish and Portuguese Affairs; Letters to Count Toreno, on the proposed penal code; Securities against Misrule
  • Volume 9: The Constitutional Code
  • Volume 10: Memoirs of Bentham, Chapters I-XXII
  • Volume 11: Memoirs of Bentham, Chapters XXIII-XXVI; Analytical Index

A new edition of Bentham’s Works is being prepared by The Bentham Project at University College, University of London. This edition includes:

  • The Correspondence of Jeremy Bentham, Ed. Timothy L. S. Sprigge, 10 vols., London : Athlone Press, 1968-1984. [Vol. 3 edited by I.R. Christie; Vol. 4-5 edited by Alexander Taylor Milne; Vol. 6-7 edited by J.R. Dinwiddy; Vol. 8 edited by Stephen Conway].
  • An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, Ed. J.H. Burns and H.L.A. Hart, London: The Athlone Press, 1970.
  • Of Laws in General. London: Athlone Press, 1970.
  • A Comment on the Commentaries and a Fragment on Government, Ed. J.H. Burns and H.L.A. Hart, London: The Athlone Press, 1977.
  • Chrestomathia, Ed. M. J. Smith, and W. H. Burston, Oxford/New York : Clarendon Press ; Oxford University Press, 1983.
  • Deontology ; together with A Table of the Springs of Action ; and the Article on Utilitarianism. Ed. Amnon Goldworth, Oxford/New York : Clarendon Press ; Oxford University Press, 1983.
  • Constitutional Code : vol. I . Ed. F. Rosen and J. H. Burns, Oxford/New York : Clarendon Press; Oxford University Press, 1983.
  • Securities Against Misrule and Other Constitutional Writings for Tripoli and Greece. Ed. Philip Schofield, Oxford/New York : Clarendon Press ; Oxford University Press, 1990.
  • Official Aptitude Maximized : Expense Minimized. Ed. Philip Schofield, Oxford : Clarendon Press, 1993.
  • Colonies, Commerce, and Constitutional Law : Rid Yourselves of Ultramaria and Other Writings on Spain and Spanish America. Ed. Philip Schofield, Oxford/New York : Clarendon Press ; Oxford University Press, 1995.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Duncan, Graeme & Gray, John. “The Left Against Mill,” in New Essays on John Stuart Mill and Utilitarianism, Eds. Wesley E. Cooper, Kai Nielsen and Steven C. Patten, 1979.
  • Halévy, Elie. La formation du radicalisme philosophique, 3 vols. Paris, 1904 [The Growth of Philosophic Radicalism. Tr. Mary Morris. London: Faber & Faber, 1928.]
  • Harrison, Ross. Bentham. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1983.
  • Hart, H.L.A. “Bentham on Legal Rights,” in Oxford Essays in Jurisprudence (second series), ed. A.W.B. Simpson (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1973), pp. 171-201.
  • Lyons, David. “Rights, Claimants and Beneficiaries,” in American Philosophical Quarterly, Vol. 6 (1969), pp. 173-185.
  • MacCunn, John. Six Radical Thinkers, second impression, London, 1910.
  • Mack, Mary Peter. Jeremy Bentham: An Odyssey of Ideas 1748-1792. London: Heinemann, 1962.
  • Manning, D.J. The Mind of Jeremy Bentham, London: Longmans, 1968.
  • Plamenatz, John. The English Utilitarians. Oxford, 1949.
  • Stephen, Leslie. The English Utilitarians. 3 vols., London: Duckworth, 1900.

Author Information

William Sweet
Email: wsweet@stfx.ca
St. Francis Xavier University
Canada

Defeaters in Epistemology

The concept of epistemic defeat or defeasibility has come to occupy an important place in contemporary epistemology, especially in relation to the closely allied concepts of justified belief, warrant, and knowledge. These allied concepts signify positive epistemic appraisal or positive epistemic status. As a first approximation, defeasibility refers to a belief’s liability to lose some positive epistemic status, or to having this status downgraded in some particular way. For example, a person may be epistemically justified in believing some proposition p at one time, but then the belief might become less justified or even unjustified at some later time. Moreover, beliefs may also be prevented from having or acquiring some positive epistemic status in the first place. So more generally, defeasibility refers to a kind of epistemic liability or vulnerability, the potential of loss, reduction, or prevention of some positive epistemic status. A defeater is, broadly speaking, a condition that actualizes this potential. This article begins by outlining two general types of defeaters: propositional defeaters and mental state defeaters. Propositional defeaters are conditions external to the perspective of the cognizer that prevent an overall justified true belief from counting as knowledge. Mental state defeaters are conditions internal to the perspective of the cognizer (such as experiences, beliefs, withholdings) that cancel, reduce, or even prevent justification.

Table of Contents

  1. The Concept of Defeasibility
    1. Defeasibility: Legal, Moral, and Epistemic
    2. Defeaters in Epistemology: Basic Distinctions
  2. The Gettier Problem and Propositional Defeaters
    1. The Tripartite Definition of Knowledge and the Gettier Problem
    2. Defeasibility Analyses and Propositional Defeaters
    3. Constraints on Propositional Defeaters
  3. Mental State Defeaters and General Epistemology
    1. Internalism, Externalism, and Mental State Defeaters
    2. Coherentism, Foundationalism, and Mental State Defeaters
  4. Prominent Features of Mental State Defeaters
    1. Newly Acquired State Defeaters and Newly Acquired Power Defeaters
    2. Diachronic Aspects of Mental State Defeaters
    3. Defeater-Defeaters
  5. Variations on Mental State Defeaters
    1. The Epistemic Status of Defeating Beliefs
    2. Subjective and Objective Contours
    3. Conscious and Reflective Defeaters
  6. Taxonomy of Defeaters and Formalities of Defeat
    1. Primary-Type Defeaters: Rebutting, Undercutting, and No Reason Defeaters
    2. Secondary-Type Defeaters: Defeaters for Grounds of Inferential Beliefs
  7. Conclusion
  8. References and Further Readings

1. The Concept of Defeasibility

a. Defeasibility: Legal, Moral, and Epistemic

The language of defeasibility is not unique to epistemology. In fact, its use in epistemology is arguably derived from its use in legal and moral discourse. For example, H.L.A. Hart (1961) borrowed the term “defeasibility” from its prior uses in property interests and applied it to contracts. Hart explained that though contracts were comprised of an offer, acceptance and consideration, contracts may still be void or voidable due to some exception such as fraud or incapacity. In making this application to contracts, Hart noted that there is no specific term in the English language to refer to exceptions to a basic legal rule (Hart, 1961, p. 145; cf. Boonin, 1966). The defeasibility of legal rules is analogous to the defeasibility of moral rules in ethics or moral philosophy. While there may be obligations to do X, many ethical theories add that at least some of these obligations are only prima facie duties. They can be overridden by other factors and thus are no longer morally binding. Moral rules, like legal rules, are subject to being defeated in particular circumstances or under particular conditions.

Talk of defeasibility in the legal and moral context translates into epistemic defeasibility in at least one obvious way. If we think of positive epistemic status as normative, then this status will – like moral and legal rules – be subject to being overridden by other factors. In circumstance C we may be epistemically justified to believe p, just as we are legally or morally justified to perform action A in circumstance C. In other circumstances C*, though, we may no longer be epistemically justified to believe p, just as we are not legally or morally justified to perform action A in circumstance C*. This is particularly evident in deontological conceptions of epistemic justification, according to which we have various intellectual obligations and certain epistemic principles forbid believing p under certain circumstances, for example when p is not likely to be true or when p is likely to be false. But even if we think of justification simply in terms of having adequate evidence, justification will be variable. Chisholm (1966, 1989, pp 52-69), for example, notes that while evidence e may make h evident, another evident proposition, d, may defeat the tendency of e to make h evident because the conjunction of e and d does not make h evident. In other words, there may be a loss of justification when new evidence is added to an existing evidence base.

b. Defeaters in Epistemology: Basic Distinctions

Defeater theories are generally distinguished by how they construe what does the defeating and what gets defeated.

(i) While some philosophers construe defeaters as conditions external to the perspective of the cognizer (true propositions), others construe them as conditions internal to the cognizer (mental states such as experiences or beliefs). Hence, while some philosophers might regard the true proposition “There is a blue light shining on the widgets” as a defeater for a belief about the color of the widgets, others would regard the subject’s belief that “There is a blue light shining on the widgets” as the defeater. What does the defeating in the first case is a certain fact (the obtaining of which is independent of a cognizer’s beliefs or perspective). What does the defeating in the second case is a mental state of the cognizer.

(ii) Philosophers who construe defeaters as true propositions usually take defeaters to be conditions that prevent an overall justified true belief from counting as knowledge. So if the true proposition “There is a blue light shining on the widgets” is a defeater it would prevent my belief that “This widget is blue” from being something I know, even if this belief is justified and true. On the other hand, philosophers who take defeaters to be mental states of the cognizer tend to see them as defeating the justified status of a belief, either by downgrading the degree of justification or by canceling the justified status of the belief altogether. In this case, having a defeater for my belief that “This widget is blue” entails that this belief, even if true, is no longer justified or justified to the same degree. Of course, if justification (to some high degree) is necessary for knowledge, defeaters that defeat justification may also prevent a true belief from counting as knowledge.

2. The Gettier Problem and Propositional Defeaters

a. The Tripartite Definition of Knowledge and the Gettier Problem

One of the primary tasks of epistemology is the examination of the nature of knowledge. One aspect of such inquiry is the analysis of those conditions that are severally necessary and jointly sufficient for knowledge. There have been three fairly widespread and long-standing intuitions concerning knowledge in the Western philosophical tradition. First, a person S’s knowing some proposition p entails that p is true. Second, though more controversially, S’s knowing that p entails that S believes or assents to p, perhaps firmly. Third, knowledge is not equivalent to true belief. Knowledge has a certain surplus value over true belief. The ancient Greek philosopher Socrates indicated this surplus value metaphorically by speaking of knowledge as true belief that has been “tied down” or “tethered.” Much of the work of epistemologists in the second-half of the twentieth century has been devoted to examining candidates for this epistemological tether, a plausible condition (or set of conditions) that can transform a true belief into knowledge. The term “justification” is commonly used to designate this condition. A justified belief is roughly one that has a positive tie or strong connection to the truth goal of believing, something like “../evidence/”>evidence, grounds, reasons, or processes of belief formation that are in some sense indicative of the truth of the belief. The so-called traditional or tripartite definition of knowledge as justified true belief expresses all three of the above intuitions.

However, owing to Edmund Gettier’s arguments (Gettier, 1963), epistemologists have generally recognized that justified true belief accounts of knowledge suffer from a basic defect or inadequacy. Gettier argued that there are cases in which an individual could plausibly be said to have a true belief that is justified but which fails to constitute knowledge. For example, I might be justified in believing that “either Jones owns a Ford or Brown is in Barcelona” because I validly deduce it from a justified belief “Jones owns a Ford.” If Jones does not own a Ford but Brown happens to be in Barcelona, I will have inferred a true justified belief from a false justified belief. However, it seems counterintuitive in this case to suppose that I know that Brown is in Barcelona, even if the belief is true and justified.

One of the early proposals to handle the Gettier Problem involved adding a fourth condition to knowledge that excludes inferences from or dependence on any false beliefs (Shope, 1983, pp. 81-118). But Gettier cases can be generated where there is neither an inference from nor dependence on any false beliefs (Steup, 1996, pp. 15-16). So other strategies must be employed to deal with Gettier counterexamples. One of these strategies employs the concept of defeasibility or defeaters (Lehrer and Paxson, 1969; Swain, 1974; Shope, 1983).

b. Defeasibility Analyses and Propositional Defeaters

Defeasibility analyses of knowledge come in a variety of different specific versions. The generic idea is that a person S knows p only if there is no true proposition, d, such that if S were to believe d (or d were added to S’s evidence for p), S would no longer be justified in believing p. In other words, the existence of certain unpossessed evidence prevents a person from actually knowing p if this unpossessed evidence would result in a loss of justification were the person to acquire the evidence, be aware of it, or recognize it. So according to defeasibility theories, it’s a true proposition that does the defeating, not a believed proposition. Following Bergmann (2006, p. 154), I’ll refer to these kinds of defeaters as propositional defeaters. So according to defeasibility analyses of knowledge we must adopt the view that:

[PD] S knows that p only if there is no propositional defeater d for S’s belief that p.

Consider the so-called “Fake Barn” scenario, an often-cited Gettier-type case used by Alvin Goldman (Goldman, 1976, pp. 772-73). Suppose Henry is driving through a Wisconsin town, admiring the scenery. He sees a barn and believes “there’s a barn.” Unbeknownst to Henry, this Wisconsin town is full of papier-mâché barn facsimiles, which look like real barns when viewed from the road. However, the structure Henry happens to look at is a genuine barn. He just happens to glance in the direction where one of the few real barns is located. His belief is true since he’s looking at a genuine barn. He also appears justified in holding this belief. Henry believes what seems to him to be the case. He has no reason to believe that anything is suspicious about his perceptions, much less that he’s in a town mostly populated with fake barns. He also knows that barns are fairly common in this part of the state. Nonetheless, it seems that, however justified Henry may be in holding this belief, he doesn’t know that there is a barn present. He is of course lucky to believe what is true in this circumstance, but it’s precisely this feature of the situation that raises doubt about whether he knows there is a barn before him. Had he looked at any other time, his eyes would have landed on a fake barn and his resultant belief would have been false. Knowledge would seem to require that it not be a matter of epistemic serendipity that one’s belief is true.

Defeasibility analyses of knowledge attempt to relate the problem of accidentally true belief to the existence of some bit of relevant unpossessed evidence. That is, it is in consequence of lacking some relevant evidence, of being less than ideally situated with respect to the evidence, that a person ends up luckily believing what is true. This is illustrated in the Fake Barn scenario. In that case, there is a true proposition such that, if Henry were to believe it, he would not have been justified in believing that the object he sees is a barn. The true proposition would be something to the effect that “in this town nearly everything that looks like a barn isn’t actually a barn.” Call this proposition D, and call his barn belief B. If Henry were to believe D, he would not be justified in his belief that B. Alternatively, we might say that if D were added to Henry’s actual evidence E (the evidence of his senses and relevant background beliefs), he would no longer be justified in holding the belief that B. Given E, Henry is justified to believe B, but given the conjunction of E and D, Henry is not justified in believing B. For Henry to know that there’s a barn present, it must not be an accident that this belief is true. This in turn requires that Henry’s justification be indefeasible.

We should underscore that there being a propositional defeater for Henry’s belief that “there’s a barn” does not entail that Henry is actually unjustified in believing “there’s a barn” or that he’s irrational or unreasonable in holding this belief. The point about justification is a counterfactual one: Henry would not be justified in believing “there’s a barn” if he were to believe “in this town nearly everything that looks like a barn isn’t actually a barn” or if this fact were added to his evidence. The counterfactual truth about justification entails that Henry doesn’t actually know “there’s a barn,” not that he’s unjustified in believing it. Of course, if we’re thinking of knowledge as simply justified true belief, we might speak of Henry’s justification being defeated in some way because the justification is insufficient for knowledge (Lehrer and Paxson, 1969). The target belief may be justified, but the justification is “defective” (Marshall Swain, 1981, p. 148) because it fails to make his true belief knowledge. Steup (1996, p. 15) captures this point by speaking of the epistemizing potential of a person’s justification being defeated, and contrasts this with saying that a person’s justification is defeated. While Shope (1983, p. 47) speaks of S’s actual justification being defeated, by this he simply means that the justification fails to be enough – together with the satisfaction of the truth and belief conditions – for knowledge. And so also with other authors who use similar language at this juncture. So we should say that a propositional defeater for S’s belief that p doesn’t entail that S is no longer justified in believing p, only that S’s justification isn’t sufficient (along with true belief) for knowledge. Technically, then, we should speak of knowledge being defeated (Audi, 1993, pp. 185-213) or warrant being defeated (Plantinga, 2000, p. 359-60), where warrant is the property that transforms true belief into knowledge.

c. Constraints on Propositional Defeaters

As widely discussed in the early literature on defeasibility theory (Lehrer and Paxson, 1969; Annis, 1973; Swain, 1974), the main challenge facing defeasibility analyses of knowledge is to specify the relevant range of true propositions that can function as defeaters. It is generally acknowledged that not just any true proposition (suggestive of a defect in justification) is an efficacious defeater. There are genuine defeaters, but there are also misleading defeaters.

In the famous so-called Tom Grabit case (Paxson and Lehrer, 1969), I see a man who looks to me like Tom Grabit remove a book from a library bookshelf, slip it under his coat, and escape the library. I believe that Tom Grabit stole a library book. As it happens, the man I saw was indeed Tom Grabit, and he did steal the book. However, let’s suppose further that Tom Grabit’s mother claims that on the day in question Tom was out of the country but that Tom’s identical twin brother John was at the library. Here it seems that there is a true proposition such that if I were to believe it, I would not be justified in believing that Tom Grabit stole a library book. The true proposition is “Tom Grabit’s mother is testifying that. . . .” Call this true proposition D, the ostensible defeater. It would seem that, like in the case of Fake Barn, there is a propositional defeater for the target belief. I may in fact have a justified true belief that there is a barn over there, but the justification is defective and so my justified true belief does not constitute knowledge. The true proposition D is such that if I were to believe it (or add it to my evidence), I would no longer be justified in believing that Tom Grabit stole the library book. But now suppose that Mrs. Grabit is actually a compulsive liar and Tom’s twin brother is the product of Mrs. Grabit’s demented imagination. Tom Grabit is not out of the country and he has no twin brother. Given this expansion of facts, our intuition may now be that I do know that Tom Grabit stole a library book, that Mrs. Grabit’s testimony does not actually defeat my knowing that Tom Grabit stole the book.

While we might say that there is a propositional defeater for my belief that Tom Grabit stole the library book, we can say one of two possible things about the defeater’s lack of defeating efficacy.

First, the defeater in the Tom Grabit case is clearly misleading. It is perhaps natural to say that it misleadingly suggests that that the target belief is false or that the evidence for the target belief isn’t good. The defeater is a true proposition, for it is true that Mrs. Grabit said that Tom’s twin brother, not Tom, is in the library, and that Tom is out of the country. The problem is that this true proposition suggests that my belief that Tom Grabit stole the book is false or that I shouldn’t be relying on the evidence of my senses. It also suggests other false propositions, for example that Tom Grabit has an identical twin, that Tom was not at the library, or depends on the false assumption that Mrs. Grabit is sane and her testimony reliable. At all events, what is required is a genuine as opposed to misleading defeater, and such a defeater will not presuppose, suggest, or depend upon some falsehood (Klein, 1976, 1981).

Secondly, we might say that the potential defeating effect of D is neutralized or defeated by some further true proposition, D*, such that if I were to believe D* I would not be justified in believing D. In this case, the true proposition, D*, is that Mrs. Grabit is a liar and mentally deranged, whereas D is simply the fact of her testimony. It seems that D defeats my belief that Tom stole the library book because if I believed D, I would cease to be justified in believing he stole the book. But if I were to believe D*, I would not be justified in believing the content of Mrs. Grabit’s testimony. In other words, the total evidence set includes D and D*, but D* defeats D. A genuine defeater must be undefeated by any further evidence (Barker, 1976; Pollock, 1986; Swain, 1974).

Other epistemologists suppose that what defeats knowledge is unpossessed evidence that most of the members of the person’s society or social group are aware of. We can use the example provided by Gilbert Harman (1973, pp. 143-44). Suppose that a political leader has been assassinated. A reporter who is a witness to the assassination dictates details of the event to his news agency so that the story may be included in the day’s final edition of the paper. Jill picks up the paper and reads the story and believes that the political leader has been assassinated. However, before Jill picks up the newspaper and reads the story, loyalists to the political leader declare on nationwide television that the bullet actually struck and killed someone in the political leader’s entourage. Jill reads the true story in the paper but misses the false report on television. Harman contends that in this hypothetical situation Jill doesn’t know that the political leader has been assassinated. Some epistemologists (Swinburne, 2001; Pollock 1986) contend that Jill’s not having knowledge in this case is the consequence of there being a true proposition (suggestive of a defect in justification) that is widely believed in Jill’s society. (Advocates of this view would also seem committed to saying that if the Tom Grabit example were altered so that Mrs. Grabit testified in a public venue to the alleged whereabouts of Tom and the existence of Tom’s identical twin brother, then her testimony would be a genuine defeater for someone’s knowing that Tom stole the book, even if Mrs. Grabit were lying or deranged).

Alternatively, we might suppose that the crucial factor that determines whether a true proposition (suggestive of a defect in justification) is an efficacious defeater is if the unpossessed evidence is the sort of thing that is easily accessible. We can take another example from Harman (1973). Suppose your good friend Donald tells you that he’s going to Italy for the summer. You take him to the airport and see him off. He left in June, but in July he decides to send you several letters informing you that he’s actually in San Francisco. This is not true. He’s simply trying to fool you. He sends the letters to another friend in San Francisco who is instructed to send them to you one at a time, as if they were sent from Donald, complete with a San Francisco postmark. You’ve been gone for a couple of days, though, and your mail has piled up. There are two letters in the stack from Donald. You haven’t looked at them yet and so you believe that Donald is in Italy. This is true, but there’s evidence of which you are not aware that would justify you in believing that Donald is not in Italy. It might be argued that in this case, the information contained in the unopened letters constitutes a genuine defeater for your belief that Donald is in Italy since the information is near at hand, readily available to you, even though in fact you’re not aware of it.

There are of course other variations on genuine defeaters. We might throw a deontological spin into the defeasibility account. We might suppose that unpossessed evidence defeats knowledge only if the evidence is the sort of thing the person should believe and would believe if certain intellectual obligations were satisfied. At all events, all these defeasibility formulations are ways of placing constraints on propositional defeaters. They each recognize that while there are many true propositions that seem to indicate a defect in justification (that is, such that if S were to believe them, S would cease to be justified in his original belief) only some of these entail an actual defect in one’s justification, actually defeat the person’s knowing the target proposition.

3. Mental State Defeaters and General Epistemology

While defeasibility accounts of knowledge take defeaters to be facts external to the perspective of the cognizer, another approach to defeaters construes them as items internal to the perspective of the cognizer, as mental states such as experiences, beliefs, or withholdings. For example, on a particular day I see a person who looks like Tom Grabit steal a book from the library. Based on my sensory perceptual experience and my memory beliefs about what Tom Grabit looks like, I believe that Tom Grabit stole the library book. Later that day Tom Grabit’s mother tells me that Tom is out of town but that his kleptomaniac identical twin was at the library at the time in question. Unlike the case of propositional defeaters, the defeater here is information I actually possess, something I learn or come to believe. It may not even matter that Mrs. Grabit is in fact a liar or delusional, unless of course I have reason to believe that this is true. Following Bergmann (2006, pp. 154-55), I’ll refer to these kinds of defeaters as mental state defeaters. (Some philosophers, for example Alston 1986, p. 191, refer to these as “overriders” and reserve the term “defeater” for propositional defeaters. This terminological point is worth noting, but nothing substantive rides on this).

Epistemologies that incorporate mental state defeaters typically take them to defeat justification (Alston 1989, pp. 238-39; Bergmann, 2006, pp. 155-56) or some species of rationality (Plantinga, 2000, pp. 357-66; Bergmann, 1997a, pp. 68-78). However since these positive epistemic statuses are typically regarded as necessary for knowledge, mental state defeaters may at least indirectly play a role in defeating knowledge, not simply by preventing a person from coming to know p but also by canceling a person’s state of actually knowing p. If S’s knowing that p entails that S’s is justified to degree N in believing p, then if S ceases to be justified in believing p (or the degree of justification for S’s belief is significantly lowered), then S ceases to know p. So we can think of mental state defeaters as defeating one’s actual justification and knowledge. We can refer in a general way to a no mental state defeater condition for knowledge:

[MSD] S knows that p only if S does not have a mental state defeater for S’s belief that p.

Note that [MSD] only claims that knowledge requires the absence of a mental state defeater, a defeater constituted by a person’s experience(s), belief(s), or other propositional attitudes. It doesn’t specify or delimit the range of what mental states will actually count as defeaters. Would, for example, my simply taking a belief to be defeated count as a mental state defeater? Or must I justifiably take a belief to be defeated? Or must there be some kind of logical relation between my beliefs and the defeatee? Similarly, must mental state defeaters be occurrent states or can they be merely dispositional? Advocates of [MSD] disagree about these issues, as we’ll see below. But the general idea behind mental state defeaters is a fairly bipartisan epistemological insight, as may be shown by its place in the broader landscape of contemporary epistemology.

a. Internalism, Externalism, and Mental State Defeaters

Epistemic internalists typically recognize that mental state defeaters can defeat justification (Pollock, 1974, 1984, pp. 200-202, 1986, pp. 29-30, 37-58; Chisholm, 1989, pp. 55-60; Swinburne, 2001, pp. 28-31). For the internalist, the endorsement of [MSD] is largely a consequence of justification supervening solely on the perspective of the cognizer. Just as the subject’s beliefs and experience confer justification on beliefs, they can also remove or downgrade justification. If we also suppose that justification is necessary for knowledge, the internalist will endorse a principle similar to [MSD]. Of course, for the internalist [MSD] is not an alternative to [PD]. [MSD] doesn’t address the Gettier problem but only concerns evidentialist intuitions about justification. [PD] is still needed by internalists to handle Gettier cases. But note also that the explication of [PD] seems to depend on certain counterfactual claims about mental state defeaters and justification, for we must suppose that if S were to believe d (or we were to add d to S’s evidence), then S would no longer be justified in believing p. This presupposes that one’s actual evidence can defeat one’s justification. In this way [PD] presupposes the type of conceptual framework employed by [MSD].

Many externalists have endorsed [MSD]. For example, some reliabilists (Goldman, 1986, pp. 62-63, 111-112) include a non-undermining provision in their accounts of justification or knowledge. In consequence of such a provision, while reliability of belief formation may be a necessary condition for knowledge, it’s also necessary that a person not (justifiably) believe that his belief was formed in an unreliable manner. Alston (1988a, pp. 238-239) contends that truth-conducive justification can be overridden by justified beliefs that p is false or the justified belief that the belief that p is based on inadequate grounds. According to Plantinga (1993a, pp. 40-42, 229-37; 2000, pp. 359-66), while warrant depends on the proper functioning of our truth-aimed cognitive faculties, one aspect of this proper functioning is a sub-system (called a defeater system) that adjusts or revises our beliefs in the light of new experiences and beliefs. Nozick (1981, p. 196) contends that knowledge requires that the subject not believe that her belief doesn’t track truth. In each of these cases, the otherwise externalist theory advocates at least one internal condition for knowledge, roughly that the subject does not have a negative epistemic evaluation of her beliefs.

b. Coherentism, Foundationalism, and Mental State Defeaters

The idea that mental state defeaters can cause justified beliefs to become unjustified (and the correlated [MSD] condition) is compatible with coherentism and foundationalism, and is arguably entailed by some versions of each.

From a coherentist viewpoint, coherence (of some form) among our mental states confers justification on our beliefs. Very roughly stated, I am justified in believing A if and only if A coheres with my current experience and body of beliefs. It follows that I will become unjustified in holding some belief A if the belief A loses its coherence with my experience or body of beliefs. But a belief’s losing coherence with our experience and/or our beliefs is a particular way of unpacking the idea of mental state defeaters. For example, I might at time t recall the foyer of a certain Victorian house in Springfield, Massachusetts having certain structural features, and there’s no incoherence at time t between my beliefs about the foyer and the rest of my experience or beliefs. However, upon subsequently revisiting the house at time t* I see that it’s not at all as I remember it. My present sensory experience is incompatible with my memory beliefs about the foyer and so my former beliefs about the foyer now become unjustified. Upon being appeared to catly, I may believe that there is a cat in front of me. This belief may cohere with everything else I believe and am currently experiencing at the time, so it’s a justified belief. But suppose that when I reach out for the cat my hand goes through it, or when I move a couple of feet to the right or left the cat disappears and then reappears when I move back into place. My belief that there’s a cat in front of me no longer coheres with the larger network of my beliefs. In this scenario I have lost my justification for supposing that there’s a cat in front of me.

Mental state defeaters also play an important role in many versions of foundationalism, specifically versions of so-called modest foundationalism (Alston, 1976, 1983; Audi, 1993). Foundationalist theories of justification, motivated largely by the justification regress problem, terminate chains of justification in foundational beliefs that are immediately justified. Immediately justified beliefs are beliefs that are justified in some way other than their relation to or dependence on other justified beliefs. Strong versions of foundationalism restrict foundational beliefs to beliefs with various epistemic immunities (from doubt, error, or revision) or beliefs that are ostensibly maximally justified. These versions of foundationalism have little or no place for the idea that subsequent mental states might cause immediately justified beliefs to become unjustified (or less justified). But this idea is important to modest foundationalists, who argue that the regress problem may be avoided if chains of justification terminate in beliefs that are prima facie immediately justified. I can be immediately justified in believing that there is a cat in front of me, even if I subsequently lose this justification by realizing that I’m looking at a papier-mâché cat. My justification is in the first instance prima facie and thus capable of being overridden, cancelled, nullified, or downgraded by new experiences or additions to my beliefs.

Audi (1993, pp. 105-112, 141-53) notes that one of the core intuitions behind coherentism is really the idea of “negative epistemic dependence,” that a belief’s justification is liable to being overridden or undermined and so should not remain unaffected by incoherence if it should arise. A belief that is justified at time t independent of its relation to other beliefs need not be such that it remains justified (or justified to the same degree) regardless of the other beliefs a person forms. The idea of mental state defeaters allows the foundationalist to incorporate a valuable insight in coherentist theories of justification without having to subscribe to the stronger thesis that coherence confers justification.

4. Prominent Features of Mental State Defeaters

a. Newly Acquired State Defeaters and Newly Acquired Power Defeaters

Mental state defeaters may defeat beliefs at the time the defeater is acquired or they may do their defeating at some later time when they acquire the power to defeat. Bergmann (2006, pp. 155-57) designates the first a “newly acquired state defeater” and the latter a “newly acquired power defeater.”

Typically when we think of mental state defeaters we think of situations where a person S justifiably believes p at some time t but then at some later time t* S acquires a mental state d (some new experience or belief) that causes S’s belief that p to be unjustified at t*. Here S’s belief that p is unjustified from the time S acquires the mental state d. In the morning I hear the weather report and there’s a prediction of showers late in the morning. Later in the morning I hear a pitter-patter against the window facing my backyard. Looking through my blinds, I see some dark clouds in the sky and water drops against my window. I justifiably believe at time t that it’s raining outside. But suppose that several minutes later my wife walks in the front door (dry as a bone) and says that my next-door neighbor is spraying water over our fence on to the back of our house. It would seem that I’m no longer justified in believing that it’s raining outside. At time t I was justified in this belief but at time t* I’m no longer justified in this belief because I have acquired evidence at time t* that defeats my prior belief. This is a newly acquired state defeater.

In other cases, though, a mental state d may be acquired at time t but not do its defeating work until some later time t* when it acquires the power to defeat. Bergmann (2006. p. 156-57) designates this kind of defeater a newly acquired power defeater. Bergmann’s illustration is helpful. My younger brother quietly tells me that when my sister comes into the room and informs everyone that my cousin Maggie is downstairs in the basement, this is really code for “Maggie is at her boyfriend’s house.” As he explains, no one wants Maggie’s father, who is present, to know that Maggie is at her boyfriend’s house. My sister then enters the room and says she was just talking with Maggie downstairs, which I know really means that Maggie is at her boyfriend’s house. As it happens, I already believe this because earlier in the day Maggie’s boyfriend told me that Maggie would be visiting him at his house. So I have a justified belief that Maggie is at her boyfriend’s house, even before my sister suggests this through code. Now suppose that shortly after the announcement, my older and very reliable brother tells me that my younger brother was just trying to fool me with the code story. There was no plan for my sister to speak in code about Maggie. In this scenario, it looks like I acquire a mental state at a particular time that only subsequently acquires the power to defeat a belief of mine. I believe B (Maggie is at her boyfriend’s house) at time t when I acquire the belief M (my sister has said that Maggie is in the basement), but the belief M does not defeat the belief B at time t. My belief M only gains the power to defeat my belief B after my older brother informed me that my younger brother was engaged in high jinx with me. This allows me to take my sister’s comment as indicative of the actual whereabouts of Maggie, thereby defeating my prior belief Maggie is at her boyfriend’s house.

Of course, in both the case of a newly acquired state defeater and a newly acquired power defeater the defeater may not be a complete defeater, that is, it may not render a belief wholly unjustified. While defeaters are normally thought of as rendering a belief unjustified or irrational, depending on the specifics of the evidential situation they might merely render a belief less justified than it was before the acquisition of the defeater or before it acquired its defeating power. For example, suppose that when my wife tells me that our neighbor is spraying the backside of our house with his garden hose my wife has the kind of look she gets when she’s trying to fool me about something. At the time, I can’t fully accept what she says, but it’s not obvious that she’s trying to pull my leg. Perhaps her testimony in this case lowers the degree of justification for my belief that it’s raining outside, rather than renders this belief wholly unjustified. So we should distinguish between complete and partial defeat/defeaters.

b. Diachronic Aspects of Mental State Defeaters

The above account of mental state defeaters construes them as mental states that defeat a belief at some particular time. This way of thinking about defeaters is naturally suggested by the correlated synchronic view of justification, namely of some person’s being justified in believing p at some particular time t. But we can extend this view of defeaters by viewing their defeating power – like justification generally – through time or diachronically. (On the nature and significance of synchronic and diachronic justification, see Swinburne, 2001, pp. 152-91).

First, although mental state defeaters are naturally thought of as rendering unjustified (or less justified) a person’s prior justified belief, mental states at some time t may also prevent a person from coming to hold a justified belief at some later time t*. We might call this the forward-looking defeating potential of mental states. Suppose that my wife enters the house moments before I hear the pitter-patter and see the water drops against my window. She informs me about my neighbor’s bizarre behavior of spraying the backside of our house. The subsequent perceptual evidence that would otherwise justify my belief that it’s raining outside will not do so in this case. The potential justification conferring power of this evidence acquired at time t* is antecedently neutralized by what I know or justifiably believe beforehand at time t. We might say that my wife’s testimony constitutes a preventative justification defeater. More generally, at any given time t our experiences and set of justified beliefs will prevent us from being justified in holding some other belief(s) at some subsequent time t*. Thus all mental states have some forward-looking defeating potential. Of course, we typically don’t end up holding such beliefs (because we take them to be unjustified for us given the rest of what we believe), but if we did they would be unjustified by virtue of our other mental states.

Secondly, the defeating power of some mental state over an antecedently held belief can be said to continue into the future. Call these continuing defeaters (Bergmann, 2006, p. 158). The natural way of thinking about this is to take the case where someone continues to hold the defeated belief (or continues holding it with the same degree of firmness), despite the acquisition of a mental state defeater for the belief. Suppose that some of Kurtis’ neighbors accuse Kurtis’ wife Cathleen of having an affair with a married neighborhood man. Cathleen denies this and Kurtis justifiably believes that Cathleen is telling the truth. Later that day Kurtis sees Cathleen in a romantic embrace with a neighborhood man behind a tree in the local park. Kurtis has acquired a defeater for his belief that Cathleen is an honest wife, but through a variety of rationalizations he continues to believe that Cathleen is an honest person. Kurtis’ seeing Cathleen romantically involved with another man causes his belief in her honesty to be unjustified. Kurtis’ memory of what he saw (or his belief that he saw it) continues to cause his belief in Cathleen’s honesty to be unjustified, though he nonetheless persists with this belief. So here we have a case where a memory or belief state continues to make another belief – the subject persists in holding – unjustified. The defeater has continuing defeater power over a persisting belief.

Of course, the idea of a preventative justification defeater allows us to think of the defeating power of a mental state continuing into the future, even if the person gives up the defeated belief. Perhaps I give up my belief that it’s raining outside after my wife tells me that my neighbor is spraying my house with a garden hose. In this case, at time t* d (the awareness of my wife’s testimony) is a defeater for a belief I had at the earlier time t but don’t have any longer. Now at time t* it makes no sense to speak of d as defeating my actual belief that it’s raining outside, because I no longer hold this belief at t*. But we can still speak of d’s continuing power to prevent me from forming the justified belief that it’s raining outside.

c. Defeater-Defeaters

Mental state defeaters can of course be subsequently defeated by other mental states, and we can say that all mental state defeaters are continuing defeaters until they are defeated. That is, they continue to render a belief unjustified or less justified until their defeating force is neutralized. It’s common to speak of mental states that defeat mental state defeaters as defeater-defeaters (Pollock 1986, pp.45-58; 1970; Plantinga, 1993a, pp. 231-37; 1993b, pp. 216-221; 1986). Suppose I justifiably believe T, Tom Grabit stole a library book. Now suppose I get a defeater D for the belief that T, namely Mrs. Grabit tells me that Tom is thousands of miles away and his identical kleptomaniac twin was at the library at the time in question. If I subsequently learn that Mrs. Grabit is a compulsive liar and deranged, then I have acquired a defeater D* for the original defeater D. I have acquired a defeater-defeater. While D rendered my belief that T unjustified, D* restores my justification for believing T.

Notice that in this particular example that D* doesn’t render my belief that D unjustified, even though it restores my justification for believing T. I’m still justified to believe D, namely that Mrs. Grabit said such and such. What is defeated here is the power of D to defeat my prior belief that Tom Grabit stole the library book. Take another example. Suppose I see what appear to be blue widgets coming down an assembly line. I believe that these are blue widgets. I then discover that the widgets are being illuminated with a blue light. This gives me a defeater for my belief that the widgets are blue. If I subsequently pick up a widget outside the range of the blue light, view it under normal lighting conditions, and see that it’s blue, the defeating force of “these widgets are being illuminated with a blue light” is neutralized, but not in such a way that I cease to be justified or rational in believing that the widgets are being illuminated by a blue light. So when it comes to defeater-defeaters my justification for holding the originally defeated belief can be restored without causing the defeater against this belief to be an unjustified belief. Defeater-defeaters might do that of course, but they need not. Perhaps I discover that what I thought was a blue light shining on the widgets is not a blue light at all or perhaps I learn that Mrs. Grabit actually did not say what I thought she said. In these cases the defeater-defeater causes my belief in the original defeater to be unjustified.

According to Plantinga (1986), some beliefs can, by virtue of their own degree of warrant, defeat defeaters that come their way. When a belief has this power, Plantinga designates it an intrinsic defeater-defeater against some ostensible defeater. I write a letter to the chair of my department trying to bribe him to write a highly exaggerated letter on my behalf for an NEH fellowship. The letter mysteriously disappears from the chairperson’s office. I have a motive to steal it, the opportunity to do so, and I have been known to do such things in the past. Moreover, a reliable member of the department claims to have seen me hanging around the chairperson’s office about the time the letter must have been stolen. Given the evidence, my colleagues believe that I stole the letter. Perhaps they are justified in believing this. However, I believe that I spent the day in the woods and so could not have stolen the letter. My memory belief has a great deal of nonpropositional warrant for me. So despite the counter-evidence, I’m justified to believe that I was in the woods and didn’t steal the letter. Here it seems that the ostensible defeatee actually operates as a defeater-defeater. Plantinga of course isn’t suggesting that an actually defeated belief restores warrant to itself by defeating an acquired defeater. It’s not as if my belief that I didn’t steal the letter was actually defeated at some point in time and its justification subsequently restored. The idea is rather that the original belief prevents or insulates itself from being defeated because the defeating potential of counterevidence is antecedently neutralized by the degree of warrant had by original belief. So I never actually acquire a defeater for my belief that I was in the woods or that the belief that I didn’t steal the letter (Sudduth, 1999, pp. 180-82).

5. Variations on Mental State Defeaters

Advocates of mental state defeaters (and the corresponding no mental state defeater condition) differ on some crucial points regarding mental state defeaters.

a. The Epistemic Status of Defeating Beliefs

One of the issues of debate between adherents of [MSD] is whether beliefs that function as mental state defeaters must have some positive epistemic status to have defeating power, specifically if they are to defeat beliefs that do have some positive epistemic status. Plantinga (2000, pp. 364-65, 2002, pp. 272-75) contends that irrational and unwarranted beliefs can defeat beliefs that are (otherwise) rational and warranted. Suppose I believe that I’m made of flesh, blood, and bone. I then come to believe – due to some cognitive disorder – that my head is made of blown glass. According to Plantinga, given that I come to hold this second belief I now have a defeater for the prior belief, even if the defeater was formed by way of cognitive malfunction. In other cases, my belief may be rational but nonetheless unwarranted, and yet it might still function as a defeater for a warranted belief. Using another example from Plantinga (2000, pp. 363-65), suppose I believe that you were born in Yankton, South Dakota. Your uncle, whom I believe to be a reliable person, told me this. My belief is warranted. But then one day you inform me in all seriousness that you were actually born in New Haven, Connecticut and you provide a reasonable explanation for why your uncle thinks otherwise. Absent any reason to suppose that you’re trying to fool me or are delusional, I have a defeater for my belief that you were born in Yankton, South Dakota. However, suppose that your parents actually lied to you about where you were born. In that case, your belief that you were born in New Haven, Connecticut would not be warranted (given Plantinga’s understanding of warrant), and neither would my belief that this is where you were born. So the defeater in this situation would be an unwarranted belief of mine. (Note that it also follows from Plantinga’s account of defeaters that a belief D can defeat a belief A with no warrant, and that D can defeat a belief A that has more warrant than D).

Now in the above cases I acquire what Plantinga calls a “rationality defeater.” By virtue of acquiring the defeating belief D I’m no longer rational in believing A. This is a consequence of an internal aspect of cognitive proper functioning, what Plantinga specifically designates internal rationality. Plantinga distinguishes between the proper functioning of our cognitive faculties “downstream” from experience (internal rationality) and the proper functioning of our cognitive faculties “upstream” from experience (external rationality) (Plantinga 2000, pp. 110-12). The former refers to the appropriate belief response to phenomenal imagery and doxastic experience, whereas the latter refers to proper functioning in the production of phenomenal imagery and doxastic experience. Internal rationality will include coherence among our beliefs and drawing the appropriate sort of inferences from what we believe. So to say that I have acquired a rationality defeater D for my belief A is to say that a certain doxastic response is called for given that I have a sensuous or doxastic experience of a certain sort. Perhaps I’m externally irrational in forming D (e.g., because I’m suffering from paranoia, dementia, or some kind of mental illness), but I’ll still be internally irrational to continue holding A given that I hold D.

Alston (2002) has argued that Plantinga’s position is counter-intuitive, and that only beliefs with positive epistemic status can defeat beliefs that have positive epistemic status, and a belief D can defeat belief A only if D has greater warrant than A. The efficacy of a defeater depends on the relative positive epistemic status of each of the beliefs being compared. Bergmann (2006, pp. 164-66) argues that Alston’s rebuttal to Plantinga is plausible as an account of belief revision or how we ought to change our beliefs. Since Plantinga parses his own account of defeaters in this way, Alston’s criticism is applicable to Plantinga’s position. However, Bergmann maintains that Alston’s argument doesn’t undermine the notion that irrational or unjustified beliefs can defeat justification. My belief that I have hands is unjustified if I believe (however irrationally) that I’m a brain in a vat, even if it’s more reasonable as a policy of belief revision to give up the belief that is less rational or less warranted.

b. Subjective and Objective Contours

Another issue, related to the first, concerns the relationship between having a mental state defeater and believing that one has such a defeater.

Plantinga suggests that, ordinarily at least, having a defeater involves one seeing or taking it that one’s belief is defeated. But would this be sufficient for having a defeater?

Alston’s criticism above entails that merely taking one’s belief to be defeated isn’t sufficient for defeat, because one might irrationally or unjustifiably take one’s belief to be defeated. This is presumably the case when, due to my irrationally believing that my head is made of blown glass, I take my belief that my head is made of flesh, bone, and blood to be defeated. Alston and some other externalists would argue that only truth-conducively justified or reliably produced beliefs can be defeaters. However, since the truth-conducivity of grounds of belief and reliability of belief formation are not introspectively accessible facts, it is possible for an otherwise internalist no-defeater condition to be parsed with an external or objective component arising from the demand that defeaters be drawn from the subject’s stock of justified beliefs or knowledge.

Internalists too may impose a similar requirement, so even if it’s necessary that the subject take his belief to be defeated (in order to have an efficacious defeater), it will also be necessary that defeating beliefs have positive epistemic credentials of some sort. If my belief that Jack is a lifeguard is to be defeated by my belief that Jack can’t swim, then the latter belief must be rational or justified. And for the internalist (unlike the externalist) that a belief has this kind of status will itself be a matter that is introspectively accessible.

Moreover, the internalist will likely require that there be the appropriate kind of negative evidential relationship between the defeater and the defeatee. That is to say, if belief d actually defeats S’s belief that p, then p will at least not be likely given d and the relevant rest of S’s beliefs. D must sufficiently lower the evidential probability of p. If we suppose that criteria of inductive (and deductive) reasoning are introspectively accessible, then an internalist version of the no mental state defeater condition can be internalist in this additional respect. It can require the absence of a negative logical relation between d and S’s belief that p, where this is introspectively accessible and so can be determined upon reflection. (Swinburne, 2001, pp. 28-31).

Bergmann (2006, pp. 160-63), however, argues for a more subjective account of defeat, which he believes is at least suggested by both Plantinga and Pollock. On Bergmann’s view, a person S has a defeater for his belief that p just if he consciously takes his belief that p to be defeated, and a person S takes his belief that p to be defeated just if S takes the belief that p to be epistemically inappropriate. For the latter, S must simply take himself to have good reasons for denying p or good reasons for doubting that the grounds of his belief that p are trustworthy, truth-indicative, or reliable. It isn’t necessary that the person have what are actually good reasons for the negative epistemic evaluation of his beliefs. It is only necessary (and sufficient) that the person take himself to have such reasons, and Bergmann places no restriction on what kinds of considerations might play this role for the subject. So on Bergmann’s view the no mental state defeater condition (as requirement for knowledge) is really a no believed defeater condition (Bergmann, 2006, p. 163). Bergmann’s no defeater condition, then, is strongly internalist since one has introspective access to whether or not one takes a particular belief to be epistemically inappropriate, even if there’s no introspective access to either the justificational status of a defeating belief or the causal origin of one’s taking a belief to be defeated.

c. Conscious and Reflective Defeaters

Since mental state defeaters include beliefs and beliefs may be occurrent or dispositional, it will be helpful to distinguish between conscious and reflective mental state defeaters (Bergmann, 1997a, pp. 116-121). There is a distinction between defeating experiences or beliefs of which one is aware at time t and defeating experiences and beliefs of which one is not aware at time t but of which one would become aware upon reflection. Similarly, there’s a distinction between consciously taking one’s belief to be defeated and this being something that one would do upon reflection. Accordingly, someone who advocates [MSD] may suppose that knowledge requires either the absence of conscious defeaters or the absence of a reflective defeater.

Some externalists advocate [MSD], specifically parsed in terms of the subject S not taking his belief that p to be defeated. Alston (1988b) appears to argue that the absence of a mental state defeater is not a necessary condition for knowledge. However, it’s fairly clear that Alston has in mind a reflective defeater, not a conscious defeater, much less a person S’s consciously taking his belief that p to be defeated. Alston asks us to suppose that there is some person who has acquired substantial evidence that his sensory experience is a radically unreliable guide to his physical environment, that he’s been the subject of a mad scientist’s neurophysiological experiments for several years. So the subject justifiably believes that his senses are not to be trusted. However, as this person is about to cross a street he seems to see a truck heading towards him, and he forms the belief that a truck is approaching. His sensory perceptual system is working fine, and a truck is approaching. Alston says that in this scenario the person knows that a truck is approaching, despite having overriding reasons for supposing that his senses are not reliable. It would seem that the person has knowledge, despite having a mental state defeater. Crucial to Alston’s account, though, is his claim that when the subject seems to see a truck approaching, he “momentarily forgets” his skepticism and acts accordingly. This makes it clear that the person in question does not consciously take his belief to be defeated when he sees the truck approaching. Rather, we have a reflective defeater, for the subject presumably would upon reflection take his belief to be defeated or epistemically inappropriate. So Alston’s scenario can’t plausibly be taken as a counter-example to a no conscious defeater requirement for knowledge, especially if this kind of requirement is parsed in terms of a subject not consciously taking her belief to be defeated.

The fact that a no conscious defeater requirement is widely subscribed to by both externalists and internalists counts in favor of its intuitive plausibility. But Bergmann (1997a, pp. 127-39) argues further that we have good reasons to reject the no reflective defeater requirement for knowledge. His argument is based on the premise that knowledge is incompatible with veritic epistemic luck but not evidential epistemic luck. Veritic luck refers to a person being lucky to believe what is true, given the evidence the person has. Evidential epistemic luck refers to a person being lucky to have the kind of evidence she has. The Political Assassination, Unopened Letters, and original Tom Grabit case discussed above (in 2.c) are arguably examples of evidential epistemic luck, whereas Goldman’s Fake Barn case is an example of veritic epistemic luck. Bergmann argues that there are cases where a person has a reflective defeater for a belief, but the situation is analogous to cases of evidential epistemic luck. So we have reason for resisting the idea that knowledge requires the absence of a reflective defeater.

Here’s Bergmann’s example (Bergmann 1997a, p 136). Due to a strange cognitive disorder Chuck thinks that reports he hears between 4:15pm and 4:30pm are highly unreliable. On a particular day, Chuck’s alarm clock wakes him up from an afternoon nap at 4:20pm. Immediately upon waking up Chuck hears noises outside his window. He looks and sees what appear to be city workers at work near a large hole in his front yard. One of the men tells Chuck that they are there to do work on the main waterline to Chuck’s house, and that Chuck’s wife was informed of this the day before. Chuck believes what he’s told, and the man is telling the truth. However, if Chuck reflected on the matter, he would believe that the man’s report was unreliable, for Chuck would have realized that he’s being given this report between 4:15pm and 4:30pm and that reports he hears during this time period are unreliable. If Chuck reflected on the matter, he would consciously take it that his belief about what these men are doing is defeated. But Bergmann argues that most of us would be strongly inclined to say that in this scenario Chuck actually knows what the men in question are doing on his property, even though Chuck has a reflective defeater for this belief. Chuck is certainly lucky here not to have evidence against his belief, but in much the same way in some Gettier-type cases (e.g., Tom Grabit case above in 2.c) the subject is lucky to have the evidence he does and not have other evidence (that is misleading) but it’s not a matter of luck that the person believes what is true given the evidence he has.

6. Taxonomy of Defeaters and Formalities of Defeat

Having considered the distinction between propositional and mental state defeaters, something should be said about the formalities of such defeaters. It’s fairly common for epistemologists to distinguish between two general ways beliefs may be defeated. There are defeaters that are reasons for supposing that p is false, and there are defeaters that are reasons that, if added to ostensible evidence for p, would sufficiently lower the likelihood that p is true. According to the first kind of defeater, we get reasons to believe the negation of p (or that p is false). According to the second, we simply lose our reasons for supposing that p is true. But let’s look at the range of defeater-types.

a. Primary-Type Defeaters: Rebutting, Undercutting, and No Reason Defeaters

(i) A rebutting defeater for some belief that p is a reason (in the broad sense) for holding the negation of p or for holding some proposition, q, incompatible with p (Pollock, 1986, p. 38). Mary sees in the distance what appears to be a sheep in the field and forms the belief that there is a sheep in the field. The owner of the field then comes by and tells her that there are no sheep in the field. She has acquired what is commonly designated a rebutting defeater for her belief that there is a sheep in the field. She has acquired a reason for supposing that there is no sheep in the field. Alternatively, she might have walked up to the object and discovered that it was actually a papier-mâché facsimile. Here she acquires a reason for believing something incompatible with her belief that there is a sheep in the field. These are of course examples of rebutting mental state defeaters. There can also be rebutting propositional defeaters. Perhaps Mary doesn’t hear the owner of the field tell her that there are no sheep in the field, but he has mentioned this to several people in the neighborhood the day she believes there is a sheep in the field. There is a true proposition that counts against the truth of Mary’s belief, even if it isn’t a proposition she believes. (Of course, as noted above in connection with defeasibility analyses, there will be many true propositions that misleadingly count against the truth of beliefs).

(ii) An undercutting defeater for some belief that p is a reason (in the broad sense) for no longer believing p, not for believing the negation of p (Pollock, 1986, p. 39). More specifically, it is a reason for supposing that one’s ground for believing p is not sufficiently indicative of the truth of the belief. A person enters a factory and sees an assembly line on which there are a number of widgets that appear red. Being appeared to red-widgetly, the person believes that there are red widgets on the assembly line. The shop superintendent then informs the person that the widgets are being irradiated by an intricate set of red lights, which allow the detection of hairline cracks otherwise invisible to the naked eye. Here the person loses his reason for supposing that the widgets are red, rather than acquires a reason for supposing that they are not red. Again, these are illustrations of undercutting mental state defeaters. There can also be propositional defeaters of the undercutting variety. The mere fact that the widgets are being irradiated with a red light would be one such example. Or suppose that Jason believes his tie is red. The fact that he is red-green colorblind might be a propositional defeater for this belief. The fact that someone is prone to perceptual hallucinations might be a propositional defeater for some range of sensory perceptual beliefs, and so forth.

(iii) A no-reason defeater is a reason for supposing that it’s no longer reasonable to believe p given that (a) one has no reason for believing p and (b) the belief that p is the sort of belief that it’s reasonable to hold only if one has evidence for p (Bergmann, 1997a, pp. 102-103). For example, Johnny believes that if he dies he will immediately thereafter be turned into a zombie. Upon reflection he can’t locate any reasons why he believes this, but he realizes that it’s the sort of belief for which he ought to have some reason if he is rationally to believe it.

Now in each of these three cases (parsed in terms of mental state defeaters), the acquisition of a defeater makes it epistemically inappropriate to continue holding a particular belief B given that (i) there is evidence against B, (ii) reasons for B have become neutralized, or (iii) there is a recognition that one has no reasons at all for holding B though one ought to have such reasons. Consequently, a person’s belief is no longer justified (or – in the case of partial defeaters – not as justified as it would be absent the defeater). If knowledge entails justification, each of these kinds of defeaters has the potential to defeat knowledge. If parsed in terms of propositional defeaters, then the corresponding true propositions are such that they prevent an overall justified true belief from counting as knowledge.

b. Secondary-Type Defeaters: Defeaters for Grounds of Inferential Beliefs

There are also defeater-types that appear to be derived from (i), (ii), and (iii), and which apply specifically to cases where beliefs are based on other beliefs, that is, inferential or mediate beliefs.

(iv) A rebutting reason-defeating defeater is a rebutting defeater against a belief, c, where c is a ground or reason for the belief that p. Mark believes that his computer has a hardware problem that is causing several operation errors. He believes this because his wife tells him that Peter told her this and Mark knows that Peter is an expert on computers. Later, though, Mark discovers that it was not Peter but John who told his wife this, but Mark believes that John has little knowledge about computers.

Thinking of defeaters in terms of argument forms, Pollock (1986, pp. 38-39) distinguished between reasons that attack a conclusion (rebutters) and reasons that attack the connection between the premises and the conclusion (undercutters). Rebutting reason-defeating defeaters are distinct from both rebutting and undercutting defeaters in Pollock’s sense. In the language of argumentation, they attack neither the conclusion nor the connection between the premises and the conclusion. A rebutting reason-defeating defeater is a species of rebutting defeater (as I defined it above), but it’s a reason to believe the negation of a belief, c, that functions as the ground or reason of another belief p. In terms of argument forms, we can say that a reason-defeating defeater is a rebutting defeater against a premise in some argument. This kind of defeater is also distinct from Pollock’s undercutting defeater. In the case of rebutting reason-defeating defeaters, it’s not that the grounds fail to be indicative of the truth of Mark’s belief that his computer has a hardware problem, but Mark comes to believe that one of his original grounds for holding this belief is false. Like undercutting defeaters, in acquiring a rebutting reason-defeating defeater we lose our reasons for supposing that the target belief that p is true. As a result, the grounds lose their power to confer justification on the target belief. However, this comes about by way of acquiring reasons for supposing that a ground of the target belief is false. (See Bergmann 1997a, pp. 99-103, for further discussion on the distinction between undercutters and reason-defeating defeaters).

(v) If we continue to think of defeaters and defeat in terms of argument structures then we can apply undercutting defeaters to more complex grounds for belief, where a belief that p is based on some further belief, q, that is in turn based on some other belief, r. An undercutting reason-defeating defeater for some belief that p is a reason for supposing that the grounds, r, for some belief that q fail to be sufficiently indicative of the truth of q, but where q is itself a ground for believing p. In terms of general logic, the premises of arguments are often themselves supported by reasons, thereby creating sub-arguments. Just as we can acquire reasons for the negation of a premise in an argument, we can acquire reasons for supposing that the premises of a sub-argument fail to be indicative of the truth of a premise in some main argument. As with rebutting reason-defeating defeaters, we lose our reasons for believing the main conclusion, p, but here we do so by virtue of losing our reasons for believing a premise, q, rather than by acquiring a reason for denying the premise q.

(vi) A no-reason reason-defeating defeater is simply the application of the no-reason defeater to the grounds of an inferentially held belief. In (iii) a belief is defeated because it’s not based on any reason but is the kind of belief that is reasonable only if there are reasons for it (or the person believes this is the case). However, even where some belief that p is based on the belief that q, the belief q may be such that it isn’t based on any reasons but it would be unreasonable to hold the belief that q unless it’s based on reasons.

7. Conclusion

This article outlined two general types of defeaters: propositional defeaters and mental state defeaters. The former are conditions external to the perspective of the cognizer that prevent an overall justified true belief from counting as knowledge. The latter are conditions internal to the perspective of the cognizer (such as experiences, beliefs, withholdings) that cancel, reduce, or even prevent justification. Propositional defeaters are designed to address the problem of accidentally true belief, whereas mental state defeaters arise from the variable nature of justification. Inasmuch as justification is necessary for knowledge, mental state defeaters are capable of defeating knowledge. This leads to the viewpoint that knowledge requires the absence of any mental state defeater. So both kinds of defeaters ultimately relate to conditions of knowledge, and the article developed each in connection with their larger epistemological territory.

This was followed by an examination of the complexities that arise in developing no propositional defeater and no mental state defeater conditions for knowledge. The defeasibility theorist must select from among different criteria to locate the relevant range of true propositions that are genuinely indicative of a defect in justification that prevents knowledge. Advocates of mental state defeaters face a range of other issues, from choosing more or less subjective accounts of mental state defeaters, to choosing between conscious and reflective types of mental state defeaters for the no defeater condition for knowledge. Synchronic and diachronic aspects of mental state defeat were also considered.

The latter part of the article outlined a taxonomy of defeaters that highlights the difference between getting defeaters for beliefs and getting defeaters specifically for beliefs based on reasons of varying degrees of complexity. Here several of the dynamics that emerge within the taxonomy of defeaters were pointed out. One of the more important distinctions is between losing one’s grounds for believing p and acquiring reasons for believing the denial of p (or for believing something incompatible with p). The article also considered several ways in which a subject might lose his grounds for believing p. While some of these involve a subject becoming unjustified in holding to some reason, r, for his believing p, others amount simply to the subject’s reasons, r, losing their power to confer justification on the target belief that p while the subject remains justified in believing r.

8. References and Further Readings

  • Alston, William. 2005. Beyond Justification: Dimensions of Epistemic Evaluation. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
    • Alston provides a systematic analysis of various epistemic desiderata and their implications for revising our approach to the concept of epistemic justification.
  • Alston, William. 2002. “Plantinga, Naturalism, and Defeat.” In James Beilby (ed), Naturalism Defeated? Essays on Plantinga’s Evolutionary Argument against Naturalism. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, pp. 176-203.
    • Alston examines Plantinga’s evolutionary argument against naturalism and offers criticisms of Plantinga’s suggestion that an irrational belief can function as a defeater.
  • Alston, William. 1989. Epistemic Justification. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
    • This is Alston’s collection of previously published essays on substantive and meta-questions in epistemology, including essays on foundationalism and the concept of epistemic justification.
  • Alston, William. 1988a. “An Internalist Externalism.” Synthese 74: 265-83. Reprinted in Alston, 1989, pp. 227-45. Page references are from reprint.
    • Alston develops a theory of epistemic justification that combines elements of externalism and internalism.
  • Alston, William. 1988b. “Justification and Knowledge.” Proceedings of the World Congress of Philosophy, 5. Reprinted in Alston, 1989, pp. 172-82. Page references are from reprint.
    • Alston argues that justification (construed in both internalist and externalist ways) is not necessary for knowledge. The essay includes an argument for supposing that a person can know p even though she has a certain kind of mental state defeater for her belief.
  • Alston, William. 1986. “Internalism and Externalism in Epistemology.” Philosophical Topics, 14: 179-221. Reprinted in Alston, 1989, pp. 185-226. Page references are from reprint.
    • Alston’s examination of internalist and externalist approaches to justification.
  • Alston, William. 1983. “What’s Wrong with Immediate Knowledge?” Synthese, 55:73-95. Reprinted in Alston, 1989, pp. 57-78. Page references are from reprint.
    • Alston critically examines various objections to “immediate knowledge” and argues that these objections rest on various implausible assumptions about the character of immediate knowledge.
  • Alston, William. 1976. “Has Foundationalism Been Refuted?” Philosophical Studies, 29: 287-305. Reprinted in Alston, 1989, pp. 39-56. Page references are from reprint.
    • Alston defends “minimal foundationalism” against the criticisms of foundationalism raised by Frederick L. Will and Keith Lehrer.
  • Annis, David. 1973. “Knowledge and Defeasibility.” Philosophical Studies, 24: 199-203.
    • Critical response to the defeasibility analysis provided by Lehrer and Paxson in Lehrer and Paxson, 1969, and which examines the nature of misleading or defective defeaters.
  • Audi, Robert. 1993. The Structure of Justification. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    • Audi’s previously published essays on various topics in epistemology, including his development and defense of moderate foundationalism and the idea of “negative evidential dependence.”
  • Barker, John. 1976. “What You Don’t Know Won’t Hurt You.” American Philosophical Quarterly, 13: 303-308.
    • Barker attempts to tackle the Gettier problem in terms of a defeasibility analysis that distinguishes between genuine and misleading defeaters.
  • Beilby, James (ed). 2002. Naturalism Defeated? Essays on Plantinga’s Evolutionary Argument against Naturalism. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
    • Essays discussing Alvin Plantinga’s evolutionary argument against naturalism, some of which discuss Plantinga’s notion of rationality defeaters.
  • Bergmann, Michael. 2006. Justification without Awareness. New York: Oxford University Press.
    • Bergmann defends an externalist theory of justification, which includes both a proper function and no mental state defeater requirement.
  • Bergmann, Michael. 2005. “Defeaters and Higher-Level Requirements.” Philosophical Quarterly, 55: 419-36.
  • Bergmann, Michael. 2000. “Deontology and Defeat.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 60: 87-102.
    • Bergmann argues that deontologism does not lend support to internalism. Essay provides several helpful observations on defeaters.
  • Bergmann, Michael. 1997a. “Internalism, Externalism, and Epistemic Defeat.” (PhD Dissertation: University of Notre Dame).
    • Bergmann provides a detailed examination of the nature of defeaters and their relation to internalist and externalist theories of knowledge.
  • Bergmann, Michael. 1997b. “Internalism, Externalism, and the No-Defeater Condition.” Synthese, 110: 399-417.
    • Bergmann argues that the no mental state defeater condition being necessary for warrant is compatible with externalist theories of warrant. Section 4 contains an analysis of externalists who endorse some version of the no mental state defeater condition.
  • Boonin, Leonard G. 1966. “Concerning the Defeasibility of Legal Rules.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 26: 371-78.
    • Boonin examines the meaning of defeasibility in law and its implications for legal analysis.
  • Chisholm, Roderick. 1989. Theory of Knowledge. 3rd edition. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall.
    • Chisholm provides an internalist response to the Gettier problem, as well as an account of defeasible justification influenced by defeasibility in moral philosophy. First edition: 1966.
  • Gettier, Edmund. 1963. “Is True Belief Knowledge?” Analysis, 23: 121-23.
    • Gettier’s famous paper in which he argues that beliefs can be both true and justified and yet fail to constitute knowledge.
  • Goldman, Alvin. 1986. Epistemology and Cognition. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
    • Goldman endorses a version of reliabilism with a no mental state defeater requirement for justification.
  • Goldman, Alvin. 1976. “Discrimination and Perceptual Knowledge.” Journal of Philosophy, 73: 771-91.
    • Goldman discusses a causal theory of perceptual knowledge and defeasibility analyses of knowledge. The essay includes the famous “Fake Barn” scenario, a Gettier-type case initially suggested to Goldman by Carl Ginet.
  • Harman, Gilbert. 1973. Thought. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
    • Text contains Harman’s “Political Assassination” and “Unopened Letters” Gettier cases.
  • Hart, H.L.A. 1961. “The Ascription of Responsibility and Rights.” In Herbert Morris (ed), Freedom and Responsibility: Readings in Philosophy and Law. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, pp. 143-48. Originally published in Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 1948-49, 49: 171-94. Page references are from the reprint.
    • This is Hart’s classic discussion of the defeasibility of legal rules.
  • Klein, Peter. 1981. Certainty: A Refutation of Skepticism. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press.
    • Klein presents his revised and detailed development of a defeasibility analysis of knowledge.
  • Klein, Peter. 1976. “Knowledge, Causality, and Defeasibility.” The Journal of Philosophy, 73: 792-812.
  • Klein, Peter. 1971. “A Proposed Definition of Propositional Knowledge.” The Journal of Philosophy, 68: 471-82.
    • Klein presents a defeasibility analysis of propositional knowledge to handle the intuition that knowledge cannot be accidentally true belief.
  • Kvanvig, Jonathan L. (ed). 1996. Warrant in Contemporary Epistemology: Essays in Honor of Alvin Plantinga’s Theory of Knowledge. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield.
    • A collection of essays on Alvin Plantinga’s theory of warrant by prominent contemporary epistemologists. See especially articles by Peter Klein (pp. 97-130) and Marshall Swain (pp.131-146), both of whom address defeasibility analyses of knowledge in relation to Plantinga’s theory of warrant.
  • Lehrer, Keith and Paxson, Thomas. 1969. “Knowledge: Undefeated Justified True Belief.” Journal of Philosophy, 66: 225-37.
    • Influential early defeasibility analysis of knowledge in response to the Gettier problem, focusing on the problem of specifying the relevant sub-set of true propositions that are indicative of a defect in justification. The essay includes the widely discussed “Tom Grabit” illustrations.
  • Nozick, Robert. 1981. Philosophical Explanations. Cambridge, MA: the Belknap Press.
    • An externalist account of knowledge that requires that the absence of a certain kind of mental state defeater, specifically that a person not believe that his belief does not track truth.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 2002. “Reply to Beilby’s Cohorts.” In James Beilby (ed), 2002, pp. 204-75.
    • Plantinga responds to criticisms of his evolutionary argument against naturalism. His detailed comments on rationality defeaters are particularly relevant.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 2000. Warranted Christian Belief. New York: Oxford University Press.
    • Plantinga applies his externalist theory of warrant and proper function to questions regarding the positive epistemic status of Christian belief. In chapter 11 Plantinga provides a more developed account of his view of rationality defeaters earlier introduced in Plantinga 1993a.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1996. “Respondeo” in Jonathan Kvanvig (ed), Warrant in Contemporary Epistemology. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, pp. 307-78.
    • Plantinga responds to various criticisms of his externalist theory of warrant and proper function. Particularly relevant here is Plantinga’s discussion of defeasibility analyses of knowledge in response to Klein and Swain, pp. 317-26.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1995. “Reliabilism, Analyses, and Defeaters.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 55: 427-64.
    • An early version of Plantinga’s evolutionary argument against naturalism in which he provides some detailed reflections on rationality defeaters, subsequently developed by Plantinga in Plantinga 2000.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1993a. Warrant and Proper Function. New York: Oxford University Press.
    • Plantinga’s earlier discussion of rationality defeaters and the defeater system (pp. 40-42, 216-37) in the larger context of his theory of warrant as requiring the proper functioning of our cognitive faculties.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1993b. Warrant: The Current Debate. New York: Oxford University Press.
    • Plantinga articulates various inadequacies in contemporary internalist and externalist theories of warrant. The appendix examines Pollock’s conception of defeaters.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. 1986. “The Foundations of Theism: A Reply.” Faith and Philosophy 3, 3: 310-312.
    • Plantinga responds to Philip Quinn’s criticisms of Plantinga’s proper basicality thesis regarding theistic belief. Plantinga presents the idea of an intrinsic defeater-defeater.
  • Pollock, John. 1986. Contemporary Theories of Knowledge. Savage, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.
    • Pollock’s account of justification utilizes a detailed account of mental state defeaters.
  • Pollock, John. 1984. “Reliability and Justified Belief.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 14, 103:114. Reprinted in Moser, Paul K. (ed). 1986. Empirical Knowledge: Readings in Contemporary Epistemology. Savage, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, pp.193-202.
    • Pollock discusses how the acquisition of reasons for supposing that a belief was unreliably produced defeat justification, but that this does not commit the epistemologist to a reliabilist theory of justification.
  • Pollock, John. 1974. Knowledge and Justification. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
  • Pollock, John. 1970. “The Structure of Epistemic Justification.” American Philosophical Quarterly, monograph series 4: 62-78.
    • Article contains Pollock’s early reference to two kinds of defeaters, Type I and Type II excluders, which later become rebutting and undercutting defeaters.
  • Shope, Robert. 1983. The Analysis of Knowing: A Decade of Research. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
    • Shope provides an overview of a dozen or so early attempts to resolve the Gettier problem. Chapter two examines defeasibility analyses.
  • Steup, Matthias. 1996. An Introduction to Contemporary Epistemology. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.
    • In chapter 1 Steup distinguishes between propositional defeaters (what he calls factual defeaters) and mental state defeaters (what he calls justificational defeaters) and considers their implications for various issues in epistemology.
  • Sudduth, Michael. 1999. “The Internalist Character and Evidentialist Implications of Plantingian Defeaters.” The International Journal for the Philosophy of Religion, 45: 167-187.
    • Sudduth argues that Plantinga’s notion of a “defeater system” (as a part of cognitive proper functioning) entails two significant evidentialist conditions for warranted belief in God.
  • Swain, Marshall. 1981. Reasons and Knowledge. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
    • Swain attempts to address inadequacies in defeasibility analyses by combining a reliabilist indicator view of justification and a causal account of the basing relation.
  • Swain, Marshall. 1974. “Epistemic Defeasibility.” The American Philosophical Quarterly, 11,1: 15-25.
    • Swain examines defeasible vs. indefeasible justification in relation to the Gettier problem and the analysis of knowledge.
  • Swinburne, Richard. 2001. Epistemic Justification. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
    • A development and defense of epistemic internalism, with chapters on Bayesian probability. Swinburne adopts a defeasibility analysis to handle the Gettier problem (pp. 192-200), but also incorporates mental state defeaters in his account of justification (pp. 28-31).

Author Information

Michael Sudduth
Email: michaelsudduth “at” comcast “dot” net
San Francisco State University
U. S. A.

Alexandre Kojève (1902—1968)

picAlexandre Kojève was responsible for the serious introduction of Hegel into 20th Century French philosophy, influencing many leading French intellectuals who attended his seminar on The Phenomenology of Spirit in Paris in the 30s. He focused on Hegel’s philosophy of history and is best known for his theory of ‘the end of history’ and for initiating ‘existential Marxism.’ Kojève arrives at what is generally considered a truly original interpretation by reading Hegel through the twin lenses of Marx’s materialism and Heidegger’s temporalised ontology.

For Hegel, human history is the history of ‘thought’ as it attempts to understand itself and its relation to the world. He postulates that history began with unity, but into which man, a questioning ‘I’, emerges introducing dualism and splits. Man attempts to heal these sequences of ‘alienations’ dialectically, and drives history forwards, but in so doing causes new divisions which must then be overcome. Hegel sees the possibility of ‘historical reconciliation’ lying in the rational realization of underlying unity – the manifestation of an absolute spirit or ‘geist’ – leading to humanity living according to a unified, shared morality: the end of history.

Kojève takes these ideas of universal historical process and the reconciliation towards unity, and synthesizes them with theories of Marx and Heidegger. He takes Marx’s productivist philosophy that places the transformative activity of a desiring being centre-stage in the historical process, housing it within the conditions of material pursuit and ideological struggle. Drawing on Heidegger, he also defines this being as free, ‘negative’ and radically temporal, thereby recognizing and ‘reclaiming’ its mortality, ridding it of determinism and metaphysical illusion, allowing it to produce its own reality through experience alone.

This article examines the Hegelian context of Kojève’s work, and analyses how Marx and Heidegger contribute to his theory. It also outlines Kojeve’s vision of the culmination of history; how this fits into 20th Century politics; and the profound influence he had on French intellectuals including Sartre, Lacan and Breton, and on America intellectuals including Leo Strauss, Alan Bloom and Francis Fukuyama.

Table of Contents

  1. Chronology of Life and Works
  2. The Hegelian Context
  3. The Influence of Marx
  4. The Influence of Heidegger
  5. The End of History and the Last Man
  6. Kojève’s Influence
  7. References and Further Reading

1. Chronology of Life and Works

French philosopher (1902-1968), born Aleksandr Vladimirovich Kozhevnikov in Russia. Kojève studied in Heidelberg, Germany where, under the supervision of Karl Jaspers, he completed a thesis (Die religöse Philosophie Wladimir Solowjews, 1931) on Vladimir Solovyov, a Russian religious philosopher deeply influenced by Hegel. He later settled in Paris, where he taught at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Ētudes. Taking over from Alexandre Koyré, he taught a seminar on Hegel from 1933 till 1939. Along with Jean Hyppolite, he was responsible for the serious introduction of Hegel into French thought. His lectures exerted a profound influence (both direct and indirect) over many leading French philosophers and intellectuals – amongst them Sartre, Merleau-Ponty, Lacan, Bataille, Althusser, Queneau, Aron, and Breton. Via his friend Leo Strauss, Kojève’s thought also exerted influence in America, most especially over Allan Bloom and, later, Francis Fukuyama. His lectures on Hegel were published in 1947 under the title Introduction à la lecture de Hegel, appearing in English as Introduction to the Reading of Hegel (1969). After the Second World War Kojève worked in the French Ministry of Economic Affairs, until his death in 1968. Here he exercised a profound, mandarin influence over French policy, including a role as one of the leading architects of the EEC and GATT. He continued to write philosophy over these years, including works on the pre-Socratics, Kant, the concept of right, the temporal dimensions of philosophical wisdom, the relationship between Christianity and both Western science and communism, and the development of capitalism. Many of these works were only published posthumously.

2. The Hegelian Context

Hegel‘s philosophy of history, most especially the historicist philosophy of consciousness developed in the Phenomenology of Spirit, provides the core of Kojève’s own work. However, Kojève’s Hegel lectures are not so much an exegesis of Hegel’s thought, as a profoundly original reinterpretation. By reading Hegel’s philosophy of consciousness through the twin lenses of Marx’s materialism and Heidegger’s temporalised ontology of human being (Dasein), Kojève can rightly be said to have initiated ‘existential Marxism’. Here I will briefly sketch the most salient dimensions of Hegel’s philosophy of history, before proceeding to outline Kojève’s own interpretation of it.

Perhaps the core of Hegel’s philosophy is the idea that human history is the history of thought as it attempts to understand itself and its relation to its world. History is the history of reason, as it grapples with its own nature and its relation to that with which it is confronted (other beings, nature, the eternal). The historical movement of this reason is one of a sequence of alienations (Entfremdungen) or splits, and the subsequent attempt to reconcile these divisions through a restoration of unity. Thus, for example, Hegel sees the world of the Athenian Greeks as one in which people lived in a harmonious relation to their community and the world about, the basis of this harmony being provided by a pre-reflective commitment to shared customs, conventions and habits of thought and action. With the beginnings of Socratic philosophy, however, division and separation is introduced into thought – customary answers to questions of truth, morality, and reality are brought under suspicion. A questioning ‘I’ emerges, one that experiences itself as distinct and apart from other beings, from customary rules, and from a natural world that becomes an ‘object’ for it. This introduces into experience a set of ‘dualisms’ – between subject and object, man and nature, desire and duty, the human and the divine, the individual and the collectivity. For Hegel, the historical movement of thought is a ‘dialectical’ process wherein these divisions are put through processes of reconciliation, producing in turn new divisions, which thought in turn attempts to reconcile. Historically, this task of reconciliation has been embodied in many forms – in art, in religion, and in philosophy. Enlightenment philosophy, the philosophy of Hegel’s own time, is the latest and most sophisticated attempt to reconcile these divisions through reason alone, to freely find man’s place amongst others and the universe as a whole. This, for Hegel, is only to be achieved through the overcoming (Aufhebung) of false divisions, by grasping that underlying apparent schisms (such as that between subject and object) there is a unity, with all elements being manifestations of an Absolute Spirit (Geist). Thus Hegel sees the key to historical reconciliation lying in the rational realisation of underlying unity, a unity that can, in time, come to connect individuals with each other and with the world in which they live. Universal history is the product of reason, leading (potentially) to a reconciled humanity, at one with itself, living according to a shared morality that is the outcome of rational reflection.

3. The Influence of Marx

Hegel’s philosophy of universal history furnishes that basic framework of Kojève’s philosophical stance. History is a processual movement in which division is subjected to reconciliation, culminating in ‘the end of history’, its completion in a universal society of mutual recognition and affirmation.

However, Kojève reworks Hegel in number of crucial (and, amongst Hegel scholars, controversial) ways. The first of these may be identified with the influence of Marx, especially the writings of the so-called ‘1848 manuscripts’. Kojève follows Marx’s ‘inverted Hegelianism’ by understanding the labor of historical development in broadly ‘materialist’ terms. The making of history is no longer simply a case of reason at work in the world, but of man’s activity as a being who collectively produces his own being. This occurs through the labor of appropriating and transforming his material world in order to satisfy his own needs. Whereas Hegel’s idealism gives priority to the forms of consciousness that produce the world as experienced, Kojève follows Marx in tying consciousness to the labor of material production and the satisfaction of human desires thereby. While Hegel recuperates human consciousness into a theological totality (Geist or ‘Absolute Spirit’), Kojève secularises human history, seeing it as solely the product of man’s self-production. Whereas Hegelian reconciliation is ultimately the reconciliation of man with God (totality or the Absolute), for Kojève the division of man from himself is transcended in humanist terms. If Hegel sees the end of history as the final moment of reconciliation with God or Spirit, Kojève (Like Feurbach and Marx) sees it as the transcendence of an illusion, in which God (man’s alienated essence, Wesen) is reclaimed by man. Whereas the Hegelian totality provides a prior set of ontological relations between man and world waiting to be apprehended by a maturing consciousness, Kojève sees human action as the transformative process that produces those ontological relations. While Hegel arguably presents a ‘panlogistic’ relation between man and nature, unifying the two in the Absolute, Kojève sees a fundamental disjunction between the two domains, providing the conditions for human self-production through man’s negating and transforming activities.

Perhaps the conceptual key to Kojève’s understanding of universal history is desire. Desire functions as the engine of history – it is man’s pursuit in realisation of his desires that drives the struggles between men. Desire is the permanent and universal feature of human existence, and when transformed into action it is the basis of all historical agency. The desire for ‘recognition’ (Anerkennung), the validation of human worth and the satisfaction of needs, propels the struggles and processes that make for historical progression. History moves through a series of determinate configurations, culminating in the end of history, a state in which a common and universal humanity is finally realised. This would entail ‘the formation of a society…in which the strictly particular, personal, individual value of each is recognised as such’. Hence individual values and needs would converge upon a common settlement in which a shared human nature (comprising the desires and inclinations that define humanity as such) would find its satisfaction.

How and why is this realisation of mutuality and equality to come about? Kojève follows Hegel’s famous presentation of the ‘master-slave’ dialectic in order to deduce the necessary overcoming of inequality, division and subordination. The relation of ‘master’ and ‘slave’ is one in which the satisfaction of a dominant group’s or class’ needs (the ‘masters’) is met through the subordination of others (the ‘slaves’ or ‘bondsmen’). The ‘slave’ exists only to affirm the superiority and humanity of the ‘master’, and to furnish the ‘master’s’ needs by surrendering up his labor. However, this relation is doomed to failure, for two fundamental reasons. Firstly, the ‘master’ desires the recognition and affirmation of his full humanity and value, and uses the subordinated ‘slave’ for that end. This means that the ‘master’, perversely, is dependent upon the ‘slave’, thus inverting the relation of domination. Moreover, this forced relation of recognition remains thoroughly incomplete, since the ‘slave’ is not in a position to grant affirmation freely, but is compelled to do so due to his subordination. Affirmation or recognition that is not freely given counts for nothing. As Kojève puts it:

The relation between Master and Slave…is not recognition properly so-called…The Master is not the only one to consider himself Master. The Slave, also, considers him as such. Hence, he is recognized in his human reality and dignity. But this recognition is one-sided, for he does not recognize in turn the Slave’s human reality and dignity. Hence, he is recognized by someone whom he does not recognize. And this is what is insufficient – what is tragic – in his situation…For he can be satisfied only by recognition from one whom he recognizes as worthy of recognizing him.

This establishes the constitutive need for mutual recognition and formal equality, if recognition of value is to be established. It is only when there is mutuality and recognition of all, that the recognition of any one becomes fully possible.

Secondly, for Kojève (as for Marx) it is the laboring ‘slave’ who is the key to historical progress. It is the ‘slave’ who works, and consequently it is he and not the ‘master’ who exercises his ‘negativity’ in transforming the world in line with human wants and desires. So, on the material level, the slave possesses the key to his own liberation, namely his active mastery of nature. Moreover, the ‘master’ has no desire to transform the world, whereas the ‘slave’, unsatisfied with his condition, imagines and attempts to realise a world of freedom in which his value will finally be recognised and his own desires satisfied. The slave’s ideological struggle is to overcome his own fear of death and take-up struggle against the ‘master’, demanding the recognition of his value and freedom. The coincidence of material and ideological conditions of liberation were already made manifest, for Kojève, by the revolutions of the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries; these struggles set the conditions for the completion of history in the form of universal society.

4. The Influence of Heidegger

If Marx furnishes one central resource for Kojève’s rereading of Hegel, Heidegger provides the other. From Heidegger, Kojève takes the insight that humankind is distinguished from nature through its distinctive ontological self-relation. Man’s being is conditioned by its radically temporal character, its understanding of its being in time, with finitude or death as its ultimate horizon. Kojève’s ontology is, pace Heidegger’s analysis of Dasein in Being & Time, first and foremost experiential and existential. By bringing together Hegel with Heidegger, Kojève attempts to radically historicise existentialism, while simultaneously giving Hegelian historicity a radically existential twist, wherein man’s existential freedom defines his being. Freedom is understood as the ontological relation of ‘negativity’, the incompleteness of human being, its constitutive ‘lack’. It is precisely because of this lack of a fully constituted being that man experiences (or, more properly is nothing other than) desire. The negativity of being, manifest as desire, makes possible man’s self-making, the process of ‘becoming’. This position can be see to draw inspiration from Heidegger’s critique of the transcendental preoccupations of Western thought, which he claims set reified, metaphysically assured figurations of Being over and above the processes of Becoming (wherein the ‘Being of Beings’, das Sein des Seieinden, is variously revealed within the horizon of temporality). The disavowal of such metaphysically anchored and ultimately timeless configurations of human being frees man from determinism and ‘throws’ him into his existential freedom. In Kojève’s thinking, man’s struggle is to exercise this freedom in order to produce a world in which his desires are satisfied, in the course of which he comes to accept his own freedom, ridding himself of the illusions of religion and superstition, ‘heroically’ claiming his own finitude or mortality.

We can see, then, how Kojève attempts to synthesise Hegel, Marx and Heidegger. From Hegel he takes the notion of a universal historical process within which reconciliation unfolds through an intersubjective dialectic, resulting in unity. From Marx he takes a secularised, de-theologised, and productivist philosophical anthropology, one that places the transformative activity of a desiring being centre stage in the historical process. From Heidegger, he takes the existentialist interpretation of human being as free, negative, and radically temporal. Pulling three together, he presents a vision of human history in which man grasps his freedom to produce himself and his world in pursuit of his desires, and in doing so drives history toward its end (understood both as culmination or exhaustion, and its goal or completion).

5. The End of History and the Last Man

Kojève’s vision of the culmination of history has, in recent years, exercised a renewed influence, not least in light of the collapse of Soviet communism and its satellite states. If we examine the vision of completion that Kojève held-out, we can see precisely why the advocates (or apologists) of a post-Cold War global capitalist order have drawn such inspiration from Kojève’s thesis.

For Kojève, historical reconciliation will culminate in the equal recognition of all individuals. This recognition will remove the rationale for war and struggle, and so will usher-in peace. In this way, history, politically speaking, culminates in a universal (global) order which is without classes or distinctions – in Hegelian terms, there are no longer any ‘masters’ and ‘slaves’, only free human beings who mutually recognise and affirm each others’ freedom. This political moment takes the form of law, which confers universal recognition upon all individuals, thereby satisfying the particular individual’s desire to be affirmed as an equal amongst others.

Simultaneously, the progression of man’s productive capacities, his ability to take nature and transform it in order to satisfy his own needs and desires, will result in prosperity and freedom from such want. For Kojève, the economic culmination of human productive capacities finds its apotheosis not in communism, but in capitalism. Like Marx, Kojève believed that capitalism had unleashed productive forces, generating heretofore unimagined wealth. Moreover, like Marx he believed that the expansion of capitalism was an homogenising force, producing a globalising cultural standard that laid waste to local attachments, traditions and boundaries, replacing them with bourgeoisie values. Kojève departs from Marxism (and its variants such as Leninism) by rejecting the notion that capitalism contained inherent contradictions that would inevitably bring about its demise and supercession by communism. Marx thought that the immiseration of workers under 19th century capitalism would worsen as the pressure of market competition would lead to ever-more brutal extraction of surplus from workers’ labor, in attempt to offset the falling rate of profit. This would result in the pauperisation of the proletariat, and capitalism’s inability to avoid such crisis would necessitate the overthrow of its relations by a proletariat raised up to class consciousness under the conditions of its immiseration. Kojève, in contrast, believed that 20th century capitalism had found a way out of these contradictions, finding ways to yoke the market system to a redistributive arrangement that managed to spread the wealth it produced. Far from becoming increasingly impoverished, the working class was coming to enjoy unprecedented prosperity. This is why Kojève, as early as 1948, was proclaiming the United States as the economic model for the ‘post-historical’ world, the most efficient and successful in conquering nature in order to provide for human material needs. Hence he asserted, long before the final collapse of the Soviet empire, that the Cold War would end in the triumph of the capitalist West, achieved through economic rather than military means.

The end of history would also usher-in other distinctive forms. Philosophically, it would end in absolute knowledge displacing ideology. Artistically, the reconciled consciousness would express itself through abstract art – while pictorial and representational art captured cultural specifics, these specifics would have been effaced, leaving abstract aesthetic forms as the embodiment of universal and homogeneous consciousness.

However, Kojève’s disposition to the culmination of universal history is radically ambivalent. On the one hand, he follows Marx by seeing in idyllic terms the post-historical world, one of universal freedom, emancipation from war and want, leaving space for “art, love, play, and so forth; in short, everything that makes Man happy”. However, Kojève is simultaneously beset by pessimism. In his philosophical anthropology, man is defined by his negating activity, by his struggle to overcome himself and nature through struggle and contestation. This is the ontological definition of man, his raison d’etre. Yet the end of history marks the end of this struggle, thereby exhausting man of the activity which has defined his essence. The end of history ushers-in the ‘death of man’; paradoxically, man is robbed of the definitional core of his existence precisely at the moment of his triumph. Post-historical man will no longer be ‘man’ as we understand him, but will be ‘reanimalized’, such that the end of history marks the ‘definitive annihilation of Man properly so-called‘.

6. Kojève’s Influence

The influence of Kojève’s thought has been profound, both within France and beyond. It is possible to trace many connections within French philosophy that owe varying degrees of debt to Kojève, given that his distinctive reinterpretation of Hegel was key for the French reception of Hegel’s thought. However, there are also a number of important philosophers for whom Kojève’s Hegelianism provided direct insights that were taken-up and in-turn used to found distinctive philosophical positions.

Firstly, we must note the importance of Kojève’s Hegelianism for Sartre‘s philosophical development. It is a matter of on-going contention whether or not Sartre personally attended the Hegel seminars of the 1930s. However, it can reasonably be claimed that Kojève’s existential and Marxian reading of the Phenomenology was equally important as Heidegger’s Being & Time for the position presented in Sartre’s Being & Nothingness. Central to Sartre’s account is a thoroughly Kojèveian philosophical anthropology, one which finds man’s essence in his freedom as pure negative activity, existentially separating the human for-itself (pour-soi) from the natural world of reified Being (en-soi). Sartre’s account of the ‘master-slave’ dialectic follows Kojève’s in its existential reworking, albeit without the optimism that finds a possibility of reconciliation in this intersubjective struggle (for Sartre, the dialectic is doomed to repeat a struggle for domination in which each party attempts to claim its own freedom via the mortification of the other’s Being). Moreover, Sartre’s subsequent attempts to reconcile historical materialism with existentialism owe more than a passing debt to Kojève’s original formulation of an ‘existential Marxist’ position.

Another eminent thinker for whom Kojève proved decisive was Jacques Lacan. Lacan’s account of psycho-social formation was developed through a synthesis of Freud and structuralism, read through Kojève’s ontologised version of the ‘master-slave’ dialectic. For Lacan, following Kojève, human subjectivity is defined first and foremost by desire. It is the experience of lack, the twin of the experience of desire, that provides the ontological condition of subject formation; it is only through the lack-desire dyad that a being comes into the awareness of its own separation from the world in which it is, at first, thoroughly immersed. Moreover, Lacan’s account of the childhood development of self-consciousness, captured through his analysis of the ‘mirror-stage’, replays the intersubjective mediation of consciousness that Kojève presented to his French students (Lacan amongst them) in the Hegel lectures.

Kojève also profoundly influenced the likes of Georges Bataille and Raymond Queneau, both through the lectures they attended, and through the friendships he maintained with them for many years after. Queneau is often associated with Andre Breton and the surrealists (with whom he broke in 1929), but his novels present a vision of the world that is profoundly indebted to Kojève. Many of his most famous books depict life at the end of history; there is no more historical movement, progress or transformation to come, and his characters live in a kind of ‘eternal present’ attending to the activities of everyday enjoyment. History recurs as something that can only be enjoyed as a tourist attraction, or as a reverie of the past, viewed from the vantage point of its demise. Bataille (anthropologist, philosopher and pornographer, a doyen of recent postmodern aestheticism and anti-rationalism) was perhaps the most powerful articulator of Kojève’s pessimism in the face of the ‘death of man’. The victory of reason was, for Bataille, a curse; its inevitable triumph in the unstoppable march of modernity brought with it homogeneity, order, and disenchantment. The triumph of reason as history meant the twilight and death of man, as the excessive and destructive power of negativity was displaced by harmonious, reciprocal equilibrium. Bataille’s response, a liberatory struggle against these forces through the evocation of perverse desires, madness, and anguish, takes Kojève’s prognosis at its word, and stages a heroic resistance against the tide of historical forces.

The influence of Kojève outside France has probably been most pronounced in the United States. His ideas achieved a new salience and exposure with the publication of Francis Fukayama’s The End of History and the Last Man (1992), in the wake of the Cold War. Fukayama was a student of Allan Bloom’s, who in turn was a ‘disciple’ of the ‘esoteric’ émigré political philosopher Leo Strauss. It was Strauss who introduced a generation of his students to Kojève’s thought, and in Bloom’s case, arranged for him to study with Kojève in Paris in the 1960s. The book, an international bestseller, presents nothing less than a triumphal vindication of Kojève’s supposedly prescient thesis that history has found its end in the global triumph of capitalism and liberal democracy. With the final demise of Soviet Marxism, and the global hegemony of capitalism, we have finally reached the end of history. There are no more battles to be fought, no more experiments in social engineering to be attempted; the world has arrived at a homogenised state in which the combination of capitalism and liberal democracy will reign supreme, and all other cultural and ideological systems will be consigned irretrievably to the past. Fukayama follows Kojève in tying the triumph of capitalism to the satisfaction of material human needs. Moreover, he sees it as the primary mechanism for the provision of recognition and value. Consumerism and the commodity form, for Fukayama, present the means by which recognition is mediated. Humans desire to be valued by others, and the means of appropriating that valuation is the appropriation of the things that others themselves value; hence lifestyle and fashion become the mechanisms of mutual esteem in a post-historical world governed by the logic of capitalist individualism.

7. References and Further Reading

  • Butler, Judith: Subjects of Desire: Hegelian Reflections in Twentieth Century France. New York, Columbia University Press, 1999
  • Descombes, Vincent: Modern French Philosophy. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1980
  • Drury, Shadia B: Alexandre Kojève: The Roots of Postmodern Politics. Basingstoke, Macmillan, 1994
  • Fukuyama, Francis: The End of History and the Last Man. Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1992
  • Hegel, G.W.F: Phenomenology of Spirit. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1977
  • Heidegger, Martin: Being and Time. Oxford, Blackwell, 1962
  • Kojève, Alexander: Introduction to the Reading of Hegel. New York, Basic Books, 1969
  • Kojève, Alexander: Kant. Paris, Gallimard, 1973
  • Kojève, Alexander: Le Concept, le Temps et le Discours. Paris, Gallimard, 1991
  • Kojève, Alexander: Outline of a Phenomenology of Right. London, Rowman & Littlefield, 2000
  • Lacan, Jacques: Ecrits: A Selection. London, Tavistock, 1977
  • Poster, Mark: Existential Marxism in Postwar France: From Sartre to Althusser. Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1975
  • Roth, Michael S: Knowing and History: Appropriations of Hegel in Twentieth Century France. Ithaca and London, Cornell University Press, 1988
  • Sartre, Jean-Paul: Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. London, Routledge , 1989

Author Information

Majid Yar
Email: m_yar@hotmail.com
United Kingdom

Jacqueline Pascal (1625—1661)

pascal_jA Cistercian nun, Jacqueline Pascal made a major contribution to philosophy of education through her treatise on the methods and principles of the pedagogy used at the convent school at Port-Royal. In her educational theory, the teacher emerges as a spiritual director who encourages the moral progress of her pupils through ascetical exercises and personal interviews. The right of women to acquire a theological culture and the right of the teaching nun to engage in theological commentary are defended in this model of education. Jacqueline Pascal’s writings also developed a substantial defense of the freedom of conscience, especially when exercised by women. She defended the right of women to pursue their personal vocation, regardless of economic resources and of parental attitude. During the crisis over Jansenism, she defended the right of women to dissent from certain ecclesiastical judgments despite civil and ecclesiastical pressures to assent to them. In her meditations on the divine attributes, Pascal employed a via negativa theology that stresses the unknowability of the hidden godhead. The divine essence transcends the gendered contours of the images of God. Long eclipsed by the philosophical genius of her brother Blaise, Jacqueline Pascal has recently emerged as the artisan of an educational, political, and religious philosophy with its own distinctive concerns.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Philosophical Themes
    1. Philosophy of Education
    2. Vocational Freedom
    3. Freedom of Conscience
    4. Apophatic Theology
  4. Reception and Interpretation
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Biography

Jacqueline Pascal was born on October 5, 1625 in Clermont in the French province of Auvergne. A member of the noblesse de robe, the Pascal family had long distinguished itself by its judicial and political service. A lawyer by training, her father Étienne Pascal served as president of the Cour des Aides, a provincial tax court. Her mother Antoinette Begon Pascal descended from a family of French diplomats and judges. The last of the family’s children, Jacqueline had Gilberte Pascal Périer (1620-1687) and Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) for siblings. With the death of his wife shortly after Jacqueline’s birth, Étienne Pascal began to educate his children at home. An erudite scholar with a pronounced interest in mathematics, the father provided his children with an education stressing mathematics and philosophy as well as instruction in literature and history.

Étienne Pascal moved his family to Paris in 1631. He immediately joined the intellectual circles of the capital, including the circle of Father Mersenne, the patron of Descartes. Delegated to teach her sister Jacqueline to read, Gilberte Pascal discovered her sister’s precocious interest in poetry. By the age of eight, Jacqueline was composing her own verse. At the age of eleven, she wrote and directed an entire five-act play with two other girls of her own age. At the age of twelve, she published a book of poetry. With her growing literary reputation, Jacqueline was invited to the court at Saint-Germain-en-Laye in 1638, where Queen Anne of Austria personally thanked her for a poem she had composed on the queen’s recent pregnancy. Astonishing onlookers with her ability to write spontaneous poems on themes assigned by courtiers, Jacqueline Pascal acquired national fame as an artistic prodigy.

In 1638 the fortunes of the Pascal family grew more somber. Jacqueline fell ill with smallpox. Although she would recover, the scars from the illness remained for life. Étienne fell into political disgrace. During a dispute over the payments owed shareholders in the City Hall of Paris by the crown, a riot of discontented shareholders broke out. A member of the protesting shareholders, but not physically present at the disturbance, Étienne Pascal was placed under arrest by Cardinal Richelieu. Evading arrest, he fled into exile. In 1639 Jacqueline personally intervened with Cardinal Richelieu to obtain the pardon of her father. Charmed by the adolescent who had just performed a play in his presence and had shown such courage in directly addressing the prime minister, Richelieu pardoned Étienne and appointed him the royal superintendant of tax collection in the province of Normandy.

The assignment to Rouen would prove a politically hazardous one. Jealous of its ancient independence from Paris and resentful of the crushing taxes imposed by the crown for the prosecution of Louis XIII’s wars, Normandy was the scene of recurrent riots and assaults on representatives of the crown. To help his father, overwhelmed by the confused tax records of the province, Blaise Pascal invented his celebrated calculating machine, which permitted the user to perform the basic computational exercises of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division mechanically. Jacqueline the poet flourished during the Rouen years. Encouraged by the dramatist Pierre Corneille, a Rouen native and close family friend, Jacqueline Pascal won the Prix de la Tour, a prestigious Norman literary award for her poem “On the Conception of the Virgin.”

The Normandy years also witnessed a capital religious change in the Pascal family: their conversion to Jansenism. In 1646 Étienne Pascal broke his hip in an accident. Two lay medical doctors, the Deschamps brothers, restored him to health through careful treatment of the broken bones. As they supervised his recovery, they shared the austere version of the Catholic faith which they had learned from the Abbé Saint-Cyran, the chaplain of the Port-Royal convent in Paris. Saint-Cyran promoted the neo-Augustinian theory of grace, predestination, and the elect defended by his friend Jansenius, the deceased Louvain theologian and bishop of Ypres. To this theology of grace Saint-Cyran added his own distinctive moral rigorism and opposition to Jesuit casuistry. Étienne, Blaise, and Jacqueline Pascal were quickly converted to the Jansenist cause. During a home visit in Rouen, the newly married Gilberte Pascal Périer and her husband Florin Périer also joined the controversial movement.

The religious conversion marked an intellectual change in the family. Theology replaced the older focus on science and literature. Through the programmatic spiritual reading pursued by the family members, Jacqueline Pascal acquired a new Augustinian philosophical culture. She studied the works of Saint Augustine himself as well as the writings of later medieval Augustinian writers, notably Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. She read the central works of the burgeoning Jansenist movement: Jansenius’s Reform of the Interior Man, Antoine Arnauld’s Of Frequent Communion, and Saint-Cyran’s Familiar Catechism and Christian and Spiritual Letters. The works of François de Sales and Pierre de Bérulle were also carefully studied.

When they returned to Paris in 1647, Blaise and Jacqueline Pascal regularly attended services at the Port-Royal convent, the center of the Jansenist movement. Jacqueline nursed her sickly brother and served as his amanuensis as he pursued his groundbreaking research on the problem of the vacuum and contested the physics of Descartes. Under the spiritual direction of Port-Royal’s chaplain Antoine Singlin and abbess Angélique Arnauld, Jacqueline decided that she had a vocation to the convent but her father strongly opposed it. As a compromise, Jacqueline agreed to remain with her ailing father in his Paris and Clermont households until his death; in return, her father agreed to permit Jacqueline to live a quasi-monastic life of prayer and asceticism within his home. Following the death of Étienne Pascal on September 24, 1651, Jacqueline prepared to enter the convent, but her vocation was now opposed by her brother Blaise, who had grown dependent on his sister’s nursing and secretarial skills and whose religious fervor had waned. Defying her brother, Jacqueline entered the Port-Royal convent on January 4, 1652. On May 26, 1652, Jacqueline was clothed in the habit of a nun and assumed her new religious name: Soeur Jacqueline de Saint-Euphémie.

During her novitiate years, the lingering animosity between Soeur Jacqueline and Blaise Pascal burst into open conflict during the crisis of the dowry. Breaking with the custom of leaving the bulk of a family’s estate to the eldest son, Étienne Pascal’s will and testament had divided his substantial estate equally among his three children. As a novice and a legal major, Soeur Jacqueline could still dispose of her share of her inheritance as she saw fit, but once she pronounced her final vows as a nun, she was forbidden by canon and civil law from receiving or disposing of wealth. In the French civil law of the period, a professed cloistered nun was dead to the world and had lost civic personhood. When Soeur Jacqueline announced to her siblings that she had decided to give her share of the inheritance to the convent of Port-Royal, Blaise and Gilberte violently objected. They claimed that such a gift went far beyond the familial provision of a dowry that was customary for a nun during this period. The siblings objected that the use of Jacqueline’s portion of the inheritance for the convent would deprive Blaise and the Périer children of income necessary for their research and education. They pointed out that the estate of Étienne Pascal was still under the purview of the courts since questions concerning their father’s debtors and creditors were still unresolved. If Soeur Jacqueline went ahead with her proposed donation to Port-Royal, the siblings threatened legal action against her.

When a stunned Jacqueline Pascal sought the counsel of Mère Angélique, the convent abbess advised her to abandon her claims to the disputed inheritance and pronounce her vows as an undowered nun. One of the reforms introduced by Mère Angélique at Port-Royal had been the abandonment of the traditional dowry requirement and the insistence that admission to the convent should not depend on the economic resources of the candidate. As the subsequent stormy interviews with her brother Blaise in the convent parlor indicated, such wise and liberating counsel was not easily accepted by Soeur Jacqueline since it wounded her family and class pride. Shortly before her profession as a nun, Blaise agreed to provide a donation to the convent that was equivalent to a generous dowry for a cloistered nun at the time, although Jacqueline had renounced her legal rights to the inheritance and the convent had clearly indicated that there was no requirement for such a payment. Soeur Jacqueline de Sainte-Euphémie pronounced her vows on June 5, 1653. During her decade at Port-Royal, Soeur Jacqueline would be entrusted with major offices: headmistress of the convent school, novice mistress, and subprioress.

The convent entered by Jacqueline Pascal was the object of increasing persecution. Since the appointment of Saint-Cyran as its chaplain in 1638, Port-Royal had become the center of the Jansenist movement. With a rural branch (Port-Royal des Champs) and an urban branch (Port-Royal de Paris), the convent disseminated Jansenist ideas to a large lay public. It conducted a school for girls and provided a hostel for women desiring to make retreats. Its large Parisian church featured sermons and conferences directed at educated laity. The messieurs, a group of erudite laymen who occupied buildings adjacent to the convent at Port-Royal des Champs, conducted a school for boys and published influential textbooks, translations, and theological treatises.

Published posthumously in 1640, the Augustinus of Jansenius contained the creed of the movement. The book argued that the salvation of the elect was completely dependant upon God’s grace and that the Jesuits, among others, had dangerously exaggerated the contribution of free will and meritorious works to the act of salvation. At the urging of the French crown, the Vatican had censured the Augustinus in 1642. In 1653 Pope Innocent X condemned five propositions on free will and grace as heretical and linked these propositions to Jansenius and his disciples. In 1656 Pope Alexander VII declared that the church was condemning these propositions precisely in the sense in which Jansenius had defended them. The Sorbonne theological faculty and the French Assembly of the Clergy delivered similar condemnations throughout the 1650s.

The Jansenists had their own powerful defenses. The publication of Blaise Pascal’s Provincial Letters (1655-1656) reduced the opponents of Jansenism to ridicule. The miraculous healing of Soeur Jacqueline’s niece Marguerite Périer, a pupil at Port-Royal, in 1656 was grudgingly declared worthy of belief by the Archdiocese of Paris and trumpeted by the Jansenists as divine vindication of their cause. To defend the Jansenist party from threatened excommunication, Antoine Arnauld, the movement’s leading theologian, devised the ingenious distinction between droit and fait. According to this distinction, Catholics were required to submit to church judgments on matters of droit (the law concerning faith and morals) since right belief and right conduct were essential to salvation. But they could not be compelled to assent to church judgments on matters of fait (empirical facts, such as whether a particular book or author had made a heretical statement), since the church did not enjoy the charism of infallibility on such an empirical matter. A minority of French bishops defended such distinctions as legitimate and traditional in the church.

Despite these defenses, the persecution of Port-Royal and the attendant Jansenist movement intensified once Louis XIV assumed the personal governance of France in 1661. The throne drew up a formulary that affirmed the church’s earlier condemnation of the five heretical propositions, and of Jansenius for having held them. All clergy, members of religious orders, and teachers on French soil were to sign the formulary under oath. The nuns at Port-Royal were singled out for the mandated signature. The crisis of the signature divided the Jansenist community. The convent chaplain Antoine Singlin counseled an unreserved signature as an act of submission to church authority. Antoine Arnauld recommended that the nuns sign but make clear that they were assenting only to the document’s judgments of droit (the condemnation of heretical propositions concerning free will and grace) and that they were maintaining silence on the judgments of fait (that Jansenius had actually endorsed these heretical theories.) The majority of nuns, led by Soeur Jacqueline, were inclined to refuse even a reserved signature to the formulary since they could not in conscience even appear to assent to a condemnation of an author they believed innocent of the accusation of heresy.

As the community debated the question of the signature, the crown moved against the suspect convent. In the spring of 1661, royal emissaries banished the convent’s confessors and spiritual directors, closed the convent school, and expelled the convent’s postulants and novices. In the summer of 1661, the new royal superintendent of the convent, Abbé Louis Bail, conducted an interrogation of the nuns regarding their theological views and devotional practices. Soeur Jacqueline was interrogated in July, with particular emphasis on her views on predestination and free will. In June of 1661, Soeur Jacqueline wrote a letter stating her opposition to any signature of the controversial formulary, but, like the other Port-Royal nuns under duress, she ultimately signed the formulary. In concert with the other nuns, she added a written codicil to her signature that explained the strictly reserved nature of her assent.

On October 4, 1661, Soeur Jacqueline de Sainte-Euphémie died after a brief illness. The physical cause of her death remains unclear, but Jansenist authors quickly acclaimed her as the protomartyr of the persecuted movement. In their eulogies of Soeur Jacqueline, they claimed that the ecclesiastical and political coercion during the crisis of the signature had brought about the untimely death of a conscientious nun.

2. Works

By the time of her death, Jacqueline Pascal had written works in a wide range of genres: poetry, letters, autobiography, biography, spiritual treatise, educational treatise, and judicial memoir.

Her poetry was largely written in the years before her entry into Port-Royal: 1638-1643. It employs a variety of genres: sonnet, epigram, rondeau, idyll, lyric. The early romantic and political poetry of her youth gave way to a more theocentric and meditational poetry later in adolescence.

Written shortly before her entry into the convent, On the Mystery of the Death of Our Lord Jesus Christ (1651) is a spiritual treatise on the Passion of Christ. Using a one-to-one correspondence between an attribute of Christ in the Passion and the moral virtues necessary for the disciple of Christ, Pascal sketches the ideal moral character of the Christian rooted in abandonment of the self to the divine will.

An autobiographical narrative, Report of Soeur Jacqueline de Sainte-Éuphemie to the Mother Prioress of Port-Royal des Champs (1653) recounts the crisis of the dowry. It also constitutes an apology for the right of women to pursue a vocation regardless of economic resources or of parental opposition.

Based on her experience as headmistress of the convent school of Port-Royal, A Rule for Children (1657) is a treatise on education that explains the goals, methods, and principles Soeur Jacqueline used in the school. This pointedly monastic model of education privileges formation in the moral and theological virtues as the principal goal of education.

A memorial of her interrogation by church inquisitors during the crisis of the signature, Interrogation of Soeur Jacqueline de Sainte Euphémie (Pascal) (1661) presents Soeur Jacqueline artfully responding to questions concerning neuralgic issues in the Jansenist controversy: the relationship between grace and free will in the act of salvation, the role of divine predestination in salvation, the nature of the elect.

A biographical sketch, A Memoir of Mère Marie Angélique by Soeur Jacqueline de Sainte Euphémie Pascal (1661) is a moral portrait of the salient virtues of the famed abbess and reformer of Port-Royal. The moral rigorism of the convent is apparent in the sketch’s condemnation of the least trace of worldliness in the Christian.

The correspondence of Jacqueline Pascal, especially her letters to her brother Blaise, contains much material of philosophical interest. Her letters remain our best source of information concerning the religious transformation her brother underwent during the mysterious “night of fire” in November 1654. A letter of 1647 provides a satirical sketch of Descartes, whom she met during a stormy visit to her brother when the two philosophers were locked in a dispute over physics, specifically over the problem of the vacuum. Several letters justify the right of women to pursue a religious vocation against family opposition, in her case by her father and then by her brother. Her most famous letter, written in June 1661 during the crisis of the signature, defends the rights of conscience against political and ecclesiastical commands to submission.

For nearly two centuries after her death, the works of Jacqueline Pascal survived in piecemeal form. Copied by her sister Gilberte Pascal Périer shortly after her death, a manuscript copy of the works of Soeur Jacqueline was conserved in the Périer family archives in Clermont-Ferrand until it was deposited in the local Oratorian library in the early eighteenth-century. A scholarly Oratorian, Pierre Guerrier, then recopied the manuscript; the Guerrier transcription remains the most comprehensive of the surviving manuscript versions of Jacqueline Pascal’s works. Starting with a 1666 edition of the Constitutions of Port-Royal, Jansenist print editions began to publish various works of Jacqueline Pascal circulating among the Jansenists in exile.

In 1845 two scholars, Victor Cousin and Armand Prosper Faugère, produced separate comprehensive editions of the works of Jacqueline Pascal. Based on manuscript as well as print sources, the Faugère edition is the more accurate of the two. Both editions helped to create the late nineteenth-century interest in Jacqueline Pascal as a philosopher of education. Jean Mesnard’s magisterial critical edition of the works of the entire Pascal family (begun in 1964) provides an authoritative version of the works of Jacqueline Pascal, but only four volumes of the projected seven volumes of the project have been published as yet.

3. Philosophical Themes

As philosophical commentaries have long indicated, the most substantial philosophical contribution made by Jacqueline Pascal lies in her theory of education. The acquisition of moral and theological virtue by the pupil, through a monastic pedagogical structure and spiritual direction by the teacher, is the primary purpose of Pascalian education. Pascal’s writings also defend personal freedom. In particular, they defend the right of the person to pursue a vocation despite civic or parental pressure, and the right to refuse to assent to what appears to be false according to the judgment of one’s conscience. In her portrait of the divine attributes, Jacqueline Pascal develops an apophatic theology (a theology that attempts to describe God by negation) that emphasizes the incomprehensibility of God.

Questions of gender are never far from her philosophical reflections. The educational theory she sketches is focused on issues specific to the education for women and differs from the pedagogical theories and practices championed by her male Jansenist colleagues in their petites écoles for boys. The personal freedom she defends is specifically the freedom of women to choose a vocation and to maintain a theological judgment against the coercion of family, state, and church. The hidden God she depicts in her spiritual writings is a demythologized god that transcends the gendered images of God fabricated by the imagination.

a. Philosophy of Education

Written in 1657 at the request of her spiritual director Antoine Singlin, A Rule for Children [RC] reflects Jacqueline Pascal’s experience as headmistress of the Port-Royal convent school. From its foundation in the thirteenth century, Port-Royal had enjoyed the privilege of conducting a school on its premises. Revived by the reforming abbess Mère Angélique Arnauld in the early seventeenth-century, the convent school was a boarding school for girls from the ages of six to eighteen. Many of the pupils were drawn from the aristocratic and bourgeois families sympathetic to the Jansenist movement. In A Rule for Children, Soeur Jacqueline offers a detailed apology for the type of education she had sponsored at the Port-Royal school. Divided into two parts, the first section of the treatise presents the methods of Port-Royal education, while the second part examines the spirit of the school with particular attention to the virtues to be cultivated by the pupil during her tenure at the convent.

The structure of the school day is strictly monastic. In the course of a single day, the pupils recite the following hours of the monastic office: Prime (dawn), Terce (early morning), Sext (noon), Vespers (early evening), Compline (early night). In addition, they attend Mass daily and have times reserved for personal meditation, a daily examination of conscience, and numerous devotional prayers in Latin and French. Following monastic practice, meals are taken in silence as the pupils listen to biblical, patristic, and hagiographical texts recited aloud at table. Adhering to the monastic practice of the “grand silence,” the pupils abstain from speaking from the end of prayers concluding evening recreation until the first class, which begins at 8:00 A.M.

A monastic emphasis also flavors the curriculum at Port-Royal. The Rule devotes scarcely a paragraph to the secular subjects in the curriculum: reading, writing, and arithmetic. On the other hand, Soeur Jacqueline describes in detail the catechetical instruction provided by the school. Religious education follows a graded curriculum: the first year focuses on the creed, the sacraments, and the commandments; the second year on the Mass and prayer; the third year on the virtues; the fourth year on Christian duties and morality. The texts employed in classroom instruction and refectory public reading reinforce the monastic cast of the education. The works of the desert fathers, Saint Jerome, Saint Jean Climacus, and Saint Teresa of Avila are recommended by Soeur Jacqueline.

Not only does the Rule propose a monastic model of education for women; it proposes a distinctively Jansenist one. The basic catechetical text used in religious instruction is Saint-Cyran’s Familial Theology, a controversial work censured by the Archdiocese of Paris. The work defends several of Jansenius’s contested theses on the predestination of the elect, the irresistibility of grace, and the incapacity to know God’s nature independently of God’s self-revelation and the light of faith. Other works by Saint-Cyran are used by the school to explain the theological meaning of the Mass and the sacraments.

Soeur Jacqueline’s counsels on reception of the sacraments reflect the moral rigorism of the Jansenists. When pupils confess their sins, they should discuss their general spiritual state with the confessor and not limit themselves to enumerating their sins committed since their last confession. “We tell them [the pupils] that it is not enough to say five or six faults; they must explain their spiritual state and dispositions from their last confession. Just naming their faults separately from their general state gives practically no knowledge of them” [RC 2.5.10]. Similarly, reception of Holy Communion should be rare and undertaken with the greatest scruple. “One single communion should bring about some change in their heart, which should appear even in their external conduct” [RC 2.6.1]. This is a rigorist standard of moral conversion for a committed adult Catholic, let alone for a young adolescent.

At the center of Pascalian pedagogy stands the teacher. According to the Rule, the teaching nun serves as a theologian and a spiritual director for the pupil. The personalism of the educational philosophy of Port-Royal is rooted in the teacher’s intimate knowledge of and solicitude for each pupil in her care. Religious instruction is not to be based primarily on memorization. Each school day begins with the teacher’s personal commentary on spiritual topics. “After the reading of the gospel we [the teachers] explain it to them [the pupils] as simply as we can. On other days when there is no proper gospel we instruct them in the meaning of the catechism on the Christian virtues” [RC 1.12.8]. After the reading of the spiritual text in the evening, the teacher is to field questions posed by the pupils. “At the reading after Vespers, they [the pupils] are encouraged to pose questions on everything they do not understand….In responding to them we will teach them how to apply their reading to the correction of their moral conduct” [RC 2.9.6].

The role of the teacher as spiritual director is even more pronounced. To assist the pupil in acquiring virtue and deepening the life of grace, the teacher must know the spiritual state of each pupil confided to her supervision. The bi-weekly personal interview between the teacher and pupil is the cornerstone of this personalized pedagogy. “The custom we have of speaking to pupils in private is what contributes most to aiding the pupils to improve their behavior. It is in these interviews that we help them with their problems, that we enter into their spirit to help them undertake a war against their faults, and that we make them see their vices and passions right down to their roots” [RC 3.3.1]. This spiritual tutorial permits the teaching nun to acquire a detailed knowledge of the moral character and internal spiritual struggles of each pupil.

In Port-Royal’s pedagogy, this knowledge has sacramental ramifications. When the priest arrives to hear the confessions of the pupils, the teaching nun is to provide the priest with a general portrait of the class’s distinctive virtues and vices. For Jacqueline Pascal, the confessor cannot effectively give spiritual counsel if he only relies on what immature pupils tell him. Similarly, when the class practices the chapter of faults, a monastic practice in which pupils accuse themselves of small imperfections in front of the rest of the class, the teacher is to provide spiritual counsel on correcting the faults and to impose an appropriate punishment for the fault. Just as the Port-Royal nun’s instructional duties include a classroom role as preacher and theologian, her role in sacramental preparation assumes certain tasks of the confessor and spiritual director.

The purpose of this pedagogy is to permit the pupil to deepen the moral and theological virtues essential to the life of grace. The key moral virtue to be acquired by the pupil is humility. Transcending the limits of personal modesty, this humility is a theological recognition of one’s utter dependence on God’s initiative in one’s creation, redemption, and sanctification. It is reliance on God’s grace, habituated through the prayer of hope, that permits the pupil to overcome the pull of moral vice. “If we told them to leave their miseries and weaknesses by their own force, they would rightly be discouraged, but if we told them that God himself will remove their problems, they would only have to pray, hope and rejoice in God, from whom they should expect every kind of assistance” [RC 2.2.7]. It is the work of God’s sovereign grace, and not the ascetical struggle for self-perfection, that secures the pupil’s salvation and exercise of the moral virtues appropriate to a Christian.

b. Vocational Freedom

Jacqueline Pascal’s philosophy of freedom focuses on the practical exercise of personal freedom. During the crisis of the dowry, she composed several writings that defend the right of the individual to pursue the vocation given to the individual by God. In letters to her brother Blaise (1652-1653) and in her Report to Mother Prioress (1653), Soeur Jacqueline defends her own right to follow her calling as a nun against familial opposition, and more broadly the right of women to pursue a personal vocation against familial commands to submission.

Her letter of May 7, 1652 to her brother Blaise defends the right to pursue this vocation on two philosophical and theological grounds. First, one’s personal vocation is a gift of God; it is neither created nor annullable by human authority, even the authority of one’s father or elder brother. “Do not oppose this divine light. Do not hinder those who do good; do good yourself. If you do not have the strength to follow, at least do not hinder me. Do not be ungrateful to God for the grace he has given to someone you love” [Letter of 7 May 1652 to Blaise Pascal]. Fidelity to God’s grace of vocation trumps loyalty to family. The freedom to follow this divine will cannot be constrained by appeals to familial obedience.

A second argument appeals to reciprocity. Just as Jacqueline Pascal had delayed her vocation for years to nurse her ailing father, her brother must now sacrifice his desire for Jacqueline’s services as nurse and secretary to her desire to pursue her destiny as a nun. The sacrifice of personal desires must be shared equally among the squabbling siblings. “You should be consoled enough in the knowledge that out of considerations for your feelings I did not enter the convent more than six years ago and that except for you I would have already taken the veil….It is only my concern to respect those I love that has led me to delay my happiness until now. It is not reasonable that I prefer myself to others any longer. Justice demands that they do some violence to their own feelings in order to compensate me for the violence I did to myself during four years” [Letter of 7 May 1652 to Blaise Pascal]. In pursuing their vocational goals, women enjoy the same rights as do men. The letter firmly rebukes the effort of Blaise Pascal to block his sister’s vocational freedom by insisting that she remain in her gendered role of domestic caregiver.

In her Report to Mother Prioress [RMP], written in the immediate aftermath of the crisis of the dowry, Soeur Jacqueline chronicles the crisis and praises the wisdom of the conduct of the convent superiors, especially the abbess Mère Angélique Arnauld and the novice mistress Mère Agnès Arnauld, in its resolution. The Report celebrates Port-Royal’s policy of respecting vocational freedom by accepting candidates who have no economic resources, thus abolishing the longstanding requirement of a dowry for a cloistered nun, and by refusing candidates who are being placed in the convent under duress, usually by their male guardians, or who lack a genuine vocational motive. The wise superiors link the freedom to pursue a vocation in the midst of familial opposition to other freedoms: the psychological freedom to embrace goods higher than family loyalty, and the spiritual freedom to serve God in material poverty.

Mère Angélique counsels Soeur Jacqueline that the opposition of her siblings to her vocation should free her to see that the idealized family she had created in her religious fervor was an illusion. Despite its painfulness, this confrontation with the family should liberate her from a creaturely attachment that had stifled complete attachment to the Creator. “Haven’t you known for a long time that we must never count on the affection of creatures and that the world loves only its own? Aren’t you happy that God is making you recognize it in the person of those you least expected it from [Blaise Pascal and Gilberte Pascal Périer] to remove any doubt on this issue before you leave them completely?” [RMP]. Mère Agnès argues that the prospect of an undowered entry into the convent can foster a greater spiritual freedom since material poverty increases one’s dependence on divine providence. “No temporal benefit can be compared with this, because there is nothing more profitable to religious life than true poverty” [RMP]. The familial opposition and material deprivations often provoked by a woman’s determined pursuit of her vocation can foster a deeper psychological independence and spiritual freedom in the persevering subject.

c. Freedom of Conscience

Written during the crisis of the signature, Jacqueline Pascal’s letter of June 23, 1661 expresses her opposition to the mandated signature of the formulary assenting to the papacy’s condemnations of the five heretical propositions concerning grace and of Jansenius for having defended the censured propositions. Addressed to Soeur Angélique de Saint-Jean Arnauld d’Andilly, a fellow leader of the non-signeuse faction in the convent, the letter is actually written to be presented to Antoine Arnauld, the uncle of Soeur Angélique de Saint-Jean and the convent’s theological advisor. The architect of the droit/fait distinction, Arnauld had counseled the nuns to sign the formulary without reservation since the archdiocesan vicars of Paris had prefaced the controversial formulary with a pastoral letter that explicitly recognized the legitimacy of this distinction in interpreting the signature. In her letter, Soeur Jacqueline contests Arnauld’s position as a dangerous species of casuistry. In defending the right to refuse to sign the formulary, she defends the broader right of conscience to refuse to assent to what one believes to be a falsehood, despite the appeals to obedience by religious and civil authorities.

In defending her resistance to the signature, Soeur Jacqueline insists on the gravity of the injustice represented by the ecclesiastical condemnations endorsed by the formulary. In indicating assent to these condemnations, one is willingly assenting to a libel of an innocent man and denying the truth concerning a central principle of the Christian faith, the redeeming grace of Christ. “I think you [Antoine Arnauld] know only too well why it is not just a question in this matter of a holy bishop [Jansenius], but that his condemnation formally contains a condemnation of the grace of Jesus Christ. Now, if our world is so miserable that no one can be found to be willing to die to defend the honor of a just person, it is appalling to discover that no one is willing to do so for justice itself” [Letter of 23 June 1661]. In this perspective, Jansenius in his Augustinus had correctly interpreted Saint Augustine’s theory of grace. Repeatedly lauded by church councils and popes as the “Doctor of grace,” whose teaching was normative on the subject, Saint Augustine had correctly interpreted the doctrine of Saint Paul on grace. This was itself a divinely inspired presentation of the grace of Christ himself, the heart of the Christian gospel. To appear to assent to this condemnation of Jansenius not only does a grave injustice to an innocent theologian, it imperils the salvation of the signer, because one would appear to be renouncing the very grace of Christ.

Given the moral stakes involved in signing the formulary, Soeur Jacqueline rejects Arnauld’s droit/fait distinction as a devious obfuscation of the issue. The Jansenists might claim that the signature only indicates assent to matters of droit (the church’s condemnation of the five heretical propositions), but the general public will interpret the signature as an assent to matters of fait (the condemnation of Jansenius) as well. “Although it is true we submit to these judgments [of the papacy] on what concerns faith, most people are confused about these issues because of ignorance [of these distinctions]. Those with personal interests in the dispute so strongly want to mix fact and law together that they turn these two into the same thing. So what is the effect of your [approach to the] formulary except to make the ignorant believe and give the malicious a pretext to assert that we agree with everything in it and that we condemn the doctrine of Jansenius, which the last [papal] bull clearly condemned?” [Letter of 23 June 1661]. Soeur Jacqueline dismisses Arnauld’s subtle distinctions as a dissemblance worthy of the Jesuit casuistry condemned by her brother in his Provincial Letters.

In place of the legalistic distinctions defended by Arnauld, Soeur Jacqueline counsels frank resistance to the pressures to sign the formulary. The resistants should simply assert that their conscience will not permit them to assent in any way to a judgment they believe to be untrue. “What prevents us and what prevents all the clergy who know the truth from saying when we are given the formulary for signature: I know the reverence I owe the bishops but my conscience does not permit me to attest by my signature that something is in a book I have never seen—and after that, just wait for what will happen? What are we afraid of? Banishment and dispersion for the nuns, confiscation of temporal goods, prison and death, if you will? But isn’t this our glory and shouldn’t it be our joy?” [Letter of 23 June 1661]. Martyrdom rather than legalistic compromise is the path for fidelity to the grace of Christ and the Augustinian/Jansenist teaching that defends it. Strikingly, Soeur Jacqueline repeatedly appeals to the rights of conscience as the ground for refusing to engage in a morally dangerous dissimulation.

In other passages, Soeur Jacqueline condemns the manipulation of conscience exercised by ecclesiastical and civic authorities in the campaign of the formulary. In demanding public assent to their condemnation of Jansenius, church authorities have overstepped the bounds of the obedience the church can rightly expect of its members. “What they can rightly want from us through the signature they propose for us is a witness to the sincerity of our faith and to our perfect submission to the church, to the pope, who is its head, and to the archbishop of Paris, who is our superior; however, we do not believe that they have the right to demand on this issue a justification of their faith by persons who have never given any reason to doubt it.” [Letter of 23 June 1661] The condemnation of the political motives behind the campaign of coercion is particularly pointed. “Do not doubt that this procedure of signature and of declaration of one’s faith is a usurpation of power with very dangerous consequences. This is chiefly being done by the authority of the king. Subjects should not resist, I believe; however, there are at least some tokens of submission one should not offer because one cannot consider them anything other than a violence to which one surrenders to avoid scandal” [Letter of 23 June 1661]. Neither loyalty to the Vatican nor fealty to the crown can justify abandonment of one’s conscientious judgment concerning the truth.

Soeur Jacqueline’s defense of the right of conscience is a gendered one. She explicitly defends the right of women to engage in religious controversies which many considered the exclusive prerogative of ordained clerics. In her perspective, women have the duty as well as the right to disobey civil and ecclesiastical authorities when they engage in grave injustices. “I know very well that it is not up to girls to defend the truth, although one might say on the basis of the recent sad events that since the bishops currently have the courage of girls, the girls must have the courage of bishops. Nonetheless, if it is not up to us to defend the truth, it is up to us to die for the truth and prefer anything rather than abandoning it” [Letter of 23 June 1661]. Against the prejudice that women may not engage in theological disputes due to ignorance or to their subordinate status, Jacqueline Pascal insists on the duty of women to defend the religious truth which they hold in conscience.

d. Apophatic Theology

Throughout her writings of maturity, Jacqueline Pascal practices an apophatic theology, that is, a theology that speaks of God only in terms of what may not be said about God. Her theology stresses the alterity of God, His otherness. Like her brother Blaise, she often focuses on the Deus absconditus, the hidden God whose nature is obscured from sinful human view. Written in 1651when she was a laywoman under Port-Royal’s spiritual direction, On the Mystery of the Death of Our Lord Jesus Christ (MD) expresses this apophatic approach to the divine essence and attributes.

In this meditation on the crucifixion of Christ, Jacqueline Pascal stresses how the divinity remains hidden in Christ. The physical details of the crucifixion veil the divinity from human view. The corporal sufferings, the moment of death, the clothing used, and the burial ritual strictly follow the laws of nature and the social customs of the period. Only the vision of faith can perceive the divinity. The criminal nature of the manner of Christ’s death constitutes an especially powerful veil over his divinity. “The death of Jesus made him contemptible for the evil. For them it was a veil that hid his divinity from their eyes and gave them terrible matter for blasphemy” [MD no.18].

Jacqueline Pascal’s treatise underscores the psychological passivity of Christ during the passion. Christ is depicted as insensible toward the evils that surround him. “Jesus died in an insensibility toward all evils, even toward his body covered with wounds” [MD no.20]. The meditation encourages the disciple to cultivate this insensibility by withdrawing from unnecessary commerce with the world and by seeking the grace to accept reversals of fortune with equanimity.

This portrait of the insensibility of Christ on the cross, manifesting the insensibility of the divine essence, reflects the neo-Stoic strain in the theology and ethics of the Jansenist movement. Freed from the flux of passions, the disciplined will of the righteous must be abandoned to the will of God. But in the Jansenist perspective, the divine will remains veiled. The God who saves the elect through an inscrutable decree of providence transcends the limits of human reason as well as human imagination. The obscure divine essence is best approached through a path of negation, focusing on what God is not.

4. Reception and Interpretation

With the publication of separate editions of the works of Jacqueline Pascal by Victor Cousin and Armand Prosper Faugère in 1845, Jacqueline Pascal was acclaimed for her pioneering treatise on the education of women. In the late nineteenth century, Cadet, Carré, and Ricard analyzed her contribution to the philosophy of education. Their commentaries, however, assimilated her work to that of the Jansenist messieurs who conducted the petites écoles for boys. The distinctive pedagogy of the convent school and the theological empowerment of women represented by Jacqueline Pascal’s model of education received scant attention. The recent research of Delforge has provided a clearer view of the specificity of the pedagogy defended by Jacqueline Pascal and the theological telos of her educational approach.

Jansenist hagiographical literature has long celebrated Jacqueline Pascal as a martyr to conscience against ecclesiastical and civil persecutors during the crisis of the signature. Her letter of June 23, 1661, defending the rights of conscience during this controversy, is a staple of Jansenist anthologies and of the French literature of resistance. The relationship of Soeur Jacqueline’s defense of conscience to questions of religious truth, however, has not always been perceived in portraits of her as a pre-Enlightenment crusader for the rights of the persecuted individual.

Recent scholarly works on Jacqueline Pascal by Conley, Delforge, and Lauenberger indicate a growing international interest in Soeur Jacqueline’s own philosophical theories and a disinclination to interpret her only as an auxiliary to her brother Blaise. The neo-feminist expansion and reinterpretation of the philosophical canon of the early modern period has placed the philosophy of Jacqueline Pascal in a gendered light. Her theories of education and of freedom constitute part of a broader defense of the right of women to develop a theological culture, to pursue a personal vocation, to act as spiritual directors, and to maintain theological convictions against the paternalistic pressures of church and state.

5. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Pascal, Jacqueline, et al. Lettres, Opuscules et Mémoires de Madame Périer et de Jacqueline, Soeurs de Pascal, et de Marguerite Périer, sa Nièce, Publiés sur les Manuscrits Originaux par M.P. Faugère, ed. Armand Prosper Faugère. Paris: Auguste Vaton, 1845.
    • A digital version of this critical edition of the works of Jacqueline Pascal is available online at Gallica: Bibliothèque numérique on the webpage of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.
  • Pascal, Jacqueline. Oeuvres Complètes avec tous les Documents Biographiques et Critiques, les Oeuvres d’Étienne, de Gilberte et de Jacqueline Pascal et celles de Marguerite Périer, la Correspondence des Pascal et des Périer. 4 vols., ed. Jean Mesnard. Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1964-1991.
    • The standard contemporary critical edition of the works of Jacqueline Pascal, especially useful for the historical context it provides for Pascal’s writings.
  • Pascal, Jacqueline. A Rule for Children and Other Writings. Trans. and ed. John J. Conley. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003.
    • A contemporary English translation of Jacqueline Pascal’s works with philosophical commentary.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Cadet, Félix. L’éducation à Port-Royal: Saint-Cyran, Arnauld, Lancelot, Nicole, De Saci, Guyot, Coustel, Fontaine, Jacqueline Pascal. Paris: Hachette, 1887.
    • An appreciation of Jacqueline Pascal’s educational theories from a secular perspective.
  • Carré, Irénée. Les Pédagogues de Port-Royal: Saint-Cyran, De Saci, Lancelot, Guyot, Coustel, Le Maître, Nicole, Arnauld, etc., Jacqueline Pascal. Paris: C. Delgrave, 1887.
    • An analysis of Jacqueline Pascal’s educational theories within the context of Port-Royal’s pedagogical practices.
  • Cousin, Victor. Jacqueline Pascal: Premières études sur les femmes illustres et la société du XVIIe siècle. 8th edition. Paris: Didier, 1877.
    • Dated but lively biography of Jacqueline Pascal. The edition of the works of Pascal contained in the book contains many lacunae.
  • Delforge, Frédéric. Jacqueline Pascal (1625-1661). Paris: Éditions Nolin, 2002.
    • A well-documented biography of Jacqueline Pascal, especially useful in its attention to her theology and educational philosophy.
  • Lauenberger, Robert. Jacqueline Pascal: die Schwester des Philosophen. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2002.
    • A scholarly study of the mutual theological influences between Jacqueline and Blaise Pascal.
  • Mauriac, François. Blaise Pascal et sa Soeur Jacqueline. Paris: Hachette, 1931.
    • A penetrating study of the relationship between Jacqueline and Blaise Pascal written from the perspective of a Catholic novelist sympathetic to Jansenism.
  • Périer, Gilberte Pascal. La vie de Monsieur Pascal, suivi de La vie de Jacqueline Pascal. Paris: Éditions de la Table Ronde, 1994.
    • Gilberte Pascal Périer’s biographical sketch of her sister is the first of the biographies of Jacqueline Pascal.
  • Pouzet, Régine. Chronique des Pascal; “Les Affaires du Monde” d’Étienne Pascal à Marguerite Périer (1588-1733). Paris: Honoré Champion, 2001.
    • A well-documented history of the Pascal family with detailed analysis of the conflicts among the three Pascal siblings.
  • Ricard, Antoine. Les Premiers Jansénistes et Port-Royal. Paris: Plon, 1883.
    • A sympathetic analysis of Jacqueline Pascal’s educational philosophy from a Catholic perspective.
  • Société des Amis de Port-Royal. Deux Grandes Figures d’Auvergne: Gilberte et Jacqueline Pascal. Chroniques de Port-Royal, no. 31, 1982.
    • The entire volume is devoted to the sisters Pascal. The articles by Delforge, Cahné, Goyet, and Magnard analyze the literary career, educational work, and spirituality of Jacqueline Pascal.

Author Information

John J. Conley
Email: jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola College in Maryland
U. S. A.

Reductionism

Reductionists are those who take one theory or phenomenon to be reducible to some other theory or phenomenon. For example, a reductionist regarding mathematics might take any given mathematical theory to be reducible to logic or set theory. Or, a reductionist about biological entities like cells might take such entities to be reducible to collections of physico-chemical entities like atoms and molecules. The type of reductionism that is currently of most interest in metaphysics and philosophy of mind involves the claim that all sciences are reducible to physics. This is usually taken to entail that all phenomena (including mental phenomena like consciousness) are identical to physical phenomena. The bulk of this article will discuss this latter understanding of reductionism.

In the twentieth century, most philosophers considered the question of the reduction of theories to be prior to the question of the reduction of entities or phenomena. Reduction was primarily understood to be a way to unify the sciences. The first section below will discuss the three traditional ways in which philosophers have understood what it means for one theory to be reducible to another. The discussion will begin historically with the motivations for and understanding of reduction to be found in the logical positivists, particularly Rudolf Carnap and Otto Neurath, and continue through more recent models of inter-theoretic reduction. The second section will examine versions of reductionism, as well as the most general and currently influential argument against reductionism, the argument from multiple realization. Although many philosophers view this argument as compelling, there are several responses available to the reductionist that will be considered. The final section will discuss two ways of reducing phenomena rather than theories. With the decline of logical positivism and the rise of scientific realism, philosophers’ interest in reduction has shifted from the unity of theories to the unity of entities. Although sometimes reduction of one class of entities to another is understood as involving the identification of the reduced entities with the reducing entities, there are times when one is justified in understanding reduction instead as the elimination of the reduced entities in favor of the reducing entities. Indeed, it is a central question in the philosophy of mind whether the correct way to view psychophysical reductions is as an identification of mental entities with physical entities, or as an elimination of mental phenomena altogether.

Table of Contents

  1. Three Models of Theoretical Reduction
    1. Reduction as Translation
    2. Reduction as Derivation
    3. Reduction as Explanation
  2. Reductionism: For and Against
    1. Versions of Reductionism
    2. The Argument from Multiple Realization
    3. Replies
  3. Reduction of Entities: Identification vs. Elimination
  4. References and Further Reading

1. Three Models of Theoretical Reduction

In what follows, the theory to be reduced will always be referred to as the target theory (T). The theory to which one is attempting to reduce the target theory will be known as the base theory (B).

There are three main ways in which reduction has been understood since the 1920s. These may generally be stated as follows:

  1. Theory T reduces to theory B when all of the truths of T (including the laws) have been translated into the language of B.
  2. Theory T reduces to theory B when all of the laws of T have been derived from those of B.
  3. Theory T reduces to theory B when all of the observations explained by T are also explained by B.

The general goal of a theoretical reduction is to promote the unity of science. All of these models provide some sense in which science may become more unified. For sciences may become unified by being expressed in the same language. This allows one to see that there is only one language that is required to express all truths in the theories. Sciences may also become unified when the laws of one theory are shown to be derivable from those of another theory. This allows one to see that there is only one basic set of principles that is required to account for the other truths in the theories. Finally, sciences may become unified when the observations explained by one theory are shown to be also explainable by another theory. This allows one to see that only one of the theories is really necessary to explain the class of phenomena earlier thought to need the resources of two theories to explain.

The first section will examine three conceptually distinct models of reduction: the translation model, the derivation model, and the explanation model. These models need not compete with one another. As will be seen in the following sections, depending on how one understands translation, derivation, and explanation, these models may complement each other. Historically, the translation model is associated with the early logical positivists Carnap and Neurath, the derivation model with the later logical empiricists Carl Hempel and Ernest Nagel, and the explanation model with John Kemeny and Paul Oppenheim.

a. Reduction as Translation

Carnap describes the translation model of reduction in the following way:

An object (or concept) is said to be reducible to one or more objects if all statements about it can be transformed into statements about these other objects. (1928/1967, 6)

In order to see why one should be interested in achieving reductions in this sense, one must first clarify what it was that the positivists, in particular, Carnap and Neurath, wanted out of reductionism.

In The Logical Structure of the World, Carnap tries to reduce all language to phenomenalist language, i.e. that of immediate experience (1928/1967). Shortly after this, influenced largely by his discussions with Neurath, Carnap changed his position regarding the sort of language into which all meaningful sentences should be translated. In his short monograph, The Unity of Science, he generally speaks of reducing all statements to a physical language, but his official position is that it does not matter which language all statements are translated into as long as they are all translated into one common, universal language (1963, 51). Carnap thought that physical language, understood as the language of objects in space and time (rather than the language of physics per se), was one salient contender for this universal language. (1934, 52).

So, Carnap’s main reductionist thesis is that:

… science is a unity, that all empirical statements can be expressed in a single language, all states of affairs are of one kind and are known by the same method. (1934, 32)

One may now ask two questions. First, why should one want to translate all statements into one common language? And second, what relationship does this translation have with the program of unifying the sciences?

For Carnap and Neurath, one common interest in unification stemmed from a frustration with the methods of philosophy and the social sciences. They argued that these disciplines too often rely on subjective methods of verification such as intuition and in the social sciences, empathy and verstehen. The positivists found these methods problematic and in need of replacement with the methods used in the physical sciences. Methods that relied on data and statements referring to the subjective states of individual observers could not be verified intersubjectively and thus could not be used to make intersubjectively testable predictions. For example, since the methodological use of empathy was rampant in actual practice, the statements (and methods) used by social scientists needed to be reinterpreted within an intersubjectively understandable framework. In his “Sociology and Physicalism,” Neurath argues that this is possible:

If someone says that he requires this experience of “organic perceptions” in order to have empathy with another person, his statement is unobjectionable … That is to say, one may speak of “empathy” in the physicalistic language if one means no more by it than that one draws inferences about physical events in other persons on the basis of formulations concerning organic changes in one’s own body … When we analyze the concepts of “understanding” and “empathy” more closely, everything in them that is usable in a physicalistic way proves to be a statement about order, exactly as in all sciences. (1931/2/1959, 298)

The idea, which Carnap also defended, was that all sciences, insofar as their statements were meaningful, could be translated into a common language. Once this translation was carried out, scientists in all disciplines could make predictions that were verifiable intersubjectively. So, following this strand of reasoning, the task of unifying (i.e. reducing) the sciences was important so that all sciences could be assimilated to a language in which it was possible to make intersubjectively understandable explanations and predictions – one of the central goals of developing scientific theories in the first place.

So far, nothing has been said that would provide motivation for reduction of all statements to the language of one science. One might grant that it is important that all theories be formulated in a language amenable to intersubjective understanding, however, why must all of the sciences be formulated in the same language? Why could the physical sciences not be formulated in one intersubjectively understandable language and psychology in another and biology in yet another? Why is reduction in the sense of translation of all statements to the one common language something anyone should care about? For these early reductionists, the main motivation was practical.

The Vienna Circle, a group of philosophers and scientists of which Carnap and Neurath formed part of the core, met and formulated their ideas at a time when Europe had just survived one war and was about to embark on another. At this time, particularly with anti-Semitism and fascism intensifying, scientists were being forced to disperse. Previously, Vienna had been a fertile center of scientific research, but political developments were making it necessary for many of the prominent scientists to scatter to other areas in Europe, the Soviet Union, and the United States. With this geographical separation, the concern was that this would prompt a rift in scientific dialogue, and that scientists both within and across disciplines would have a hard time sharing their ideas. As Jordi Cat and Nancy Cartwright have recently argued, for Neurath, this interdisciplinary sharing of ideas was crucial for several reasons (Cartwright et. al. 1995; Cartwright et. al. 1996). This discussion will focus on three.

First, it is common to look at scientists as engaged in the task of developing a complete account of the world. What is needed is a theory (or group of theories) that will be able to account for all phenomena. In other words, for each event that has occurred, this account should be able to give a complete explanation of it. And for each event that is to occur, the theory should be able to predict that it will occur. What Neurath noted was that as science developed it became more and more fragmented and as a result of ever-increasing specialization, it was impossible for any one practitioner to be versed in what was going on in all of the separate subdisciplines. This allowed for the possibility that large gaps between theories might develop, leaving events that no research program was engaged in trying to explain, thus preventing the sciences from giving a complete picture. Relatedly, Neurath was also concerned that the inability of any one researcher to see the big picture of the sciences would make room for contradictions to appear between the explanations different disciplines gave of one set of phenomena (1983, 140). If the sciences were unified in such a way that allowed scientists to see the big picture (outside of their own subdisciplines), this would begin to remedy the issues of both (a) gaps and (b) contradictions between different theories.

Another one of Neurath’s motivations for unifying the sciences was to eliminate redundancy between disciplines. He argues:

… the special sciences themselves exhibit in various ways the need for such a unification. For example, the different psychological theories employ so many different terms and phrases that it becomes difficult to know whether they are dealing with the same subject or not… One of the most important aims of the Unity of Science movement is therefore concerned with the unification of scientific language. Distinct terms occur in different disciplines which nevertheless may have the same function and much fruitless controversy may arise in trying to find a distinction between them… A large collection of terms have been gathered by the various sciences during the centuries, and it is necessary to examine this collection from time to time, for terms should not be multiplied beyond necessity. (1983, 172-3)

Two related ideas are motivating Neurath’s desire to eradicate redundancy between theories. The first is clearly expressed in the last line above. Neurath would like to minimize the number of terms used in the theory, to encourage theoretical simplicity. One should not introduce more language into our theories than is necessary, and so it is important to decide whether one can do without some of the terms used by a particular theory. This will make science as a whole simpler (and as a result, more digestible). One obvious way of eradicating such linguistic redundancy would be by translating all theories into a common language and this is precisely what Neurath proposes.

A second point that Neurath raises is a desire to see the different sciences as all describing a common subject matter. To use one of his examples, one might ask if the terms ‘stimulus’ and ‘response’ in biology are just different words for the same phenomena discussed in the physical sciences using the terms ‘cause’ and ‘effect’. Here, Neurath seems to be relying on an implicit metaphysical conviction that all of the sciences describe one world and not disparate spheres of reality. However, there may be reason to think that while Neurath professed an aversion toward asking metaphysical questions (and using metaphysical terminology like ‘world’ and ‘reality’), there does seem to be an implicit unified metaphysics underlying his desire to see scientific language unified.

It is important to note one last aspect of Neurath’s interest in reduction of theories to a common language. This motivation is related to Neurath’s, and later Carnap’s, adoption of a coherentist picture of truth and justification. According to Neurath, statements are not justified in terms of their matching some external reality. This would require presupposing some kind of metaphysical picture of reality, which is something that Neurath would have rejected. Instead, statements are only justified insofar as they are confirmed by, or cohere with, other statements. To explain his view, Neurath appealed to his now famous metaphor of sailors having to rebuild their ship while at sea:

Our actual situation is as if we were on board a ship on an open sea and were required to change various parts of the ship during the voyage. We cannot find an absolute immutable basis for science; and our various discussions can only determine whether scientific statements are accepted by a more or less determinate number of scientists and other men. New ideas may be compared with those historically accepted by the sciences, but not with an unalterable standard of truth. (1983, 181)

Again, there is no world that one can compare statements to in order to confirm them and see that they are justified. The only basis for justification is other “historically accepted” statements. Once one understand this, it is easy to see why the translational unification of the sciences would be important. Communication of scientists across disciplines provides further confirmation of their theories. The better a theory coheres with other theories and the more theories with which it coheres, the more justified it will be. Thus, one should look for a common language so that such communication and connections can be established across disciplines.

It was previously stated that Carnap and Neurath wanted all theories to be translated into a language free of subjective terms, one that could be used to make testable predictions. In addition, it was also important that this common language could allow for communication across all disciplines. This would encourage (i) the filling in of gaps and elimination of contradictions between theories, (ii) the elimination of redundancy and enhancement of simplicity, and (iii) the possibility of a stronger justification for theories. Neurath spent the last years of his life beginning what was to be the unfinished project of the International Encyclopedia of Unified Science. This was to be a series of volumes in a common, physicalist language that could be used to encourage interaction between scientists. The first set of volumes would discuss issues in the general methodology of science, while the later volumes would include up-to-date discussions of research in all different areas of the sciences. Reading these would give researchers a better picture of science as a whole and promote the three virtues (i-iii) just mentioned.

It is important to emphasize Neurath and Carnap’s motivations for their reductionist project. This will allow us to consider the benefits of reductionism and what this perspective does not entail. Examining these previous motivations, one can see that there is very little that is required of a common language of unified science. Carnap says that, “[i]n order to be a language for the whole of Science, the physical language needs to be not only intersubjective but also universal” (1934, 67). So it must be the case that for a language to be the common language, it must not include any subjective terms, such as those referring to the intrinsic qualities of one’s own experiences. It must also be possible to translate all other statements from scientific theories into the common language. In addition, the universal language should also be nonredundant.

These minimal requirements on a universal language of science do not require that the language into which all theories are capable of being translated be the language of physics. Unlike the physicalist reductionism that is the orthodoxy of today, the thesis of reductionism advocated by Carnap and Neurath did not require that all sciences reduce to physics.

It is worth emphasizing this feature of the positivist’s conception of reductionism because it allows one an opportunity to recognize the independence of the original movement of reductionism from a need to see physics as the science to which all others reduce. Sometimes reductionism is dismissed as a theory of the world that is overly conservative, not making room for a plurality of sciences and resultant methodologies. However, this is simply not the case. What the positivists were interested in was seeing scientists of different disciplines cooperate in a way that would expedite and expand research, and better confirm theories. An attempt to translate all sciences into a common language would help achieve the goal of the unification of science. Translation of all theories into the language of physics would be preferable to a translation of all theories to phenomenalistic language since the latter fails to generally be intersubjectively understandable. However, any intersubjective language that was sufficiently universal in scope would serve their purposes.

b. Reduction as Derivation

After Carnap and Neurath, reduction as translation of terms to a common language was still discussed, but reduction also came to be understood in the two other ways mentioned above – as the explanation of all observations in terms of one base theory, and as the derivation of all theories from one base theory. For example, Carl Hempel saw the reduction of a theory as involving two tasks. First, one reduces all of the terms of that theory, which involves translation into a base language. As Hempel notes, “the definitions in question could hardly be expected to be analytic… but … may be understood in a less stringent sense, which does not require that the definiens have the same meaning, or intension, as the definiendum, but only that it have the same extension or application” (1966, 103). Then, one reduces the laws of the theory into those of a base theory by derivation (1966, 104).

The best known model of reduction as derivation is found in Ernest Nagel’s The Structure of Science. According to Nagel, a reduction is effected when the laws of the target science are shown to be logical consequences of the theoretical assumptions of a base science (1961, 345-358). Once this is accomplished, one can see that there is only one basic set of principles that is required to account for truths in both theories. For Nagel, one goal of reduction is the move science closer to the ideal of “a comprehensive theory which will integrate all domains of natural science in terms of a common set of principles” (1961, 336).

Unlike Hempel, Nagel did not think that all reductions would first require a translation of terms. He distinguished between homogeneous reductions and heterogeneous reductions, and only in the latter case does the target science include terms that are not already included in the base science (1961, 342). However, he does concede that in the cases of interest to him, the target science will contain terms that do not occur in the theory of the base discipline, so the reduction will be heterogeneous. This does not necessarily mean that one must translate terms from the target science into the language of the base science. For example, one interested in reducing psychology to physics will notice that psychological theories contain terms like ‘belief’, ‘desire’, and ‘pain’, which do not occur in the base, physical theory. In these cases, assumptions must be added to the laws of the base science (physics) stating relations between these (psychological) terms and the terms already present in the base science. These assumptions, often called ‘bridge laws’, will then allow one to derive the laws and theorems of the target science from the theory of the base discipline. They need not be thought of as providing translations, as will be explained shortly (Nagel 1961, 351-354).

Abstractly, one may consider the derivations that constitute Nagelian reductions as taking the following form. Where ‘B1’ and ‘B2’ are terms in the language of the base science and ‘T1’ and ‘T2’ are terms in the language of the science that is the target of the reduction,

The occurrence of a B1 causes the occurrence of a B2 (a law in the base science).

If something is a B1, then it is a T1. (bridge law)

If something is a B2, then it is a T2. (bridge law)

Therefore,

The occurrence of a T1 causes the occurrence of a T2 (a law in the target science) (Hempel 1966, 105).

The conclusion here is the law in the target science that one wanted to reduce to the laws of the base science. Some caveats are in order regarding this way of representing Nagelian reductions. First, there is nothing in the account requiring the laws to involve causal language. Causal terminology is used in the above example merely for ease of exposition. Moreover, the precise nature of the bridge laws required for a reduction is controversial. Philosophers have differed in what they regard as necessary for something to be the kind of bridge law to facilitate a legitimate reduction.

As a matter of logic, all that is required for a successful derivation are bridge laws that take the form of conditionals. However, the derivation would also be successful if the connectives in the bridge laws were not conditionals but biconditionals or identity statements. In his discussion of reduction, Nagel mentions that these bridge laws could have any one of the following statuses. They could be (1) logical or analytic connections between terms, (2) conventional assumptions created by fiat, or (3) empirical hypotheses (1961, 354). Only when the first case obtains is it usually plausible to say that the reduction is partially constituted by an act of translation. Nagel does not question whether conditional bridge laws are enough to effect legitimate reductions. In the post-positivistic, realist aftermath of Nagel’s book, most philosophers have held that in order for such derivations to help one achieve a more unified science (genuine reductions), the bridge laws may not merely have any of these statuses, but ought to have the strength of identities, e.g. Sklar (1967). So, to constitute a genuine reduction, a derivation ought to look something like the following:

The occurrence of a B1 causes the occurrence of a B2 (a law in the base science).

Something’s being a B1 = its being a T1. (bridge law)

Something’s being a B2 = its being a T2. (bridge law)

Therefore, The occurrence of a T1 causes the occurrence of a T2 (a law in the target science).

To illustrate the idea, consider a putative reduction of the theory of thermal conductivity to a theory of electrical conductivity. The Wiedemann-Franz Law is a simple physical law stating that the ratio of the thermal conductivity of a metal to the electrical conductivity of a metal is proportional to the temperature. Given this law, which one might try to take as a bridge law, it is possible to systematically derive facts about a metal’s electrical conductivity from facts about its thermal conductivity. It is inferred from the law that a metal has a certain electrical conductivity and it is a certain temperature if and only if it has such and such a thermal conductivity. If reductions could be carried out simply using conditionals or even biconditionals as bridge laws, then one would have thereby reduced the theory of electrical conductivity to the theory of thermal conductivity (and vice versa). However, some have argued that this would be the wrong result. This case serves as a counterexample to the view that derivations involving bridge laws with the status of biconditionals (or conditionals for that matter) constitute legitimate reductions. As Lawrence Sklar has put it:

Does this law establish the reduction of the theory of heat conduction to the theory of the conduction of electricity? No one has ever maintained that it does. What does explain both the electrical and thermal properties of matter, and the Wiedemann-Franz law as well, is the reduction of the macroscopic theory of matter to the theory of its atomic microscopic constitution. Although the correlation points to a reduction it does not constitute a reduction by itself. (1967, 119)

Jaegwon Kim has also argued that unless the bridge laws have the status of identities they cannot serve as part of genuine reductions:

It is arguably analytic that reduction must simplify; after all, reductions must reduce… On this score bridge laws of the form [Something is a T1 if and only if it is a B1] apparently are wanting in various ways. Since [Something is a T1 if and only if it is a B1] is supposed to be a contingent law, the concepts [T1] and [B1] remain distinct; hence bridge laws yield no conceptual simplification. Further, since we have only a contingent biconditional “iff” connecting properties [T1] and [B1], [T1] and [B1] remain distinct properties and there is no ontological simplification…. If we want ontological simplification out of our reductions, we must somehow find a way of enhancing bridge laws… into identities. (Kim 1998, 96-7)

The view is that only in cases where there are bridge laws with the status of identities do the derivations of laws constitute reductions.

This is a common point made in the philosophy of mind literature and it is due mainly to the aims of these reductionists – they want to solve the mind-body problem and thus what they are primarily interested in is not the unity of scientific theories (what drove Carnap and Neurath) but rather ontological simplification. This is why they think that bridge laws must have the status of identities. For others working in philosophy of science, there are reasons to think that theoretical reductions are valuable in themselves even if they do not lead to ontological reductions (i.e. identities). These philosophers of science endorse Nagel’s original position that reductions are legitimate even in the case where the bridge laws do not have the status of identities or even biconditionals. So long as one can establish derivations between two theories, one has unified them by establishing inter-connections. For this purpose, it is sufficient, as Nagel thought, that the bridge laws have the status of conditionals (See for example Ladyman, Ross, and Spurrett (2007, 49) who reject the suggestion that Nagelian reductions require identities.)

Before moving on, it is important to note some refinements that have been made to Nagel’s model of reduction since its original conception. In the 1960s, under the influence of the work of Thomas Kuhn, as philosophers of science began to focus more on constructing their theories with detailed study of cases from the history of science. Some suggested that Nagel’s model of reduction was implausible in at least a couple of ways. If one focused on actual examples of reductions from the history of science, like the reduction of physical optics to Maxwell’s electromagnetic theory, or even Nagel’s own example of the reduction of thermodynamics to statistical mechanics, Nagel’s model didn’t quite apply. The most compelling critique of Nagel’s account was made by Kenneth Schaffner (1967). Schaffner pointed to two specific problems with Nagel’s model of reduction.

The first problem with Nagel’s model was that it presupposed the simple deducibility of the target theory from the base theory and bridge laws, whereas in fact, in order for a derivation to be successful, the target theory often had to be modified somewhat. This might be because the target theory said some things that, in light of the base theory, one could now see were false. For example, Schaffner points out that once Maxwell’s theory was developed, one could see that a central law of physical optics, Fresnel’s law of intensity ratios, was not exactly correct (the ratios were off by a small but significant factor owing to the magnetic properties of the transmitting medium). In addition, in order to effect a reduction, target theories are often modified by incorporating certain facts about the range of phenomena to which the theory applies. In the case of physical optics, one must add to the theory the fact that it does not apply to all electromagnetic phenomena, but only those within a certain frequency range. So, in reducing physical optics to electromagnetic theory, what actually gets derived is not the target theory itself, but a slightly corrected version into which certain limiting assumptions are built.

The second worry Schaffner had about Nagel’s model of reduction was that it assumed what he called a ‘conceptual invariance’ between the target and base theories, while he noted that a certain amount of concept evolution always occurs in the process of reduction. Certain concepts in the target theory may turn out to be understood in a new manner or even rejected once one considers the base theory. Schaffner charts the evolution of the concept of ‘gene’ in Mendelian genetics as a result of the reduction of the theory to biochemistry (1967, 143). Thus, the theory that is actually derived from the base theory in the case of an actual reduction may not have all of the same laws or assumptions as the original theory and the derived theory may also contain a different set of concepts from the original target theory.

With these points in mind, Schaffner proposed a revised version of the derivation model of reduction intended to be more faithful to actual reductions in the history of science. According to Schaffner, reduction of a theory T to another theory B involves the formulation of a corrected, reconceptualized analog of the target theory: T*. Bridge laws are formulated linking all terms in T* with terms in the base theory B. Then T* is derived from B and these bridge laws. Indeed, even this model is perhaps not dynamic enough because as Schaffner himself notes, in reductions the base theory itself is also often modified as it is being considered as reduction base for T (or T*). So likely, there are two new theories developed: T* which is the corrected analog of the original target theory, and B*, a modified version of the base theory. Then it is B* that is used to derive T* with the aid of bridge laws.

Although this model is clearly intended as a correction to Nagel’s model, it shares much in common with the original model, and is often what is referred to when considering “Nagelian” reduction. Schaffner’s account agrees with Nagel’s on this important point: inter-theoretic reduction is the derivation of one theory from another theory, with the aid of bridge laws tying any terms in the derived theory that do not appear in the base theory to terms in that theory. Section 2 will consider the main reason that many philosophers reject reductionism, since they think that such bridge laws are impossible to find. But, first one other influential model of reduction will be considered.

c. Reduction as Explanation

There is one last model of reduction that was very influential in the past century. This explanatory model of reduction is historically associated with John Kemeny and Paul Oppenheim and is defended in their article, “On Reduction” (1956). The definition of ‘reduction’ that Kemeny and Oppenheim defend says that:

A theory T is reduced to another theory B relative to a set of observational data O if:

(1) The vocabulary of T contains terms not in the vocabulary of B.

(2) Any part of O explainable by means of T is explainable by B.

(3) B is at least as well systematized as T (paraphrased from their 1958, 13).

The set of observational data O is understood as relativized to that which requires explanation at the particular moment the reduction is attempted.

There are several elements of this definition that need explanation, particularly the notion of systematization that is employed by Kemeny and Oppenheim. The systematization of a theory is a measure of how well any complexity in the theory is compensated for by the additional strength of the theory to explain and predict more observations. It is clear why (3) is needed then in an account of theory reduction. If it was not the case, then one could just introduce the observations of T into the base theory, and create a new theory, T+o, thereby effecting an ad hoc reduction. Of course, this is not how reductions work. Instead, the base theory is expected to have the virtues typical of scientific theories, and be at least as systematized as the target.

This aspect of reduction is crucial to Kemeny and Oppenheim’s view regarding the motivations for reduction within science. They say that “the role of a theory is not to give us more facts but to organize facts into a practically manageable system” (1958, 11). The goal of a reduction is to streamline our overall scientific picture of the world and cast out theories whose observational domain can be just as systematically covered in a more encompassing theory. Thus, it is easy to see how the results of a Kemeny/Oppenheim reduction would serve well the stated aims of their predecessors in the unified science movement, Carnap and Neurath. They state the main motivation for reduction in the following way:

Anything we want to say about actual observations can be said without theoretical terms, but their introduction allows a much more highly systematized treatment of our total knowledge. Nevertheless, since theoretical terms are in a sense a luxury, we want to know if we can get along without some of them. It is, then, of considerable interest to know that a set of theoretical terms is superfluous since we can replace the theories using these by others in which they do not occur, without sacrificing the degree of systematization achieved by science to this day. (1958, 12)

Reduction helps one eliminate those terms and theories that are explanatorily superfluous. So, a direct justification for pursuing reduction in science is to achieve a greater level of theoretical parsimony.

This eliminative aspect of the Kemeny and Oppenheim proposal is something that need not be taken up by all philosophers who endorse the general idea of the explanatory model of reduction. Many later philosophers who built on this approach rejected the eliminative aspect of the model while retaining the idea that reductions essentially involve showing that all of the observations explained by a reduced theory can also be explained by the base theory. For example, in Paul Oppenheim and Hilary Putnam’s paper “Unity of Science as a Working Hypothesis,” this model of reduction is employed in the context of a larger metaphysical scheme that is not eliminative. The phrase ‘reduction of theories’ may seem to imply the idea that what one is doing is reducing the number of theories by getting rid of some, but this is not essential, nor is it obviously desirable. This issue of elimination versus retention of reduced theories (or entities) will be explored more fully in the last section of the present entry.

One familiar with the metaphysics and philosophy of mind literature will notice that the Kemeny/Oppenheim model is not one that is often discussed when philosophers are concerned with reductionism. One reason for this seems to be issues with the distinction on which it relies between theory and observation. This is a distinction that has been called into question in post-positivist philosophy of science owing to the purported theory-ladenness of all observation. It is worth considering the issue of whether the spirit of the Kemeny/Oppenheim model really requires maintaining this discredited distinction. Likely, a version of the view could be refined that replaced the notion of explaining observations with an appeal to explaining phenomena more generally.

John Bickle’s recent work, defending what he calls a ‘ruthless reductionism’, appeals to a notion of reduction that bears many similarities to the Kemeny/Oppenheim account without relying on a strict theory/observation dichotomy (Bickle 2006, 429). Considering the case of the reduction of psychology to neuroscience, Bickle describes reduction as involving the following simple practice: intervene neurally, and track behavioral effects (2006, 425). Bickle’s view is that in practice, reductions are accomplished when an experimenter finds a successful way of intervening at the chemical or cellular level, to cause a change in behavior that manifests what one would ordinarily recognize as cognitive behavior. He then argues:

When this strategy is successful, the cellular or molecular events in specific neurons into which the experiments have intervenes… directly explain the behavioral data. These explanations set aside intervening explanations, including the psychological, the cognitive/information processing, even the cognitive-neuroscientific… These successes amount to reductions of mind to molecular pathways in neurons… (2006, 426)

For Bickle, as for Kemeny and Oppenheim, reductions work when we find a theory (in this case a neural theory describing molecular or cellular mechanisms) that can explain the data of another theory (in this case, some aspect of psychology).

One might wonder about the relationship between the Kemeny/Oppenheim and derivation models of reduction. It is not obvious that the two accounts are in competition. Indeed, Schaffner (1967) argued that his own version of the derivation model allowed it to subsume the Kemeny/Oppenheim model in certain cases. Recall that according to Schaffner, Nagel’s derivation model must be augmented to accommodate the fact that in real cases of theory reduction, what actually gets derived is not the original version of the target theory T, but instead a corrected analog of the original theory, T*. Schaffner notes that in some cases to facilitate a derivation, the original theory will have to be corrected so much that the analog only very remotely resembles T. In these cases, what occurs is something very much like a Kemeny/Oppenheim reduction: an initial theory T is replaced by a distinct theory T* which is able to play an improved explanatory role.

2. Reductionism: For and Against

It is now time to examine the prospects for reductionism. Is it plausible to think that the various special sciences could be reduced to physics in any of these senses? The term ‘special sciences’ is usually taken to refer to the class of sciences that deal with one or another restricted class of entities, such as minds (psychology) or living things (biology). These sciences are distinguished from the one most general science (physics) that is supposed to deal with all entities whatsoever. In the metaphysics and philosophy of mind literature, reductionism is usually taken to be the view that all sciences are reducible to physics, or even that all entities are reducible to entities describable in the language of physics.

a. Versions of Reductionism

Reductionism is no longer understood as the view that makes use of the logical positivist’s sense of reduction as translation. One reason for this is probably that a comprehensive translation of all terms into the language of physics is standardly understood as a lost cause. Although one might allow that physical science contains many terms that are correlates of terms in the special sciences (to use Nagel’s example, ‘heat’ and ‘mean molecular motion’), it is rarely supposed that these correlates are synonymous. Nagel, as discussed above, already noted this point. Even in the case where one might find two terms that refer to the same phenomenon, the terms themselves may differ somewhat in meaning, the identity of their referents being established empirically.

When one claims that a special science is reducible to physics today, sometimes this is intended in the sense of the derivation model of reduction. The view of the reductionist is often that the laws of all of the special sciences are derivable from physics (with the help of bridge laws). This then requires the discovery of physical correlates of all terms that appear in the laws of the special sciences. ‘Cell’, ‘pain’, ‘money’: all of these must have their physical correlates, so that one may formulate bridge laws to facilitate the derivations (of biology, psychology, economics). Reductionists in metaphysics and philosophy of mind, following the points of Sklar and Kim discussed above, typically believe that these bridge laws must have the status of identities. Thus, the reduction of all special science theories to physics is thought to bring with it the reduction (qua identification) of all entities to entities describable in the language of physics.

There is also a large class of philosophers thought of as reductionists who do not think of their view as entailing theoretical reductions in any of the senses described above. Those identity-theorists like U.T. Place (1956) or J.J.C. Smart (1959) who believe that mental phenomena (in Place’s case: processes, in Smart’s: mental types) are identical to physical phenomena (processes or types) are often thought of as reductionists in virtue of accepting such identities, whatever they may think of reduction in the traditional sense of theory reduction. Though they do not speak of reduction in the sense of Nagel (indeed their work predates Nagel’s seminal The Structure of Science) Place and Smart are explicit about denying the plausibility of reductions in the sense of translations; they deny that sentences involving psychological terms in general may be translated into sentences involving purely physical terms. As Smart puts it:

Let me first try to state more accurately the thesis that sensations are brain-processes. It is not the thesis that, for example “after-image” or “ache” means the same as “brain process of sort X”… It is that, in so far as “after-image” or “ache” is a report of a process, it is a report of a process that happens to be a brain process. It follows that the thesis does not claim that sensation statements can be translated into statements about brain processes. (1959, 144)

For Smart and Place, the truth of reductionism about the mind is something that one learns through observation. It isn’t something that one can simply come to by reflecting on the meanings of psychological terms. Although they might reject reductionism in the translational sense and do not discuss theoretic reduction in the sense of either the Nagel or Kemeny/Oppenheim models, their account does involve an ontological reductionism – mental phenomena just are physical phenomena.

Not everyone however thinks that the mere obtaining of identities is sufficient for the success of reductionism. As Jaegwon Kim has argued, even if one had a complete set of identity claims linking terms in the special sciences with physical science terms such that one could complete a derivation of the special sciences from physical science or facilitate reductions, one would still not have truly reduced the special sciences to physical science (1998, 97-9). The problem is that reductions are supposed to be explanatory, and the completion of all of the derivations would not have shown one why it is that the bridging identities obtain.

To see Kim’s worry, consider the reduction of thermodynamics to statistical mechanics described by Nagel. Assume that in order to derive thermodynamics from statistical mechanics, physicists utilized the following bridge law:

Heat = mean molecular motion

This then allowed them to derive the heat laws of thermodynamics from the laws of statistical mechanics governing the motion of molecules. Kim’s worry is that even if this Nagel reduction succeeds, one will still not understand how thermodynamics is grounded in statistical mechanics because the identity statement is not explained. As he puts it:

I don’t think it’s good philosophy to say, as some materialists used to say, “But why can’t we just say that they are one and the same? Give me good reasons why we shouldn’t say that!” I think that we must try to provide positive reasons for saying that things that appear to be distinct are in fact one and the same. (1998, 98)

What needs to happen according to Kim (and for many others in the literature including Frank Jackson (1998) and David Chalmers (1996)), is that these identities need themselves to be grounded in what is known as a functional reduction.

Functional reductions work in two stages. In the first stage, one takes the special science phenomenon that is supposed to be reduced and “primes” it for reduction. One does this by construing it relationally. For example, if one is trying to reduce a chemical phenomenon like boiling, one might construe it as the property a substance has when there are bubbles on its surface and a resulting vapor. In the second stage of a functional reduction, one seeks the property figuring in the base science that could ground the obtaining of this relational description. Once this is accomplished, one is able to identify the phenomenon in the special science with the phenomenon in the base science. Continuing with the same example, it might be found in physics (and obviously this is to oversimplify) that when the atoms in a substance reach a certain average momentum, and the pressure in the substance is less than the atmospheric pressure in the substance’s environment, they are able to escape the surface. One can then see how this would produce bubbles on the substance’s surface and a resulting vapor. Once this explanation has been given, one can identify x’s boiling as identical with x’s being such that x’s atoms have reached a certain momentum, and x’s internal pressure is less than the pressure of x’s external environment. And it will be clear why this identity obtains. This is because the latter is just the physical phenomenon that is required for x to boil, given how boiling was construed in the first stage of the reduction.

In sum, functional reductions allow one to see why it is the case that identities obtain. They can be used therefore to supplement an identity theory of the kind endorsed by Smart and Place, or to supplement a Nagelian reduction to explain bridge laws with the status of identities. Many discussions of reductionism assume that the view requires functional reductions of this kind. Bickle has noted that this is most often the case in discussions of reductionism by anti-reductionists .

The following section will discuss the main argument that has been thought to refute reductionism of this kind, as well as any kind based on the notion of reduction centrally involving identity statements: the argument from multiple realization. The focus will be on this particular argument because it provides the most general critique of reductionism, applying to many different sciences. That is, unlike other arguments against reductionism, the argument from multiple realization is thought to show that for any special science (or special science phenomenon), it cannot be reduced to physical science (or a physical phenomenon). There are also many less general arguments that have been advanced to show that one particular kind of science cannot be reduced, for example, the arguments of Thomas Nagel (1979), Frank Jackson (1982), and David Chalmers’ (1996) against the physical reducibility of consciousness. These arguments will not be discussed in this entry.

b. The Argument from Multiple Realization

The multiple realization argument is historically associated with Hilary Putnam and Jerry Fodor (Putnam 1975; Fodor 1974). What Putnam and Fodor argued was that in general it would not be possible to find true identity statements of the kind required for reductions of the special sciences. For simplicity, the present discussion will focus on the case of reducing psychology to physical science. If this reduction is going to be successful, then one must find physical correlates for all psychological terms such that there are true identity statements linking each psychological term with a physical term. For example, for some physical property P, there must be a true identity statement of the form:

For all x (x’s being in pain = x’s instantiating physical property P),

Or more generally:

For all x (x’s instantiating special science property S = x’s instantiating physical property P)

As Putnam points out, it is a great challenge for the reductionist to find physical properties that will serve this purpose. He says:

Consider what the [reductionist] has to do to make good on his claims. He has to specify a physical-chemical state such that any organism (not just a mammal) is in pain if and only if (a) it possesses a brain of a suitable physical-chemical structure; and (b) its brain is in that physical-chemical state. This means that the physical-chemical state in question must be a possible state of a mammalian brain, a reptilian brain, a mollusc’s brain…, etc… Even if such a state can be found, it must be nomologically certain that it will also be a state of the brain of any extra-terrestrial life that may be found that will be capable of feeling pain… it is at least possible that parallel evolution, all over the universe might always lead to one and the same physical “correlate” of pain. But this is certainly an ambitious hypothesis. (Putnam 1975, 436)

The problem for the reductionist is that too many very physically different kinds of things satisfy the predicate ‘is in pain’ for one to have the hope of specifying a kind of physical property P that all and only the things that are in pain instantiate. This is not only a problem for the reductionist who requires that there be identities linking terms in the special sciences with terms in the language of physics. Putnam’s point works equally well against the obtaining of bridge laws with biconditional form, for example:

For all x (x is in pain if and only if x instantiates physical property P) Putnam, and later Fodor, argued that this argument generalizes to show that one would not be able to find true identity statements linking special science predicates with predicates from physical science. The types of things satisfying a given special science predicate are just too physically diverse. The view Putnam and Fodor advocated, instead of reductionism, was (a nonreductive version of) functionalism. They claimed that special science predicates typically denote causal or functional properties. That is, what it is for something to fall within the extension of a particular special science predicate is for it to play some specific causal role. So, for example, to fall under the psychological predicate ‘pain’ is roughly to be in an internal state that is caused by tissue damage and tends to cause withdrawal behavior, moans, and so on. If this functionalism about ‘pain’ is true, then anything that instantiates this causal role will fall under the extension of the predicate ‘pain’. The metaphysical upshot of this is that pain is a functional property that has many different realizers. These may include states of humans, mollusks, and Martians, whatever is the type of thing that has an internal state caused by tissue damage and which tends to cause withdrawal behavior, moans, and so on. But there is no one physical property with which the property of being in pain may be identified.

c. Replies

Reductionists have tried several ways of responding to the argument from multiple realization. To begin, it must be noted that this argument only succeeds against a version of reductionism claiming that there are identities or assumptions with the status of biconditional linking terms in the special sciences with physical terms. As was noted above, many philosophers of science, including Nagel himself, do not believe that the reduction of a theory to physical science requires that there be bridge laws with the status of identities or biconditionals, so long as assumptions strong enough to facilitate derivations obtain. The arguments of Putnam and Fodor do nothing to undermine claims of the following form:

For all x (if x instantiates physical property P, then x instantiates special science property S),

where ‘P’ denotes some actual realization of a special science property in humans or some other creature. Thus, reduction of all special sciences to physical science may still be carried out in the sense of Nagel reduction.

Alternatively, the reductionist may point to the fact that there are derivation models of reduction that do away with the appeal to bridge laws altogether. For example, C.A. Hooker (1981) developed a derivation model of reduction that builds on the insights of Nagel and Schaffner. Like Schaffner (1967), Hooker argued that in actual cases of reduction what gets derived from the base theory is not the original target theory, but instead a corrected analog T* of the original theory. On Hooker’s model however, this analog is formulated instead within the linguistic and conceptual framework of the base theory B. Thus, no bridge laws are required in order to derive T* from B. He then notes that once T* has been derived from B, one can claim that T has been reduced in virtue of an analog relation A that T* bears to T (1981, 49). It is of course a difficult matter to spell out what these analog relations must come to for there to have been a legitimate reduction of T to B, in virtue of the derivation of T* from B. Still the fact that it is T* that is derived from B, a theory in B’s own language implies that bridge laws of any form (be they identity statements, biconditionals, or conditionals) are not required for reductions in Hooker’s sense. Therefore, if one holds a theory of reductionism based on Hooker reduction (as in Bickle (1998), for example), one is immune to objections from multiple realization.

Still, it has been noted that many reductionists, for example Place and Smart, argue that there are identities linking the entities of the special sciences with physics. Indeed for many reductionists, such identities are a central part of their views. Still, there are ways even for these reductionists to respond to the arguments of Putnam and Fodor. Jaegwon Kim (1998), for example, has made two suggestions.

One suggestion is for the reductionist to hold onto the claim that there are truths of the form:

For all x (x’s instantiating special science property S = x’s instantiating physical property P)

However, she may maintain that P is a disjunctive property. For example, if pain is realized in humans by C-fiber stimulation, in octopi by D-fiber stimulation, in Martians by E-fiber stimulation, and so on, then P will be:

the property of instantiating C-fiber stimulation in humans or D-fiber stimulation in octopi or E-fiber stimulation in Martians or .…

This approach is generally unpopular as reductionists (e.g. D.M. Armstrong (1997)) and anti-reductionists (e.g. Fodor (1997)) alike are skeptical about the existence of such disjunctive properties.

A second approach suggested by Kim (1998, 93-94) has been more popular. This approach is also associated with David Lewis following his suggestions in his “Mad Pain and Martian Pain” (Lewis 1980). The response concedes to Putnam and Fodor that there is no property of pain simpliciter that can be identified with a property from physical science. However, there are true “local” identity statements that may be found. Kim suggests that there may be a physical property discovered that is identical to pain-in-humans, another discovered that is identical to pain-in-octopi, so on. What motivates the multiple realization argument is the compelling point that there is little physically similar among different realizers of pain across species. However, within a species, there are sufficient physical similarities to ground a species-specific (this is what Kim means by ‘local’) reduction of pain. Or so the reductionist may argue. Kim himself does not endorse reductionism about pain, even if he thinks most other special science properties can be reduced in this way.

3. Reduction of Entities: Identification vs. Elimination

Up to now, reduction has been treated as involving unification of theories or identity of phenomena (properties, types, or processes). In the case of theoretical reductions, according to the Nagelian models, it has been assumed that when a reduction is effected, previously disunified theories become unified and in the case of entities, when a reduction is effected, entities that were previously seen as distinct are shown to be identical.

However, this is not how reductions always proceed. Indeed this is implied by the term ‘reduction’ itself. Shouldn’t reduction involve a decrease in the number of theories or entities in the world? Doesn’t the reduction of psychology to physics analytically entail the elimination of psychology? Doesn’t the reduction of pain to a physical phenomena analytically entail its elimination? Several authors have emphasized the eliminative aspects of many reductions in practice (especially Schaffner (1967), Churchland (1981), Churchland (1986), Bickle (2003)).

Return to the derivation model of theoretical reduction. It was noted earlier that to effect reductions in the derivation sense, it is often necessary to create a new, modified version of the target theory in order to get something actually derivable from something like the base theory. In the Schaffner model, this proceeds by formulating a new version of the target theory, in its original language, supplemented by bridge laws. In the case of the Hooker model, this proceeds by formulating a new version of the target theory, but in the language of the base theory, thus avoiding the need for bridge laws. Either way, the result is that it is not entirely clear whether what has been reduced is a legitimate version of the original target theory T (in other words, whether a retentive reduction has been achieved), or a different theory altogether (whether what has been achieved is instead a replacement reduction) (Hooker 1981, Bickle 1998). In the move to unification, in accomplishing the reduction, has one been able to retain the original target theory? Or has one instead been forced to replace it with a different theory? There is surely a continuous spectrum of possible reductions from those of the more retentive kind to those that are clearly replacements (see Bickle 1998, for a diagram charting this spectrum). At a certain point, the theory that actually gets derived may be so different from the original target theory, that one may be forced to say that the reduction of the original has instead proceeded by something more like the Kemeny/Oppenheim model. The original theory is being replaced with another able to accommodate the original’s phenomena. In the history of science, there have been reductions of many different kinds. The standard example of the reduction of chemistry to atomic physics was an example of a retentive reduction. Most if not all of the claims of chemistry before the reduction are still taken to be true, even if some had to be modified for a derivation of the theory from atomic physics to go through. On the other hand, the reduction of phlogiston theory to modern chemistry was a replacement reduction. Enough of the claims of the phlogiston theory were forced to be changed that one can justifiably say that that theory was replaced altogether, not retained.

The hope in the philosophy of mind is that whatever psychological theory actually gets reduced to physics, it will be sufficiently similar to the original psychological theory that the psychophysical reduction is retentive. However, there are some reductionists, in particular Churchland (1986) and Churchland (1981), who think this hope is unlikely to be fulfilled.

The spectrum from theoretical reductions that are retentive to theoretical reductions that are eliminative parallels another spectrum of kinds of reductions of phenomena. In some cases where the reduction of a phenomenon is carried out, one is justified in characterizing this as an identification. In other cases, one wants to say that the phenomenon has rather been eliminated as a result of the reduction. It is plausible that whether reductions should be seen as eliminative or not has to do with whether or not the theory that mentioned that entity has been reduced in a more or less retentive manner. Whether or not a reduction of all mental phenomena can be achieved that most philosophers will view as retentive is still very much up in the air. However, for the reductionist, the hope is that for all phenomena, they will either be identified with entities of physical science or eliminated altogether in favor of the entities of a superior theory.

4. References and Further Reading

  • Armstrong, D.M. 1997. A World of States of Affairs. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
  • Bickle, John. 1998. Psychoneural Reduction: The New Wave. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press.
  • Bickle, John. 2006. “Reducing mind to molecular pathways: explicating the reductionism implicit in current cellular and molecular neuroscience.” Synthese, 151, 411-434.
  • Carnap, Rudolf. 1928/1967. The Logical Structure of the World and Pseudoproblems in Philosophy. Berkeley, California: University of California Press.
  • Carnap, Rudolf. 1934. The Unity of Science. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, and Co.
  • Carnap, Rudolf. 1963. Autobiography. The Philosophy of Rudolf Carnap, P.A. Schilpp, ed. LaSalle, Illinois: Open Court.
  • Cartwright, Nancy, Jordi Cat, Lola Fleck, and Thomas Uebel. 1995. Otto Neurath: Philosophy between Science and Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Cartwright, Nancy, Jordi Cat, and Hasok Chang. 1996. “Otto Neurath: Politics and the Unity of Science.” The Disunity of Science: Boundaries, Contexts, and Power, P. Galison and D. Stump, eds. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press.
  • Chalmers, David. 1996. The Conscious Mind: In Search of a Fundamental Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Churchland, Patricia. 1986. Neurophilosophy. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press.
  • Churchland, Paul. 1981. “Eliminative Materialism and the Propositional Attitudes.” The Journal of Philosophy, 78, 67-90.
  • Dennett, Daniel C. 1991. Consciousness Explained. London: Little, Brown and Co.
  • Fodor, Jerry. 1974. “Special Sciences, or the Disunity of Science as a Working Hypothesis.” Synthese, 28, 97-115.
  • Fodor, Jerry. 1997. “Special Sciences: Still Autonomous After All These Years.” Philosophical Perspectives, 11, 149-163.
  • Hempel, Carl. 1966. Philosophy of Natural Science. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice Hall.
  • Hooker, C.A. 1981. “Towards a General Theory of Reduction. Part I: Historical and Scientific Setting. Part II: Identity in Reduction. Part III: Cross-Categorial Reduction.” Dialogue, 20, 38-59, 201-236, 496-529.
  • Jackson, Frank. 1982. “Epiphenomenal Qualia.” Philosophical Quarterly, 32, 127-36.
  • Jackson, Frank. 1998. From Metaphysics to Ethics: A Defence of Conceptual Analysis. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Kemeny, John and Paul Oppenheim. 1956. “On Reduction.” Philosophical Studies, 7, 6-19.
  • Kim, Jaegwon. 1998. Mind in a Physical World. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press.
  • Ladyman, James and Don Ross (with John Collier and David Spurrett). 2007. Every Thing Must Go: Metaphysics Naturalized. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Lewis, David. 1980. “Mad Pain and Martian Pain.” Readings in the Philosophy of Psychology, Vol. 1. N. Block, ed. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 216-222.
  • Nagel, Ernest. 1961. The Structure of Science: Problems in the Logic of Scientific Explanation. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World.
  • Nagel, Thomas. 1979. “What is it Like to be a Bat?” Mortal Questions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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Author Information

Alyssa Ney
Email: aney@mail.rochester.edu
University of Rochester
U. S. A.

Epistemology of Testimony

We get a great number of our beliefs from what others tell us. The epistemology of testimony concerns how we should evaluate these beliefs. Here are the main questions. When are the beliefs justified, and why? When do they amount to knowledge, and why?

When someone tells us p, where p is some statement, and we accept it, then we are forming a testimonially-based belief that p. Testimony in this sense need not be formal testimony in a courtroom; it happens whenever one person tells something to someone else. What conditions should be placed on the recipient of testimonially-based beliefs? Must the recipient of testimony have beliefs about the reliability of the testifier, or inductive support for such a belief? Or, on the other hand, is it enough if the testifier is in fact reliable, and a recipient may satisfy his epistemic duties without having a belief about that reliability? What external environmental conditions should be placed on the testifier? For the recipient to know something, must the testifier know it, too?

For our basic case of testimonially-based belief, let us say that person T, our testifier, says p to person S, our epistemic subject, and S believes that p. This article will first survey arguments related to S-side issues, then those related to T-side issues.

Table of Contents

  1. Some Terminology, Abbreviations, and Caveats
  2. Recipient (S)-Side Questions
    1. Characterizing the Debate
    2. Arguments in Favor of Demands on Testimonially-Based Beliefs
      1. T’s Ability to Deceive
      2. Individual Counterexamples and Intuitions about Irresponsibility and Gullibility
      3. S’s Ability Not to Trust T
      4. Operational Dependence on Other Sources
      5. Defeasibility of Testimonially-Based Beliefs by Other Sources
      6. From a No-Defeater Condition to Positive-Reason-to-Believe Condition
      7. S’s Higher-Order Beliefs About T
    3. Arguments Against Demands on Testimonially-Based Beliefs
      1. Insufficient Inductive Base
      2. Analogies to Perception
      3. Analogies to Memory
      4. Skepticism about Over-Intellectualization and Young Children
      5. The Assurance View as a Basis for Lessened Demands on S
    4. A Priori Reasons in Support of Testimonially-Based Beliefs
      1. Coady’s Davidsonian Argument from the Comprehensibility of Testimony
      2. Burge’s Argument from Intelligible Presentation
      3. Graham’s A Priori Necessary Conceptual Intuitions
  3. Testifier (T)-Side Questions: Testimony and the Preservation of Knowledge
    1. Background
    2. The Cases
      1. Untransmitted Defeaters
      2. Zombie Testifiers
      3. High-Stakes T, Low-Stakes S
      4. False Testimony
      5. Reconceptualization from T to S
      6. Unreliable Testimony
  4. Some Brief Notes on Other Issues
    1. Connections between S-side and T-side issues
    2. The Nature of Testimony
  5. References and Further Reading

1. Some Terminology, Abbreviations, and Caveats

This article considers the epistemology of testimonially-based belief. Let’s unpack that phrase. Discussing the basis of different beliefs presupposes that one important way we should categorize beliefs is by where they came from. The basis of a belief is its source or root. When we look across the room and see a chair, we form a perceptually-based belief that there is a chair nearby. When we believe that p and believe that p entails q, and then conclude that q, we form a deductively-based belief that q. When we observe that gravity has operated in the past and we infer that it will continue to operate in the future, we form an inductively-based belief about gravity. When we remember what we ate this morning, we form a memorially-based belief about our breakfast. And when someone tells us that p, and we accept it, we form a testimonially-based belief that p. Testimony in this sense need not be formal testimony in a courtroom, but happens whenever one person tells something to someone else.

It will be helpful to use the same terminology throughout this article. For our basic case of testimonially-based belief, let us say that T, our testifier, says p to S, our epistemic subject, and S believes that p. Different permutations will be considered, but this will be the terminology for the basic case.

Actual beliefs might not, of course, have only one basis. A belief might be partly testimonially-based and partly perceptually-based, just as it might be partly inductively-based and partly memorially-based. However, an understanding of pure cases, which we will pursue in this article, should illuminate hybrid instances.

Now, the epistemology of a belief is a particular sort of evaluation. Epistemologists assign honors like “knowledge” or “justification” to beliefs based on whether those beliefs are up to snuff epistemically. The epistemology of testimonially-based belief, then, concerns the epistemic status of S’s belief that p. Is it justified? Is it rational? Is it warranted? Is it sufficiently supported by evidence? Is S entitled to believe it? Does S know that p?

One way to speak of the epistemology of testimonially-based belief is to speak directly of the epistemic status at issue: we can talk about testimonially-based knowledge, testimonially-based justification, or testimonial evidence.

Many of the contemporary disputes in the epistemology of testimony occur in two broad fields. One dispute, or set of disputes, concerns the extent of the internal conditions placed on testimonially-based belief related to the recipient, S. (To phrase the debate in terms of internal conditions is not to beg the question against epistemic externalism the externalist is characterized precisely by his failure to place such demands regarding the internal accessibility. See, for instance, the title of Bergmann 2006b: Justification Without Awareness: A Defense of Epistemic Externalism.) When is a testimonially-based belief justified, or rational, or reasonable, or permissible, or within our epistemic entitlements? Is testimonially-based justification really a special case of inferentially-based justification, or is it (instead) analogous to perceptually- or memorially-based justification? What sorts of epistemic demands do we properly place on those who believe what others tell them? Coady 1973 uses the terms “reductionism” and “anti-reductionism” to describe approaches to these issues. Speaking broadly, reductionism views testimony as akin to inference and places a relatively heavy burden on the recipient of testimony, while anti-reductionism views testimony as akin to perception or memory and places a relatively light burden on the recipient of testimony.

A second area involves the external conditions on the testifier, T, in order for S to know that p. Must T know that p herself? Must T’s testimony even be true? Must T reliably testify that p?

This article will first survey arguments related to S-side issues, then those related to T-side questions. These two areas do not by any means exhaust the topics of great interest to epistemology, but are a useful first place to begin.

As noted in the final section of this article, there are some important disputes about exactly what counts as “testimony.” For the most part, this article will make do with a rough “T told S that p” formulation. However, especially in T-side issues, a key issue is frequently whether a proposed counterexample counts as testimonially-based belief. This article can only suggest some of the relevant considerations to that issue, rather than canvassing it in detail.

This article focuses chiefly on the epistemology of testimony in general, rather than the epistemology of human testimony. Because there is considerable controversy about what is required, as a conceptual matter, for testimonially-based knowledge or justification or rationality, it seems wisest to get as clear a view of the nature of testimonial justification and testimonial knowledge, as such, before proceeding to more obviously practical considerations related to an evaluation of particular actual testimonially-based beliefs. To the extent that we only consider the epistemology of testimony in general, our conclusions may be relatively thin and unsatisfying. However, controversy regarding the basic nature of epistemic phenomena across the universe of possible testimonially-based beliefs means that this sort of preliminary brush-clearing is important.

2. Recipient (S)-Side Questions

a. Characterizing the Debate

The most prominent debate in the epistemology of testimony is between “reductionism” and “non-reductionism,” terms due to Coady 1973. The earliest clear statements of these positions appear in David Hume and Thomas Reid. Hume said, “[T]here is no species of reasoning more common, more useful, and more necessary to human life, than that which is derived from the testimony of men, and the reports of eye-witnesses and spectators. … [O]ur assurance in any argument of this kind is derived from no other principle than our observation of the veracity of human testimony, and of the usual conformity of facts to the reports of witnesses.” (Hume 1748, section X, at 74.) Hume’s picture is that we properly form beliefs based on testimony only because we have seen other confirmed instances. Testimonially-based justification is therefore reducible to a combination of perceptually-, memorially-, and inferentially-based justification. (In theory, one might also include a priori insight among the sources to which testimonial justification is reduced, though Hume does not do so.)

Reid, however, argued that children properly trust others even when they lack any past inductive basis in their experience: “[I]f credulity were the effect of reasoning and experience, it must grow up and gather strength, in the same proportion as reason and experience do. But, if it is the gift of Nature, it will be strongest in childhood, and limited and restrained by experience; and the most superficial view of human nature shews, that the last is really the case, and not the first. … [N]ature intends that our belief should be guided by the authority and reason of others before it can be guided by our own reason.” (Reid 1764, chapter 6, section 24, at 96.) Reid suggests that we have an innate faculty, unconfirmed by personally-observed earlier instances, which properly causes us to trust those who testify. Testimonially-based justification flows from the reliability of this faculty, and so it is not reducible to perceptually- and inferentially-based justification.

The reducibility of testimonially-based justification is thus one way to characterize the debate between Hume and Reid and their modern successors over the internal conditions on testimonially-based beliefs. A second way to characterize such disputes is to ask to what extent testimonially-based beliefs are implicitly inferential. A Humean approach holds that we infer the reliability of a present bit of testimony from the reliability of earlier instances, while a Reidian approach holds that testimonially-based beliefs are properly non-inferential, or direct. The inferentialist sees testimonially-based belief as the acceptance (or the hypothetical acceptance) of an argument like this:

  1. T is telling me that p;
  2. T, or people like T, have generally been reliable in the past telling me, or other people, things like p; so
  3. T is probably reliable on this occasion; so
  4. p.

The non-inferentialist sees testimony as less like an invitation to an argument and more like the input to a machine. T tells S that p, and, seizing upon T’s act of communication, S’s testimony-processing faculty causes S to believe that p.

(Audi 1997 helpfully distinguishes between hypothetical and actual inferences. He holds that testimonially-based beliefs are formed directly, but are nonetheless justified on the basis of other beliefs; such beliefs could be used to support the testimonially-based belief, but need not be part of its actual genesis.)

Lackey 2006a gives relatively full recent lists of the adversaries in the S-side literature in terms of reductionism (at 183 n.3) versus nonreductionism (at 186 n.19), while Graham 2006:93 does the same in terms of inferential versus direct views. These lists appear below, just before the bibliography.

A third way to characterize disputes over testimonially-based beliefs is to ask to what extent testimonially-based justification is analogous to perceptually-based justification. The Humean-reductionist tradition sees strong disanalogies, while the Reidian-non-reductionist tradition sees a strong analogy between the sources. See, for instance, Lackey 2005:163 (“nonreductionists maintain that testimony is just as basic a source of justification (knowledge, warrant, entitlement, and so forth) as sense-perception, memory, inference, and the like”); Graham 2004:n.4 (“The central claim the Anti-Reductionist makes is that the epistemologies of perception, memory, and testimony should all look more or less alike.”).

None of these formulations captures contemporary debates perfectly well. Few contemporary philosophers will endorse Hume’s reductionist or inferentialist approach to testimonially-based belief in anything close to full form. Some philosophers would demand that S have positive reasons to believe in T’s reliability, or place other demands on S, but almost all of them stop short of insisting that S have a sufficiently-large inductive base to justify an inference that p from other beliefs, or to reduce testimonially-based justification to perceptually-, memorially-, and inferentially-based beliefs. Regarding the analogy between the epistemology of perceptually- and testimonially-based beliefs, even Reid, the prototype non-reductionist, saw significant disanalogies between beliefs based on perception and testimony. See Reid 1785 (article 2, chapter 20, at 203): “There is no doubt an analogy between the evidence of the senses and the evidence of testimony. … But there is a real difference between the two as well as a similarity. When we believe something on the basis of someone’s testimony, we rely on that person’s authority. But we have no such authority for believing our senses.”

Rather than characterizing the internal dispute solely in terms of reductionism, or inferentialism, or a perceptual-testimonial analogy, this article will simply consider arguments in favor of a relatively demanding approach to testimony versus arguments in favor of a relatively less demanding approach. Details about exactly which demands different authors would make on testimonially-based belief are best explained individually. Rather than applying labels like “Reductionist” or “Inferentialist,” this article simply uses “Liberal” and “Conservative.” Liberals are less demanding on testimonially-based justification and allow testimonially-based beliefs to count as justified, or as knowledge, more liberally; conservatives are more demanding and dispense testimonially-based epistemic honors more conservatively. In considering each demand, this article will also ask whether the demand might also reasonably be placed on perceptually-based beliefs as well.

The usage of “liberal” and “conservative” here has a kinship with the technical use of these terms in Graham 2006:95, but it is not the same. Graham uses the labels “reactionary,” “conservative,” “moderate,” and “liberal” to refer to those who accept or reject specific basic principles of epistemic justification. Graham’s “reactionary” accepts only principles regarding a priori insight, internal experiences, and deduction, rejecting principles related to memory, enumerative induction, inference to the best explanation, perception, and testimony. Graham’s “conservative” rejects only principles regarding perception and testimony; his “moderate” rejects only the principle regarding testimony, while his “liberal”—Graham’s own view—accepts the principle for testimony as well. Graham’s use of these principles in comparing testimony to perception and memory is discussed below.

Some philosophers place demands on testimonially-based beliefs regarding some epistemic honors, but not others. For instance, Audi 1997 is relatively demanding regarding testimonially-based justification, but because he does not think justification is required for knowledge, he is relatively lenient regarding testimonially-based knowledge. Burge 1993:458-59 is relatively lenient regarding what he calls testimonial “entitlement,” but reserves the label “justification” for instances where S is aware of an entitlement. Graham 2006:104ff. is relatively lenient regarding testimonially-based “pro tanto” justification—that is, he allows testimonially-based beliefs to have some justification relatively easily—but more demanding when considering whether S would have enough pro-tanto justification to have a justified belief. Plantinga 1993:82 similarly distinguishes between S having some testimonially-based evidence from having enough for S to have knowledge: “Testimonial evidence is indeed evidence; and if I get enough and strong enough testimonial evidence for a give fact … the belief in question may have enough warrant to constitute knowledge.”

Finally for preliminaries, we should distinguish arguments about what demands to place on testimonially-based beliefs from arguments about how those demands might be satisfied. Coady, Burge, and Graham suggest in different ways that we have a priori reason to accept testimonially-based beliefs, but they are all liberal about whether to place a general demand that testimonially-based beliefs be based on reasons such as the ones they offer. This article very briefly surveys their three approaches in a separate section.

b. Arguments in Favor of Demands on Testimonially-Based Beliefs

i. T’s Ability to Deceive

Faulkner 2000 argues that the fact that testimony comes from a person, rather than an inanimate object, is a reason to be more demanding on testimonially-based beliefs than on perceptually-based beliefs. Lackey 2006a:176 and 188 n.44 also endorses this argument. People like T can lie, but the matter in our perceptual environment cannot. See also Audi 2006:40: “[T] must in some sense, though not necessarily by conscious choice, select what to attend to, and in doing so can also lie or, in a certain way, mislead … For the basic sources, there is no comparable analogue of such voluntary representation of information.”

One way to make the point more precise is to claim that because free actions are particularly indeterministic—that is, because determinism is false, and so the past plus laws is not enough to guarantee future free actions—the environment for a testimonially-based belief cannot be regular and law-governed in the way that the environment for a perceptually-based belief can be. Graham 2004 considers such an argument in detail. He argues, however, that the presence of human freedom in testimonial cases is not a significant reason to prefer a conservative approach. He argues that if a libertarian approach to human freedom undermines the predictability of human actions, then it would also undermine a conservative approach to testimony; if T’s actions were unpredictable, then S could never have a proper basis on which to believe that T is likely to be honest, for instance. However, Graham argues that if libertarianism does not undermine predictability—either because it is false, or because counterfactuals of freedom are nonetheless somehow true—then testimonial liberalism is not threatened by human freedom, because the environments for testimonially-based beliefs can in fact be as predictable as the environments for perceptually-based beliefs.

Green 2006:82ff. argues that freedom is not distinctive of testimonially-based beliefs. Faulkner and Lackey both refer to this factor as a reason to distinguish perceptually-based beliefs from testimonially-based beliefs. However, perceptually-based beliefs can also suffer from the influence of deception. Fake objects, for instance, can be the result of deception, and perceptual-based beliefs about fake objects can obviously go awry because of the influence of agency on a perceptual environment. If the possibility of deception is a good reason to think that S requires positive reasons to believe T, then there seems to be equally strong reason to require that S have positive reasons to believe that the objects of her perceptually-based beliefs are genuine. The conservative might respond that deception may sometimes be at stake in a perceptually-based belief, but deception is always a possibility for testimonially-based ones. However, this seems clearly untrue as a conceptual matter; it is at least possible for T to be a reliable robot lacking freedom. And even among common human experience, there are cases where people lack the time to deliberate about deception; human free human action is not always at stake in testimonially-based belief.

ii. Individual Counterexamples and Intuitions about Irresponsibility and Gullibility

While she criticizes reductionism, Lackey 2006a argues that S does need positive reasons to believe T’s testimony. She relies on an example in which T is an extraterrestrial alien, dropping what appears to S to be a diary written in English, describing events on T’s home planet. Because, Lackey thinks, S has no reason to believe that the diary really is English, is not ironic, and so on, S’s belief is unjustified. “[H]earers need positive reasons in order to acquire testimonial justification, thereby avoiding the charge of … gullibility and intellectual irresponsibility.” Lackey 2006a:179; compare the title of Fricker 1994, “Against Gullibility.”

Testimonial liberals might respond to Lackey’s counterexample by simply reporting different intuitions. S is entitled to believe even reports from aliens that are apparently in English, and may assume without evidence (and in the absence of counter-evidence) that they are sincere and so on. Intuitions about the vice of gullibility may differ: liberals might say that it is in fact a vice to be too skeptical of others’ reports when there is no positive reason to doubt them.

Green 2006:67ff. argues that a perceptual analogue to the alien case can be constructed. S is suddenly transported to an unfamiliar perceptual environment and seems to see certain objects outside what looks like a window. But S may have no reason to think that the window is not, for instance, a television screen showing a greatly-magnified image of a scene far away, rather than a window opening onto nearby ordinary-sized objects. If S’s perceptually-based beliefs in that scenario do not required positive reasons to believe that his perceptual environment and faculties are functioning normally, then it is not clear why S need such reasons in the testimonial case.

In arguing against gullibility, Fricker 1994 argues in favor of S’s duty to monitor T for signs of untrustworthiness, suggesting that neglecting such a duty makes S gullible. Those who advocate S’s presumptive right to trust T, she argues, must dispense with any duty in S to monitor T for signs of untrustworthiness. Goldberg and Henderson 2005 argue, however, that the testimonial non-reductionist can also countenance a requirement that S be sensitive to signs of T’s untrustworthiness; Fricker 2006c responds. Particularly after Fricker’s reply, it is not immediately obvious that the dispute between Goldberg and Henderson and Fricker is over anything epistemically substantive; at first glance the dispute is merely over the label “anti-reductionism” would properly apply to a view that imposes on S a robust duty to monitor T. However, the substantive issue about how best to characterize and understand the epistemic significance of the sensitivity to defeaters is of relevance even if it does not push toward either testimonial liberalism or conservatism.

iii. S’s Ability Not to Trust T

Fricker 2004:119 suggests that S has an unusual amount of freedom related to the formation of testimonially-based beliefs. The action of trusting a testifier is one which is taken in a self-aware way, unlike the formation of a perceptually-based belief. Audi 2006:40 makes a similar suggestion: “[S] commonly can withhold belief, if not at will then indirectly, by taking on a highly cautionary frame of mind.”

Green 2006:64 argues that we have similar freedom to reject even perceptually-based beliefs. We can indulge skeptical scenarios, like being a brain in a vat, without much difficulty. Further, there might be beings who accept testimony as readily as we accept the deliverances of our senses; there does not seem to be anything inherent about testimony that makes us freer to reject it.

iv. Operational Dependence on Other Sources

Strawson 1994:24 suggests that testimony as a source of beliefs requires other sources, such as perception: “[T]he employment of perception and memory is a necessary condition of the acquisition and retention of any knowledge (or belief) which is communicated linguistically…” Audi 2006:31 notes, “In order to receive your testimony about the time, I must hear you or otherwise perceive—in some perhaps very broad sense of ‘perceive’—what you say… [T]estimony is … operationally dependent on perception.” Audi 2002:80 says, “[A]part from perceptual justification for believing something to the effect that you attested to p, I cannot acquire justification for believing it on the basis of your testimony.”

For human beings, S’s sensations that accompany her reception of T’s testimony will also supply ground for perceptually-based beliefs. However, it seems possible to imagine beings who go directly from sensations to the formation of testimonially-based beliefs, lacking even the ability to form perceptually-based beliefs on the basis of those sensations. They would have the ability to receive testimony, but not necessarily the ability to form related perceptually-based beliefs. They might reason inductively about these testimonially-based beliefs through forming higher-order beliefs about the existence of the sensations.

Burge 1993:460 offers a related response. He argues that an a priori entitlement like the belief in a mathematical proof might be dependent on sense perception in the sense that, for instance, I must see the writing on a page in order to understand the proof. However, he argues that such a role for perception does not contribute to the “rational or normative force behind [such] beliefs.” Likewise, perceptually-based beliefs might allow human beings to obtain testimonially-based beliefs without contributing to the justification or other epistemic status of such beliefs. If that is correct, then the operational dependence that Strawson and Audi highlight is not of epistemic consequence.

v. Defeasibility of Testimonially-Based Beliefs by Other Sources

Plantinga 1993 and Audi 2006 suggest that testimony differs from sources like perception in the way in which testimonially-based beliefs can be defeated by other sources, or the way in which other sources of evidence can trump testimonially-based evidence. Plantinga says (at 87), “[I]n many situations, while testimony does indeed provide warrant, there is a cognitively superior way. I learn by way of testimony that first-order logic is complete…. I do even better, however, if I come to see these truths for myself…” Audi says (at 39), “[W]e cannot test the reliability of one of these basic sources [that is, for Audi, a source like perception or memory, but not testimony] or even confirm an instance of it without relying on that very source. … With testimony, one can, in principle, check reliability using any of the standard basic sources.”

One response to Plantinga and Audi is to point out instances in which perceptually- or memorially-based beliefs could be checked, or trumped, by testimonially-based beliefs. For instance, S might see a strange phenomenon, strange enough that S asks others nearby if they are seeing what S thinks he’s seeing. S might be worried about his perceptual or memorial faculties, and so seek testimony to confirm them. Graham 2006:102 makes a similar point. After listing several ways in which sources besides testimony can be defeated, he notes, “That a source is a source of defeaters for beliefs from another source, or even from itself, does not show that the other source depends for justification on inferential support from another source, or even itself. … The fact that my perception defeats your testimony does not show that testimony is inferential and not direct. Indeed, the fact that testimony-based beliefs sometimes defeat perceptual beliefs does not show that testimony is prior to perception.”

vi. From a No-Defeater Condition to Positive-Reason-to-Believe Condition

Most testimonial liberals include a defeater condition on testimonially-based knowledge or justification. S’s entitlement to believe T is defeasible, if other contrary information about p, or about T, is available to S. A conservative could argue, in line with the well-known approach of BonJour, that including such a requirement, but not a requirement of positive reasons to believe in T’s reliability, would be inconsistent, or an “untenable half-way house.” BonJour 1980 and 2003 consider an S informed by a reliable clairvoyant faculty that p, but who also has either (a) strong evidence that ~p, or (b) strong evidence that his clairvoyant power is unreliable, or (c) no evidence to believe that the faculty is reliable. While a defeater condition could handle cases (a) or (b), BonJour argues that those who say that knowledge or justification is defeated in these cases should also say that it is defeated in case (c). Replacing the clairvoyant faculty with T, we can construct an exactly parallel argument that those testimonial liberals who admit that S lacks justification or knowledge where S has evidence that ~p, or evidence that T is unreliable, should also concede that S lacks knowledge or justification where S has no evidence that T is reliable. (Compare Lackey 2006a:168 and 186 n.21, noting that the way in which accounts of testimony typically add a defeater condition is the same as the way they add such a condition in response to BonJour’s counterexamples.)

The testimonial liberal can resist this argument, however, in the same way that BonJour’s opponents resist his claims in general, by reporting contrary intuitions on his examples. Green 2007 offers one attempt to defend the tenability of an approach to either knowledge or justification that imposes a no-defeater requirement, but not a positive-reasons-to-believe-in-reliability condition, based on the way that the law handles fraud cases. The law holds that plaintiffs who sue for fraud lack “justified reliance” if they have defeaters for their fraudulently-induced belief, but not if they merely lack a reason to believe that the defendant is reliable. (Compare Bergmann 2006a:691 (“One perfectly sensible externalist reply is to say that although the no-defeater requirement seems intuitively obvious, the awareness requirement does not.”)).

vii. S’s Higher-Order Beliefs About T

When T tells S that p, one might demand that S have (on pain of “ignorant” or “unjustified” status) other beliefs concerning T or T’s trustworthiness. The existence or epistemic quality of these higher-order beliefs would matter regarding the evaluation of S’s underlying belief that p. Fricker 2006b:600 suggests that in forming testimonially-based beliefs by trusting T, S typically has a higher-order belief about T and his trustworthiness: “Once a hearer forms belief that [p] on a teller T’s say-so, she is consequently committed to the proposition that T knows that [p]. But her belief about T which constitutes this trust, antecedent to her utterance, is something like this: T is such that not easily would she assert that [p], vouch for the truth of [p], unless she knew that [p].” Weiner 2003 (chapter 3 at 5) likewise suggests that testimonially-based beliefs, unlike perceptually-based ones, are typically attended by beliefs about T: “When we form beliefs through perception, we may do so automatically, without any particular belief about how our perceptual system works. When we form beliefs through testimony, at some level we are aware that we are believing what a person says, and that this person is presenting her testimony as her own belief.”

Green 2006:87ff. argues, however, that it is not clear that testimony is really different from perception in this respect. Many recipients of testimony have a vague belief about T, but for many others this belief is at best implicit, and for others it is hard to say that even an implicit belief arises. Likewise for perceptually-based belief: many perceivers form beliefs that they are receiving information from their perceptual environments and their perceptual faculties; for others this belief is either vague, or implicit, or not really there at all. There does not seem to be any necessary inhibition of higher-order beliefs from the very nature of perception, nor any necessary production of higher-order beliefs from the very nature of testimony.

c. Arguments Against Demands on Testimonially-Based Beliefs

i. Insufficient Inductive Base

The most common objection to putting greater demands on testimonially-based beliefs is that these heightened demands simply cannot be satisfied in cases that, intuitively, do amount to knowledge or justified belief. Plantinga 1993:79 puts the point this way:

Reid is surely right in thinking that the beliefs we form by way of credulity or testimony are typically held in the basic way, not by way of inductive or abductive evidence from other things I believe. I am five years old; my father tells me that Australia is a large country and occupies an entire continent all by itself. I don’t say to myself, “My father says thus and so; most of the time when I have checked what he says has turned out to be true; so probably this is; so probably Australia is a very large country that occupies an entire continent by itself.” I could reason that way and in certain specialized circumstances we do reason that way. But typically we don’t. Typically we just believe what we are told, and believe it in the basic way. … I say I could reason in the inductive way to what testimony testifies to; but of course I could not have reasoned thus in coming to the first beliefs I held on the basis of testimony.

Relatedly, Lackey 2006a argues that a general inductive basis for belief in “testimony” would fail because the category of testimonially-based beliefs is too heterogeneous to support the relevant induction. The inference from particular instances of confirmed testimony to new cases is only as strong as the basis for believing that new instances will be similar to old ones. But those who testify about, say, events in Greece 2500 years ago, will be very different from those who testify about middle-sized dry goods in the next room.

A kindred point that liberals make in favor of the insufficient-inductive-base argument is to point out Hume’s mistaken explanation for why our testimonialy-based beliefs are supported inductively. For instance, Coady 1992:79-82 documents several places where Hume, in describing the inductive base for a belief in the reliability of testimony, actually uses evidence drawn from other people. As Van Cleve 2006:67 summarizes the argument, “the vast majority (or perhaps even the totality) of what passes for corroboration of testimony itself relies on other testimony.” Compare Shogenji 2006:332: “[I]n justifying the epistemic subject’s trust in testimony the reductionist cannot cite other people’s perception and memory—for example, the reductionist cannot cite perception and memory of the person who provides the testimony. Only the epistemic subject’s own perception and memory are relevant to the justification of her trust in testimony.”

Van Cleve responds to this argument, however, by suggesting that corroboration of testimony is not inherently dependent on others; over the course of his life, Van Cleve says he has verified a great number of instances of testimony—both the existence of the Grand Canyon and Taj Mahal, but also “thousands of more quotidian occurrences of finding beer in the fridge or a restroom down the hall on the right after being told where to look.” He concludes that it is not necessary that our inductive base is necessarily weak: “[W]hat matters is not the proportion of testimonial beliefs I have checked, but the proportion of checks taken that have had positive results.” Van Cleve 2006:68.

Shogenji 2006 makes a unique defense of a conservative approach to testimonially-based beliefs. He argues that if Coady is right that we need to believe in the general reliability of testimony in order to interpret testimonial utterances—a Davidsonian argument that this article considers below—then if S has a non-testimonial basis for interpreting a statement in a particular way, S can likewise infer the general reliability of testimony from that basis. Shogeni says (at 339-340),

[B]y the time the epistemic subject is in possession of testimonial evidence by interpreting people’s utterances, her belief in the general credibility of their testimony is well supported. For, unless the hypothesis that testimony is generally credible is true, the epistemic subject is unable to interpret utterances and hence has no testimonial evidence. … The unintelligibility of testimony without general credibility is … not an objection to reductionism about testimonial justification, but a consequence of the dual role of the observation used for interpretation—the observation confirms the interpretation of utterances and the credibility of testimony at the same time. … [E]ven a young child’s trust in testimony can be justified by her own perception and memory. In order for people’s utterances to be testimonial evidence for her, the child must have interpreted the utterances, but the kind of experience that allows her to interpret the utterances is also the kind of experience that supports the general credibility of testimony.

Shogeni also argues that the ubiquity of testimonially-based beliefs—and therefore the ubiquity of reliance on the reliability of testimony—can be used to give greater confirmation for the reliability of testimony. Because the general reliability of testimony is implicated in so many of our beliefs, we have a large number of opportunities to add small bits of confirmation to the hypothesis that testimony is reliable. He says (at 343-344),

Beliefs based on testimony are part of the web of beliefs we regularly rely on when we form a variety of expectations. This means that the hypothesis that testimony is credible plays a crucial role when we form these expectations. As a result, even if we do not deliberately seek confirmation of the credibility hypothesis, it receives tacit confirmation whenever observation matches the expectations that are in part based on the credibility hypothesis. Even if the degree of tacit confirmation by a single observation is small, there are plenty of such observations. Their cumulative effect is substantial and should be sufficient for justifying our trust in testimony.

Interestingly, Shogeni does not argue that we should be more demanding of testimonially-based beliefs than we are for perceptually-based beliefs; he notes (at 345 n.15) that Shogenji 2000 “uses essentially the same reasoning as described here to show that the reliability of perception can be confirmed by the use of perception without circularity.”

What can the liberal say in response to such an argument? One response would be to abandon Coady’s Davidsonian argument that interpreting testimonial utterances requires an assumption that testimony is reliable. If that is not right—as liberals such as Graham and Plantinga have argued—then the possibility of interpretation is not enough to justify belief in the reliability of testimony.

Finally, even if the inductive base for testimonially-based beliefs is poor, the conservative can reply to this sort of argument by simply denying that we have very much testimonially-based justification or testimonially-based knowledge. Van Cleve 2006:68 suggests this route for children, suggesting that they do, in fact, lack epistemic justification for their testimonially-based beliefs: “Children … go through a credulous phase during which they believe without reason nearly everything they are told. As reductionists, however, we must hold that these beliefs are justified only in a pragmatic sense, not in an epistemic sense.”

ii. Analogies to Perception

Some liberals support lenient principles to govern testimonially-based beliefs on the basis of their great similarity to principles that many people believe govern perceptually-based beliefs.

For instance, Graham 2006:95ff. considers those who believe what he calls PER (“If S’s perceptual system represents an object as F (where F is a perceptible property), and this causes or sustains in the normal way S’s belief of x that it is F, then that confers justification on S’s belief that x is F”) and MEM (“If S seems to remember that [p] and this causes or sustains in the normal way S’s belief that [p], then that confers justification on S’s belief that [p]”), but who reject what he calls TEST (“If a subject S (seemingly) comprehends a (seeming) presentation-as-true by a (seeming) speaker that [p], and if that causes or sustains in the normal way S’s belief that [p], then that confers justification on S’s belief that [p]”). Graham then defends TEST against those who accept PER and MEM. He notes (at 101-102) that those who accept PER and MEM would already reject the idea that a difference in the degree of reliability should amount to a difference in epistemic kind, and would also already accept that perceptual or memorial beliefs can be direct, even though they can be defeated by other sorts of beliefs. He likewise argues (at 100) that the reasons to adopt PER, rather than seeing perceptual beliefs as inferential, are directly parallel to the reasons to adopt TEST as well.

Green 2006 argues that testimonially-, memorially-, and perceptually-based beliefs are on an epistemic par, in the sense that, over the universes of possible beliefs based on the three sources, the set of explanations of the epistemic status of those beliefs displays the same structure. (He excludes beliefs that cannot be perceptually-based, but could be testimonially- or memorially-based; we cannot literally perceive mathematical facts, but we can be told them, or remember them.) Green argues first that such parity is a more economical account of epistemic phenomena—and so an account more likely to be true—than accounts that distinguish sharply between the three sources. Second, he argues (at 218 ff.) that the epistemic parity of these sources follows from the epistemic innocence of certain transformations which will turn instances of testimonially-based beliefs into instances of beliefs based on the other two sources, or vice-versa—that is, the claim that such transformations preserve the structure of the explanation of epistemic status.

Turning perceptually-based beliefs into testimonially-based beliefs requires anthropomorphizing our sense faculties and environments—considering a possible world in which our sense faculties are monitored and operated by little persons who present messages to us about our environment, by causing perceptual sensations just like the ones in normal perceptually-based beliefs. Green suggests that the structure of the explanation for the epistemic status of such testimonially-based beliefs would have the same structure as the explanations for the epistemic status of perceptually-based beliefs before the transformation. The mere fact that a faculty for obtaining information is operated by a person, Green claims, should not make a difference in how that source of information produces justified beliefs and knowledge. The opposite transformation—from testimonially-based beliefs into perceptually-based beliefs—requires treating our testifier T as a machine, akin to, say, a telescope. This transformation would treat human beings as an environmental medium through which information about the world passes in complicated ways. Deception is possible when we get information from a testifier, but it is also possible when we get information from a telescope (for instance, if someone has put a fake picture on the end of it).

The conservative could respond to Green’s argument by claiming that these transformations are, in fact, not epistemically innocent. Anthropomorphizing our sense faculties would inherently introduce the element of human agency, and treating T as a perceptual device would remove it. As summarized above, however, Green argues that agency is already potentially at stake in cases of perception, for instance because of the possibility that someone else has substituted a fake object.

iii. Analogies to Memory

Several thinkers likewise draw analogies between testimonially-based beliefs and memorially-based ones. Dummett 1994, for instance, quoted above on relationship between the T-side and S-side debates, suggests that both memory and testimony are both merely means of preserving or transmitting knowledge, not of creating it, and are similarly direct and lacking need for supporting beliefs. Schmitt 2006 argues that transindividual reasons—that is, reasons that T has, but which also count as reasons for S’s belief—are no more problematic than the transtemporal reasons at stake in memory—that is, reasons that S has at time 1, but which also count as reasons for S’s belief at time 2. Foley 2001 argues that trust in others, at stake in testimony, is no less justified than trust in oneself, at stake in memory.

As noted above, Green 2006 argues that testimony and memory are also on an epistemic par. Green’s method of transforming testimonially-based beliefs into memorially-based beliefs is to treat the testifier T as S’s epistemic agent, and then to apply the fiction of the law of agency, qui facit per alium, facit per se—“he who acts through another, acts himself.” If T’s earlier actions are treated as if they were actually S’s own actions, then the transfer of information from T to S will be the same sort of transfer of information that happens when, using memory, S at time 1 transfers information to S at time 2. Green’s claim is that this transformation keeps the structure of the explanation of epistemic status of the resulting belief the same. On the other hand, turning memorially-based beliefs into testimonially-based beliefs requires treating S at time 1 as a different person from S at time 2. If the earlier time slice is someone else, and we treat the recovery of information from a memory trace as the interpretation of a message from that person, then memorially-based beliefs are transformed into testimonially-based ones. Green’s claim is that that transformation should not create or preserve epistemic status, or affect the structure of its explanation.

As with the response to Green’s argument for an analogy between perception and testimony, the conservative could claim that there is something inherently different between relying on one’s own earlier efforts and relying on someone else’s; replacing “S at time 1” with “T,” or vice versa, inherently changes the structure of the explanation of beliefs’ epistemic status.

iv. Skepticism about Over-Intellectualization and Young Children

Another argument against demands on testimonially-based beliefs is that, even if those demands might be able to be satisfied by those who are particularly careful in considering earlier cases of confirmation, it is improper to place too many intellectual demands on people’s everyday beliefs. Graham 2006:100 puts it this way: “[E]ven if the reduction is possible, requiring it is overly demanding; the requirement to reduce hyper-intellectualizes testimonial justification.” Young children, for instance, lack the intellectual capacity to consider complicated issues regarding the reliability of their parents or others who give them testimonially-based beliefs, and so it is improper to place epistemic demands on them.

Lackey 2005 defends a conservative approach to testimony against the infants-and-young-children objection by considering whether a similar problem could afflict any approach to testimonial-based justification that includes a non-defeater condition. No one suggests that testimonially-based justification is indefeasible; rather, S is only justified on the basis of T’s testimony if S lacks a defeater for her belief that p. For instance, if T tells S that p, but S already believes that q and if q then ~p, she cannot just add the belief that p, rendering her beliefs inconsistent. Defeaters can be standardly divided into doxastic, normative, and factual defeaters. Doxastic defeaters are like those in the case we just considered: other beliefs that S has that make it improper for her to believe p, or to accept testimony that p from T. Normative defeaters are other beliefs that S would have, if she performed her epistemic duties. Factual defeaters defeat S’s justification in virtue of being true. The standard example is the fake barn; if S just happens to see the one real barn amidst a countryside full of fakes, S’s belief about the barn is not justified, or at least does not count as knowledge. Similarly, if S just happens to meet T, the one reliable testifier in a sea of unreliable ones, then she has a factual defeater. Some epistemologists, though, are fake-barn-case skeptics, and think that these cases are not obviously cases where justification or knowledge fails.

Lackey’s argument is that if young children, or animals, are not capable of satisfying a positive-reasons demand on testimonially-based beliefs because they are not capable of appreciating reasons, then for the same reason they are likewise not capable of satisfying a no-defeater condition, either regarding normative or doxastic defeaters. Those who are not capable of understanding a reason for a belief presumably also cannot understand either a conflict in beliefs, as required by an appreciation of doxastic defeaters.

The liberal can resist Lackey’s argument in at least three ways. One way would be to deny that the existence of a no-defeaters condition requires a defeater-recognition capacity. It is true, this response would go, that young children must deal properly with any doxastic and normative defeaters in order to be justified, but young children simply lack such defeaters. Young children who lack the capacity to appreciate reasons or the resolution of conflicting claims lack the epistemic obligations presupposed by normative defeaters. They lack the ability to investigate for defeaters, but fortunately they also lack the duty to do so. This route, however, is unattractive to Lackey, because she thinks it quite clear that if young children are exposed to enough counterevidence for one of their beliefs, they become unjustified in holding that belief. The liberal might attempt to resist that intuition, however.

A second route for the liberal would be to retreat from the suggestion that children lack the capacity to appreciate reasons at all. Rather, he might insist that young children, while in principle capable of appreciating reasons or defeaters, have a particularly bad inductive base with respect to confirmed reports. It is not the cognitive incapacity of the child, but her evidentiary incapacity, that undermines the reasonableness of a demand for inductively-based reasons to believe T. All of the confirmed reports of a young child, for instance, are likely confined to a very small part of the world and to only a few testifiers. The leap to believe what his parents tell him about other subjects seems inductively very weak. This sort of response would dodge Lackey’s argument only by reconstruing the argument as a special form of the bad-inductive-base argument.

A third route for the liberal, taken in Goldberg 2008, would stress the role of reliable caretakers in shielding children from improper testimonially-based beliefs. While children themselves may not be able to appreciate the significance of defeating evidence, for instance, their parents can. Goldberg argues that the presence of such an external defeater-detection system is critical for testimonially-based knowledge in young children. Goldberg draws (at 29) the lesson he regards as radical: that “the factors in virtue of which a young child’s testimonial belief amounts to knowledge include information-processing that takes place in mind/brains other than that of the child herself.”

v. The Assurance View as a Basis for Lessened Demands on S

Moran 2005, Ross 1986, and Hinchman 2005 and 2007 argue that, because the testifier T has assumed responsibility for the truth of p, S’s responsibilities are necessarily lessened. In telling S that p, T is not offering S evidence that p, but instead asking S to trust him. Because the reception of testimony is inconsistent with S basing his belief on evidence, S’s responsibilities are necessarily lessened when he forms a testimonially-based belief. To trust T is to rely on his assurance, not to assume responsibility for the truth of p oneself. Hinchman 2007:3 summarizes the argument: “[H]ow could [T] presume to provide this warrant [for S’s belief that p]? One way you could provide it is by presenting yourself to A as a reliable gauge of the truth. … The proposal … simply leaves out the act of assurance. Assuring [S] that p isn’t merely asserting that p with the thought that you thereby give [S] evidence for p, since you’re such a reliable asserter (or believer). That formula omits the most basic respect in which you address people, converse with people—inviting them to believe you, not merely what you say.”

However, Goldberg 2006 argues that both reductionists and non-reductionists—both liberals and conservatives, in the terminology of this article—can subscribe to a buck-passing principle, very similar to the assumption-of-responsibility view. Even if T has assumed the responsibility for certain epistemic desiderata regarding p, S may have very demanding responsibilities of his own. For instance, S may have an epistemic duty to select those most worthy of buck-passing, much as a client has a duty to select a proper lawyer, even though the client does not know as much about the law as the lawyers he selects. On Green 2006’s suggestion that T is S’s epistemic agent or employee, it is consistent to say both (a) that T takes responsibilities for handling particular areas of S’s epistemic business, but (b) that S has responsibilities to select T properly—just as employees assume responsibility for particular functions of their employees, but employers still retain critical responsibilities to select employees well. Weiner 2003b has similarly argued that the view of testimony as an assurance does not contradict a requirement that S have evidence for his testimonially-based beliefs.

d. A Priori Reasons in Support of Testimonially-Based Beliefs

i. Coady’s Davidsonian Argument from the Comprehensibility of Testimony

Some testimonial liberals contend that there is good a priori reason to believe that testimonially-based beliefs are justified. Coady 1992 argues, building on Donald Davidson’s views about radical interpretation, that we must presuppose the reliability of testifiers in order to interpret their utterances. If we were to encounter a group of Martians interacting with each other using bits of language in response to external stimuli, we could not interpret the Martians’ language unless we were to assume that the bits of language that correlate with particular external stimuli are bits of language that refer to those stimuli. Unless we assume that the language used by the Martians generally tracks the world in which they live, we could not begin to interpret their utterances. Hence testimony, in order to be interpreted, must be generally reliable.

Graham 2000c argues, however, that it is possible for testifiers to be generally unreliable, even though they interpret each others’ statements on the assumption that they are incorrect. He imagines (at 702ff.) a group of people who are both honest and good at interpreting each others’ utterances, but who because of perceptual failures, or failures in memory, have mostly false beliefs about the world outside their immediate perceptual environment. These people could interpret utterances fine, but would still be unreliable testifiers. (For a response to a similar argument from Davidson, see Plantinga 1993:80f.)

ii. Burge’s Argument from Intelligible Presentation

Tyler Burge in (Burge 1993) argues that S is a priori entitled to accept T’s statement, because it is, on its face, intelligible and presented as true. He summarizes his argument (at 472–473):

We are a priori entitled to accept something that is prima facie intelligible and presented as true. For prima facie intelligible propositional contents prima facie presented as true bear an a priori prima facie conceptual relation to a rational source of true presentations-as-true: Intelligible propositional expressions presuppose rational abilities and entitlement; so intelligible presentations-as-true come prima facie backed by a rational source or resource of reason; and both the content of intelligible propositional presentations-as-true and the prima facie rationality of their source indicate a prima facie source of truth. Intelligible affirmation is the face of reason; reason is a guide to truth. We are a priori prima facie entitled to take intelligible affirmation at face value.

One response to Burge’s argument is to suggest that he seems to be skipping over the assumption that T’s rational faculties are functioning properly. It may be that if S sees a T statement and sees that it is intelligible, S may be entitled to think that it came from a process that is geared toward presenting true statements; part of what it is to understand that something is a piece of testimony is to see that it is malfunctioning if it turns out to be false, or to have been unreliably produced. But the critic can ask why, without more, we should be entitled to assume that this process has turned out well. Absent the assumption that T is in an environment conducive to proper function of T’s truth-seeking processes—an assumption that is false in many possible worlds—it would seem that S should not be entitled to rely on T’s word, simply from the fact that it is the presentation of a rational source.

Burge might respond that the worlds in which T’s truth-seeking faculties are not functioning properly are worlds that we may ignore, because they are not relevant alternatives (like, for instance, the brain-in-a-vat worlds that non-skeptics feel entitled to ignore). However, Burge’s argument does not depend on whether we are in a possible world where testifiers tend to be reliable. It would seem to work just as well in worlds where they are not. But it does not seem plausible that everyone in any possible world is entitled to believe that they are in worlds where testifiers are usually reliable.

iii. Graham’s A Priori Necessary Conceptual Intuitions

Graham 2006 argues that TEST, his principle that T’s statement supplies pro tanto justification, is an a priori necessary conceptual truth, even though testifiers are not reliable in all possible worlds. Such a view of testimony fits with Graham’s general metaepistemological view that epistemic principles should be necessary a priori conceptual truths about the proper aim of our beliefs. However, Plantinga 1993:80 criticizes the suggestion that testimony is necessarily evidence. He argues, in accord with Reid’s statements about the provisions of “Nature,” that testimony only supplies evidence the contingent human design plan provides—in line with an environment in which testifiers generally speak the truth—that properly functioning human beings trust statements from others.

3. Testifier (T)-Side Questions: Testimony and the Preservation of Knowledge

a. Background

For S to come to know that p by relying on T’s testimony, S must satisfy whatever internal conditions there are for knowledge, but this is not enough. P must actually be true, of course, but T must also be properly connected to the fact that p; as Gettier 1963 teaches, there is also some sort of environmental condition on our testifier T in order for S to know. Several authors give a relatively simple answer to the environmental condition: T must, himself, know that p. Others give other similar conditions, such as someone knowing that p on a non-testimonial basis. Lackey 2003 gives an extensive list of such thinkers, whom we might call testimonial knowledge-preservationists. The discussion, like much of the post-Gettier literature, revolves around the discussion of counterexamples and principles intended to cover them.

If S’s testimonially-based knowledge that p requires T’s (or someone’s) knowledge that p, it would seem that testimony is “a second-class citizen of the epistemic republic,” as Plantinga 1993:87 puts it, because, unlike perception, testimony is not a source of knowledge for the epistemic community as a whole; it is only a way of spreading knowledge around that community. Much as a political libertarian might see government as a tool useful only for redistributing wealth, but not creating it, knowledge-preservationists might see testimony as a tool useful only for spreading knowledge, but not creating it.

In general, someone attracted to knowledge-preservationism—the thesis that S’s testimonially-based knowledge that p requires T to know that p—can resist counterexamples in three ways. First, he can deny that, as described, S really knows that p (the “Ignorant-S” response). Second, he can claim that T, as described, really does know that p (the “Knowing-T” response). Third, he can deny that S’s belief that p is really based on T’s testimony that p (the “Not-Testimony” response). More generally, where a different account of the testimonial environmental condition is at stake, and a counterexample claims to find an S who knows that p, but in which that environmental condition fails, the defender of the account has the same three options: deny that S knows, argue that the environmental condition is actually met, or deny that the case is the proper sort of testimonially-based belief. If none of the responses is available, of course, the counterexample is effective, and the environmental condition needs revision.

If knowledge by T is not the key environmental desideratum to S’s knowledge, what is? Several thinkers propose substituting a focus on information. Goldberg 2001:526 argues that his example should convince epistemologists of testimony to “widen our scope of interest from an exclusive focus on content-preserving cases of [testimonially-based] belief and knowledge to include all cases in which information is conveyed in a testimonially-based way from speaker to hearer.” The alternative account to the testimonial environmental desideratum, then, is that T possess information that p. (Goldberg’s 2005 counterexamples might, however, undermine even that account.) Graham 2000:365 takes a similar view, explaining it at length: “According to the model I prefer, knowledge is not transferred through communication, rather Information is conveyed.” Green 2006:47ff. follows Graham and suggests that positional warrant is the key environmental desideratum: information sufficient to support a belief that p, if a doxastic subject were present.

b. The Cases

i. Untransmitted Defeaters

Lackey 1999 presents cases in which T does not know that p, because either T has personal doubts about p, or because T should have doubts about p, but in which T still reliably passes along the information that p to S. T’s defeaters are not necessarily transmitted to S.

Her first example is a biology teacher who does not believe her lesson about evolution, but passes it on reliably because the school board requires her to do so. Because the children reliably believe their lesson, Lackey says, they know it, despite the fact that their testifier does not. Both the Ignorant-S and Not-Testimony responses have some plausibility here. Audi 2006:29 suggests the Ignorant-S response: “If … [the students] simply take [the teacher’s] word, they are taking the word of someone who will deceive them when job retention requires it…. It is highly doubtful that this kind of testimonial origin would be an adequate basis of knowledge.” Schoolchildren who discovered that their teacher did not actually believe her own lesson would presumably be startled and unsettled. They perhaps relied on a premise like “My teacher knows the truth about this lesson,” and while it might be possible to get knowledge by reasoning on the basis of a falsehood, this is not obviously such a case. Teachers depend on their students viewing them as trustworthy sources of information. A teacher who refuses to believe her own lesson is like a host who refuses to eat the meal he serves a guest. “If the teacher doesn’t believe the lesson,” a student could reason, “why should I?” To attempt a Not-Testimony response—perhaps termed in this case a Not-Testimony-From-T response—we might recharacterize the case as testimony from the school board, rather than the teacher. A school teacher who tells students what she doesn’t believe isn’t really testifying, the suggestion might go; she is merely acting as a conduit for the real testifier, the school board, who does in fact know the lesson.

Lackey has defended her intuitions in the biology teacher case by suggesting that, even though T does not know or believe that p, it is still perfectly proper for her to assert that p, disputing the account of knowledge as the norm of assertion contained in Williamson 2000. Because the reliability of her lessons means that the teacher is behaving properly in telling her students that p, there is likewise nothing epistemically amiss in her students then believing that p on her say-so. A full discussion of whether knowledge is the norm of assertion, however, is not possible here.

Lackey’s second example is someone with matching misperceptions and pathological lies. For instance, whenever she sees a zebra, she thinks it is an elephant, but has a pathological urge to tell people that what she thinks are elephants are zebras, and so on. The Ignorant-S response seems possible; it is not at all obvious that relying on someone like that is a way to gain knowledge. Such a T seems close to insane, and even if someone who is insane happens to be a reliable speaker about what she has seen, S would have to know that in order to gain knowledge from her statements. A similar response seems possible for Lackey’s third and fourth examples, where T is gripped by skeptical worries or by the belief that her perceptual abilities are faulty. If T is really and seriously worried about whether she is a brain in a vat, or has radically unreliable powers of perception, such that we would conclude that she does not know everyday things about his environment, then it is hard to see how S could come to know those things by relying on his say-so. Lackey’s last example is someone who is presented with evidence that her powers of perception are radically unreliable, but who retains her perceptually-based beliefs anyway. In response, the knowledge-preservationist could argue that defeating evidence serious enough to make T’s belief that p improper would, it seems, be serious enough to make T’s testimony that p similarly improper, and likewise S’s reliance on that testimony. (For a defense of these suggested responses to Lackey’s examples, based on the idea that S takes T as his agent, and so an S who trusts a relevantly misbehaving T should be charged with T’s misbehavior, see Green 2006:137ff.)

Graham 2000a:379ff. promotes an example similar to Lackey’s misperceptions-and-pathological lies case. T has been raised in an environment where the word “blue” refers to the color red, “red” to blue, “green” to yellow, and “yellow” to green. Scientists aware of T’s malady install spectrum-reversing glasses on T, so that his testimony now comes out right. Unlike someone who looks at a zebra, thinks it is a giraffe, but has a pathological desire to call it a zebra, we might think such a T is sane. Still, there is some reason to think that the Ignorant-S response may work. If S were to learn that when T looks at the sky, it seems red to him, S would be very alarmed, and would not likely trust what T tells him about the colors of nearby objects. That fact suggests that S has a defeater for his belief based on T’s testimony now; it implicitly relies on the false premise that T is using words and perceiving colors normally. The fact that there are two large errors in S’s assumptions, albeit matching errors that cause T’s color reports to come out true, makes the status of S’s knowledge shaky.

ii. Zombie Testifiers

Green 2006:27ff. argues that T can testify to S, and support knowledge, even if T entirely lacks phenomenology entirely, and so is a zombie, or a machine. For instance, we might receive a phone call from our credit card company noting suspicious behavior in our account, but it could be a computer-generated voice speaking to us. (In a possible world without phishing scams, we might also receive such a message through email.) If beliefs require conscious phenomenology, such testifiers would know nothing, and so would not know p. Possible cases of machine testimony might be phenomenologically indistinguishable from normal cases of testimonially-based beliefs. The Ignorant-S response, denying that such beliefs would be knowledge, seems clearly closed. We can surely get knowledge from a machine. The Knowing-T response, by affirming knowledge in T, would require knowledge without any phenomenal beliefs, which seems very implausible. The Not-Testimony response is the most promising route for the knowledge-preservationist: denying that beliefs based on the testimony of machines would really be “testimonially-based belief.” Machines that cannot know things likewise cannot perform speech acts, and testimony is a speech act.

In defense of his view that machine testimony really is testimony, Green (at 36ff.) relies on his intuition that if two beliefs (a) have the same epistemic status, (b) have the same contents, (c) are the result of the exercise of the same cognitive ability by S, and (d) have the same phenomenology for S, then the two beliefs should be regarded by the epistemologist as similarly based; we should regard either both, or neither, as testimonially-based. “Testimonially-based belief” is, on this view, an epistemic tool, and describing the full range of epistemic phenomena would be unnecessarily duplicative if we were required to use two different terms or concepts to cover such similar beliefs. Further, epistemic principles like those defended by Graham 2006:95 would cover zombies or machines. Graham includes broad conditions in TEST: “If a subject S (seemingly) comprehends a (seeming) presentation-as-true by a (seeming) speaker that [p] ….” Green at 41 also argues that beliefs that come from the linguistic output of machines need to be categorized in some way, and using a category other than “testimonially-based belief” seems to multiply epistemic categories beyond necessity. On the other hand, the intuition that testimony is a type of speech act, requiring that T be conscious, is very strong in some people. To the extent that such thinkers would retain “testimonially-based belief” as an epistemic concept, such thinkers would reach beyond epistemic status, content, cognitive ability, and phenomenology to determine that concept’s application.

iii. High-Stakes T, Low-Stakes S

Hawthorne 2004 and Stanley 2005’s interest-sensitive approaches to knowledge suggest another way in which S might know, but T would not. For instance, T’s life might depend on getting to the bank tomorrow—the mob wants its money, won’t take a check, and will kill him if it doesn’t get it by the Saturday deadline. By Hawthorne and Stanley’s lights, T might not know that the bank is open tomorrow, even if he has a fairly-clear recollection that banks in this town are open on Saturdays, because knowledge requires enough certainty to satisfy a particular subject’s needs. But S, who does not owe the mob any money, but who would like to have enough cash in his pocket to buy his kids an ice-cream cone in the park on Saturday afternoon, can make do with less certainty than can T. If T tells S that the bank is open tomorrow, then, assuming other factors work out, T could presumably pass along his between-ice-cream-cone-and-mob-repayment-level certainty to S. That amount of certainty would be enough for S to come to know, though it wasn’t enough for T. Put abstractly, T might properly tell S that p, aware knowing that, given S’s stakes, S only needs a relatively low amount of Grahamian pro tanto justification, or relatively Plantingian little warrant, in order for S to know, even though T himself might be in a much higher stakes situation, and so would not have enough justification to know that p. On this sort of view, T may assert that p if T has enough certainty for his audience’s needs, but which might not be enough for T’s own. (See Green 2006:142.)

Denying the Hawthorne-Stanley interest-sensitive view of knowledge is, of course, one easy way to resist this sort of counterexample. Another way to defend knowledge-preservationism against such an attack is to insist that asserter’s knowledge is the norm of assertion: T should only assert that p if he has enough certainty for T’s own needs. The idea might be that S, hearing T say that p, will assume that T has enough evidence for himself, and would normally be shocked and disturbed were he to learn that T thought that his evidence was insufficient for T’s own purposes, but passed along the statement that p anyway. Likewise, we might be attracted to the intuition that a low-stakes T, with enough certainty that p for his own purposes, should have every right to assert that p, no matter the audience (for instance, by asserting that p on the internet, where anyone might read it, including a high-stakes S).

iv. False Testimony

Goldberg 2001 presents a case where T testifies falsely, but S still gains testimonially-based knowledge. T tells S that q: “T saw Jones wearing a pink shirt last night at the party.” But S knows that Jones was out of town last night, and so decides that T must have mistaken someone else for Jones. So S instead believes p: “T saw someone wearing a pink shirt last night at the party.”

The knowledge-preservationist might respond with a combination of the Knowing-T and Not-Testimony responses. T does, of course, also believe p, that he saw someone with a pink shirt. Did he tell S that? If so, then T told S that p, and spoke truly and knowingly. If, however, we regard T as not telling S that p, but only that q, it seems plausible to say that S actually inferred that p from T’s testimony that q (and in a manner unlike the way that conservatives, discussed above, argue that inference is involved in ordinary testimonially-based beliefs). So the knowledge-preservationist can argue that either T knew and testified that p, in which case the example has door-#2 problems, or else T didn’t tell S that p, in which case the example has door-#3 problems.

v. Reconceptualization from T to S

Green 2006:30 discusses an instance where T conceptualizes the object of belief differently than does S. T tells S that some object m is F, not knowing that object m is the same as object n. S knows that m is n and does not distinguish the two, and so believes that n is F. But T didn’t know that. For instance, Lois Lane knows that Superman is Clark Kent, but Jimmy Olsen does not. Jimmy tells Lois that Clark’s favorite ice cream flavor is chocolate, and Lois now knows Superman’s favorite ice cream flavor, which Jimmy did not. We might stipulate that Lois does not know that Jimmy distinguishes Clark and Superman; Jimmy tells her something about Clark, and Lois just assimilates that information into a single “Clark/Superman” file.

The knowledge-preservationist might argue, as in the reply to Goldberg’s case above, that S’s belief is either inferentially-based, or that T somehow did tell S that n is F. However, it seems plain that T, not knowing that n is m, or perhaps not knowing about n at all, could not know that n is F—Jimmy did not know that Clark was Superman, and he wasn’t talking about Superman. So the Knowing T response seems blocked. Could this case be seen as inferentially-based, rather than testimonially-based? Here, unlike in Goldberg’s case, S may not even be conscious that he is conceiving of the object differently than T. In the Jones-wasn’t-there case, though, S explicitly modifies T’s statement that p, because he knows why q is the more reasonable belief to form. Because differences between how T and S conceptualize the object of their beliefs may not be noticed, there is stronger ground for saying that the presence of such a difference would not prevent S’s beliefs from being testimonially-based. However, if S’s belief that m is F is receiving epistemic benefits from his background knowledge that n is m, then there may be some plausibility in saying that S’s belief is somehow based in part on that knowledge, even if it is non-inferential. Lois is utilizing, even unwittingly and unconsciously, her knowledge that Clark is Superman. (Cf. Heck 1995:99 (“[O]ne can not come to know things about George Orwell from assertions containing ‘Eric Blair.’”).

vi. Unreliable Testimony

Goldberg 2005 presents a case where even unreliable testimony produces testimonially-based knowledge. T sees evidence that p which is usually misleading, but is luckily not misleading on this occasion—in Goldberg’s example, the evidence is an opaque carton of milk which A, an eccentric writer, usually replaces each morning with an empty carton, but A forgot this morning; p is “there is milk in the fridge.” T tells S that p, an observer of the testimony, A, is nearby, and would have corrected T’s testimony had it been incorrect. S’s belief is, Goldberg thinks, safe, because A’s presence would have prevented T’s false testimony from being believed, but T’s testimony itself is unsafe, because it is based on evidence that, in the circumstances, is usually misleading.

The Not-Testimony response is an option here. Even though S’s belief is formed in response to T telling him that p, an essential part of S’s belief-sustaining environment is A’s safety-guaranteeing presence. Goldberg (at 308) gives his defense of S’s knowledge by considering a case in which S knows about A’s role. It seems quite plausible that in that case, S is not relying solely on T, but on the T-in-A’s-presence hybrid. In the case where S does not know that A is guaranteeing the reliability of his belief that p, Goldberg still thinks that S knows that p—A’s guaranteeing function alone, and not S’s explicit reliance on that function, is enough. It might seem a bit odd to suggest that S’s belief is not testimonially-based, when S herself has no other conscious basis for her belief than the fact that T told her that p. However, if, unknown to S, S’s belief receives epistemic benefits because on A’s guaranteeing function, it also seems possible for S’s belief to be differently based because of A’s guaranteeing function. The actual reason why S has the belief she has is partly T, and partly A. If we understand the case this way, Goldberg’s case is a case where beliefs partly based on defective testimony can amount to knowledge, precisely because the other part of the basis of that belief cures the defect in the testimony.

Knowing T—the response that T herself knows that p, and in fact that her testimony is reliable—is also a possibility, if we pay close attention to T’s belief and testimony over time. Suppose T tells S that p at time t, and that it would take A at least time Δt to correct T’s testimony, had it in fact been false. If S believes T straightaway, then at time t, before A’s correction mechanism could have worked in any event, it does not seem right to say that S’s belief is safe. Only after A has had a chance to correct the testimony, but has not, would S’s belief amount to knowledge. S’s belief at time t+Δt may be knowledge, but not his belief at time t. But what about T? T’s belief that p is unreliable at time t, and so is his testimony that p, because it was based on evidence that is usually misleading. But at time t+Δt, T has as much right as S to rely on A’s failure to correct the testimony that p. So at time t+Δt, T also knows that p. We could say the very same thing about T’s testimony: it is unsafe and unreliable at time t, but at time t+Δt, it is itself safe and reliable—or at least as safe and reliable as S’s belief based upon it. In other words, T and S are ignorant, and T’s testimony unreliable, at time t, but T and S know that p, and T’s testimony is reliable, at time t+Δt.

Goldberg 2007:322ff. discusses a similar case in which S receives clues about T’s reliability in addition to T’s testimony itself. Due to wishful thinking, T always believes that the Yankees have won, and always says so. Sometimes, however, the Yankees do win, and T reads so in the newspaper. When T’s belief is based on wishful thinking, he displays tell-tale signs, such as failing to look S in the eye, which would lead S not to believe him. When T’s belief is based on genuine information that the Yankees won, these signs are absent, and S would believe him. As a result, Goldberg says that S’s belief in the Yankees-actually-won case is safe and should count as knowledge, even though T’s belief is not. The Not-Testimony response is again possible: S’s belief is based not on T’s testimony alone, but on the signs that would indicate unreliability.

Graham 2000b:371ff. discusses a similar case. T has trouble distinguishing two twins, A and B, but S does not. T tells S that A knocked over a vase, and S knows that B could not have done it. T’s testimony is unreliable, because T cannot tell A from B, and B might as easily have knocked over the vase. The Not-Testimony response is somewhat plausible here: S’s belief is not based simply on T’s testimony, but also on his knowledge that B did not knock over the vase. As with Goldberg’s case, S may not be aware of the fact that T is unreliable, and so may not be aware of the contribution of S’s additional knowledge about B in sustaining S’s belief about A knocking over the vase. But also as in Goldberg’s case, there is some reason to think that if an additional source provides epistemic benefits to S’s belief, it can also make a difference in the basis for S’s belief, albeit a difference of which S may be unaware.

4. Some Brief Notes on Other Issues

As noted above, the S-side and T-side questions are far from an exhaustive map of the important issues in the epistemology of testimony. This section does not give a full map of other issues, but notes two particularly prominent ones.

a. Connections between S-side and T-side issues

One interesting issue is the extent to which the two main issues discussed above are related. Some philosophers connect their views on the internal and external questions, but they do so in both directions. For instance, Fricker 2006b:603 argues that knowledge-preservationism regarding testimonial knowledge fits best with a relatively demanding approach to testimonial justification in which S has a second-order belief about T’s knowledge:

When the hearer [S] … believes [T] because she takes his speech at face value, as an expression of knowledge, then … [S]’s belief in what she is told is grounded in her belief that T knows what he asserted. … Several writers have endorsed the principle that a recipient of testimony can come to know what is testified to only if the testifier knows whereof she speaks. In my account this fact is … derived from a description of the speech act of telling….

On the other hand, Dummett 1994:264 suggests that knowledge-preservationism fits best with a less demanding approach, because it suggests a strong analogy with memory:

In the case of testimony … if the concept of knowledge is to be of any use at all, and if we are to be held to know anything resembling the body of truths we normally take ourselves to know, the non-inferential character of our acceptance of what others tell us must be acknowledged as an epistemological principle, rather than a mere psychological phenomenon. Testimony should not be regarded as a source, and still less as a ground, for knowledge: it is the transmission from one individual to another of knowledge acquired by whatever means.

Among thinkers who have considered both issues in detail, all four possible sorts of view are represented.

Conditions on Testifier for Testimonially-Based Knowledge
(T-side issues)
Relatively more demanding (Knowledge-Preservationism) Relatively less demanding (Anti-Knowledge-Preservationism)
Conditions on Recipient for Testimonially-Based Justification (S-side issues) Relatively more demanding (Reductionism) Audi
Fricker
Lackey
Relatively less demanding (Anti-Reductionism) Burge
Dummett
Plantinga
Ross
Welbourne
Goldberg
Graham
Green

b. The Nature of Testimony

An extensive literature exists on the general nature of the epistemic relationship between the testifier T and our epistemic subject S. For instance, Reid 1785 says that testimony is distinguished by S relying on T’s authority for the proposition that p. Goldberg 2006 says that forming a testimonially-based belief allows S (in the right conditions) to “pass the epistemic buck” to T. Moran 2006, Watson 2004, Hinchman 2007, Ross 1986, Fried 1978, and Austin 1946 all promote variants of the view that in testifying, T is offering an assurance to S that p is true, akin to a promise. Schmitt 2006 says that testimonially-based beliefs involve “transindividual reasons,” such that T’s initial reasons are transferred to S, though S may not comprehend what they are. (Related to Schmitt’s view on this issue is the large question, unfortunately beyond the scope of this article at this time, of whether testimony requires an irreducibly social account of epistemology. For an introduction to some of these issues, see the articles in Schmitt 1994.) Green 2006 says that testimonial relationships are a form of epistemic agency, such that T’s actions on S’s behalf should be considered the action of S’s agent, and so subject to the legal maxim qui facit per alium, facit per se (he who acts through another acts himself).

One issue is whether these views really compete with one another. These characterizations might conceivably all be true: in testifying, T might be giving an assurance, thereby offering to serve as an epistemic agent, thereby transferring his reasons to S, and allowing S to rely on T’s authority and pass the epistemic buck to him.

Related to the general characterization of the testimonial link between T and S is what counts as “testimony.” For instance, Graham 1997 defends a relatively broad characterization of testimony. He argues that T testifies if his statement that p is offered as evidence that p. He criticizes Coady 1992, who holds that T testifies only if he actually has the relevant competence and T’s statement that p is directed to those in need of evidence, for whom p is relevant to some disputed or unresolved question. Lackey 2006b defends a hybrid view of testimony, distinguishing “hearer testimony” from “speaker testimony.” The former takes place if the latter takes place if T reasonably intends to convey the information that p in virtue of the communicable content of an act of communication, while the latter takes place if S reasonably takes T’s act of communication as conveying the information that p in virtue of the communicable content of an act of communication.

5. References and Further Reading

  • Adler, Jonathan E., 1994. “Testimony, Trust, Knowing,” Journal of Philosophy 9:264-75.
  • Adler, Jonathan E., 2002. Belief’s Own Ethics. Cambridge: MIT Press.
  • Audi, Robert, 1997. “The Place of Testimony in the Fabric of Knowledge and Justification,” American Philosophical Quarterly 34:405-22.
  • Audi, Robert, 2002. “The Sources of Belief,” in Paul Moser, ed., Oxford Handbook of Epistemology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Audi, Robert, 2004. “The A Priori Authority of Testimony,” Philosophical Issues 14:18-34.
  • Audi, Robert, 2006. “Testimony, Credulity, and Veracity,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Audi, Robert, 2006. “Testimony, Credulity, and Veracity,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Austin, J.L., 1946. “Other Minds,” in Philosophical Papers, 3rd ed., 1979. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Bergmann, Michael, 2006a. “BonJour’s Dilemma,” Philosophical Studies 131:679-693.
  • Bergmann, Michael, 2006b. Justification Without Awareness: A Defense of Epistemic Externalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • BonJour, Laurence, 1980. “Externalist Theories of Empirical Knowledge,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 5:53-73.
  • BonJour, Laurence, 2003. “A Version of Internalist Foundationalism,” in Laurence BonJour and Ernest Sosa, Epistemic Justification: Internalism vs. Externalism, Foundations vs. Virtues. Blackwell Publishing.
  • Burge, Tyler, 1993. “Content Preservation.” Philosophical Review 102:457-488.
  • Burge, Tyler, 1997. “Interlocution, Perception, Memory,” Philosophical Studies 86:21-47.
  • Burge, Tyler, 1999. “Comprehension and Interpretation,” in L. Hahn, ed., The Philosophy of Donald Davidson. LaSalle: Open Court.
  • Coady, C.A.J., 1973. “Testimony and Observation.” American Philosophical Quarterly 10:149-155.
  • Coady, C.A.J., 1992. Testimony: A Philosophical Study. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Coady, C.A.J., 1994. “Testimony, Observation, and ‘Autonomous Knowledge,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Dummett, Michael. “Testimony and Memory,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Evans, Gareth, 1982. The Varieties of Reference. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Faulkner, Paul, 2000. “The Social Character of Testimonial Knowledge,” Journal of Philosophy 97:581-601.
  • Foley, Richard, 1994. “Egoism in Epistemology,” in Frederick F. Schmitt, Socializing Epistemology: The Social Dimensions of Knowledge. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield.
  • Foley, Richard, 2001. Intellectual Trust in Oneself and Others. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 1987. “The Epistemology of Testimony,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society Supplement 61:57-83.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 1994. “Against Gullibility,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 1995. “Telling and Trusting: Reductionism and Anti-Reductionism in the Epistemology of Testimony,” Mind 104:393-411 (critical notice of Coady 1992).
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 2002. “Trusting Others in the Sciences: a priori or Empirical Warrant?”, Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 33:373-83.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 2004. “Testimony: Knowing Through Being Told,” in I. Niiniluoto, Matti Sintonen, and J. Wolenski, eds., Handbok of Epistemology. New York: Springer.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 2006a. “Testimony and Epistemic Autonomy,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 2006b. “Second-Hand Knowledge.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 73:592-618.
  • Fricker, Elizabeth, 2006c. “Varieties of Anti-Reductionism About Testimony—A Reply to Goldberg and Henderson,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 72:618-28.
  • Gettier, Edmund, 1963. “Is Justified True Belief Knowledge?” Analysis 23:121-123.
  • Goldberg, Sanford, 2001. “Testimonially Based Knowledge From False Testimony.” The Philosophical Quarterly 51:512-526.
  • Goldberg, Sanford, 2005. “Testimonial Knowledge Through Unsafe Testimony.” Analysis 65:302-311.
  • Goldberg, Sanford, 2006. “Reductionism and the Distinctiveness of Testimonial Knowledge,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Goldberg, Sanford, 2007. “How Lucky Can You Get?” Synthese 158:315-327.
  • Goldberg, Sanford, 2008. “Testimonial Knowledge in Early Childhood, Revisited.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 76:1-36.
  • Goldberg, Sanford, and Henderson, David, 2005. “Monitoring and Anti-Reductionism in the Epistemology of Testimony,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 72:600-17.
  • Goldman, Alvin, 1999. Knowledge in a Social World. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Graham, Peter J., 1997. “What is Testimony?,” The Philosophical Quarterly 47: 227-232.
  • Graham, Peter J., 2000a. “Transferring Knowledge,” Noûs 34:131–152.
  • Graham, Peter J., 2000b. “Conveying Information,” Synthese 123:365-392.
  • Graham, Peter J., 2000c. “The Reliability of Testimony,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 61:695-709.
  • Graham, Peter J., 2004. “Metaphysical Libertarianism and the Epistemology of Testimony,” American Philosophical Quarterly 41:37-50.
  • Graham, Peter J., 2006. “Liberal Fundamentalism and Its Rivals,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
    • Graham 2006:93 gives similar, but not identical, lists of supporters of direct and non-direct views of testimony. Graham lists as supporting a direct view Burge 1993, 1997, and 1999, Coady 1973 and 1992, Dummett 1994, Goldberg 2006, McDowell 1994, Quinton 1973, Reid 1764, Ross 1986, Rysiew 2000, Stevenson 1993, Strawson 1994, and Weiner 2003a. Graham lists as supporting a non-direct view Adler 2002, Audi 1997, 2002, 2004, and 2006, Hume 1739, Kusch 2002, Lackey 2003 and 2006, Lehrer 1994, Lyons 1997, Faulkner 2000, Fricker 1987, 1994, 1995, 2002, and 2006a, and Root 1998 and 2001.
  • Green, Christopher R., 2006. The Epistemic Parity of Testimony, Memory, and Perception. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Notre Dame.
  • Green, Christopher R., 2007. “Suing One’s Sense Faculties for Fraud: ‘Justifiable Reliance’ in the Law as a Clue to Epistemic Justification,” Philosophical Papers 36:49-90.
  • Hardwig, John, 1985. “Epistemic Dependence,” Journal of Philosophy 82:335-49.
  • Hardwig, John, 1991. “The Role of Trust in Knowledge,” Journal of Philosophy 88:693-708.
  • Hawthorne, John, 2004. Knowledge and Lotteries. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Heck, Richard, 1995. “The Sense of Communication.” Mind 104:79-106.
  • Hinchman, Edward, 2005. “Telling as Inviting to Trust,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 70:562-87.
  • Hinchman, Edward, 2007. “The Assurance of Warrant.” Unpublished manuscript
  • Hume, David, 1739. A Treatise of Human Nature. 1888 edition, L.A. Selby-Bigge, ed., Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Hume, David, 1748. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. 1977 edition, Indiannapolis: Hackett Publishing Company.
  • Insole, Christopher J., 2000. “Seeing Off the Local Threat to Irreducible Knowledge by Testimony.” Philosophical Quarterly 50:44-56.
  • Kusch, Martin, 2002. Knowledge by Agreement. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, 1999. “Testimonial Knowledge and Transmission,” The Philosophical Quarterly 49:471-490.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, 2003. “A Minimal Expression of Non-Reductionism in the Epistemology of Testimony,” Noûs 37:706-23.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, 2005. “Testimony and the Infant/Child Objection,” Philosophical Studies 126:163-90.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, 2006a. “It Takes Two to Tango: Beyond Reductionism and Non-Reductionism in the Epistemology of Testimony,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, 2006b. “The Nature of Testimony,” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 87:177-97.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, 2006c. “Learning From Words.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 73:77-101.
  • Lackey, Jennifer, and Ernest Sosa, eds., 2006. The Epistemology of Testimony. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • Lackey gives lists of testimonial reductionists (at 183 n.3) and non-reductionists (at 186 n.19). Lackey lists as supporting forms of non-reductionism Austin 1946, Welbourne 1979, 1981, 1986, and 1994, Evans 1982, Ross 1986, Hardwig 1985 and 1991, Coady 1992 and 1994, Reid 1764, Burge 1993 and 1997, Plantinga 1993, Webb 1993, Dummett 1994, Foley 1994, McDowell 1994, Strawson 1994, Williamson 1996 and 2000, Goldman 1999, Schmitt 1999, Insole 2000, Owens 2000, Rysiew 2002, Weiner 2003a, and Goldberg 2006. Lackey lists as supporting forms of reductionism Hume 1739, Fricker 1987, 1994, 1995, and 2006a, Adler 1994 and 2002, Lyons 1997, Lipton 1998, and Van Cleve 2006. Lackey 2006 lists as preservationists (that is, T-must-know-that-p-ists) Welbourne 1979, 1981, and 1994, Hardwig 1985 and 1991, Ross 1986, Burge 1993 and 1997, Plantinga 1993, McDowell 1994, Williamson 1996, Audi 1997, Owens 2000, and Dummett 1994. Fricker 2006a is a recent addition to the preservationist camp.
  • Lehrer, Keith, 1994. “Testimony and Coherence,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Lipton, Peter, 1998. “The Epistemology of Testimony,” British Journal for the History and Philosophy of Science 29:1-31.
  • Lyons, Jack, 1997. “Testimony, Induction, and Folk Psychology,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 75:163-78.
  • Matilal, Bimal Krishna, and Chakrabarti, Arindam, 1994. Knowing From Words: Western and Indian Philosophical Analysis of Understanding and Testimony. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers.
  • McDowell, John, 1998. “Knowledge By Hearsay,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Moran, Richard, 2006. “Getting Told and Being Believed,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Owens, David, 2000. Reason Without Freedom: The Problem of Epistemic Normativity. London: Routledge.
  • Plantinga, Alvin, 1993. Warrant and Proper Function. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Quinton, Anthony, 1973. “Autonomy and Authority in Knowledge,” in Thoughts and Thinkers. London: Duckworth.
  • Reid, Thomas, 1764. An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common Sense. Excerpts in 1975 edition, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company.
  • Reid, Thomas, 1785. Articles on the Intellectual Powers of Man. Excerpts in 1975 edition, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company.
  • Root, Michael, 1998. “How to Teach a Wise Man,” in Kenneth Westphal, ed., Pragmatism, Reason, and Norms. New York: Fordham University
  • Root, Michael 2001. “Hume on the Virtues of Testimony,” American Philosophical Quarterly 38:19-35.
  • Ross, Angus, 1986. “Why Believe What We Are Told?” Ratio 28:69-88.
  • Rysiew, Patrick, 2000. “Testimony, Simulation, and the Limits of Inductivism,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 78:269-274.
  • Schmitt, Frederick F., ed., 1994. Socializing Epistemology. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.
  • Schmitt, Frederick F., 1999. “Social Epistemology,” in John Greco and Ernest Sosa, The Blackwell Guide to Epistemology. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers.
  • Schmitt, Frederick F., 2006. “Testimonial Justification and Transindividual Reasons,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Shogenj, Tomoji, 2000. “Self-Dependent Justification Without Circularity,” British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 51: 287-98.
  • Shogenj, Tomoji, 2006. “A Defense of Reductionism about Testimonial Justification of Beliefs,” Noûs 40: 331-46.
  • Stanley, Jason, 2005. Knowledge and Practical Interests. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Stevenson, Leslie, 1993. “Why Believe What People Say?” Synthese 94:429-51.
  • Strawson, P.F., 1994. “Knowing From Words,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Van Cleve, James, 2006. “Reid on the Credit of Human Testimony,” in Lackey and Sosa 2006.
  • Webb, Mark Owen, 1993. “Why I Know About As Much As You: A Reply to Hardwig,” Journal of Philosophy 90:260-70.
  • Weiner, Matthew, 2003a. “Accepting Testimony,” Philosophical Quarterly 53:256-64.
  • Weiner, Matthew, 2003b. “The Assurance View of Testimony.” Unpublished manuscript, available at http://mattweiner.net/papers/weiner_assurance_view.pdf.
  • Welbourne, Michael, 1979. “The Transmission of Knowledge,” Philosophical Quarterly 29:1-9.
  • Welbourne, Michael, 1981. “The Community of Knowledge,” Philosophical Quarterly 31:302-14.
  • Welbourne, Michael, 1986. The Community of Knowledge. Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press.
  • Welbourne, Michael, 1994. “Testimony, Knowledge, and Belief,” in Matilal and Chakrabarti 1994.
  • Williamson, Timothy, 1996. “Knowing and Asserting,” Philosophical Review 105:489-523.
  • Williamson, Timothy, 2000. Knowledge and its Limits. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Author Information

Christopher R. Green
Email: crgreen@olemiss.edu
University of Mississippi
U. S. A.

Faith: Historical Perspectives

Traditionally, faith and reason have each been considered to be sources of justification for religious belief. Because both can purportedly serve this same epistemic function, it has been a matter of much interest to philosophers and theologians how the two are related and thus how the rational agent should treat claims derived from either source. Some have held that there can be no conflict between the two—that reason properly employed and faith properly understood will never produce contradictory or competing claims—whereas others have maintained that faith and reason can (or even must) be in genuine contention over certain propositions or methodologies. Those who have taken the latter view disagree as to whether faith or reason ought to prevail when the two are in conflict. Kierkegaard, for instance, prioritizes faith even to the point that it becomes positively irrational, while Locke emphasizes the reasonableness of faith to such an extent that a religious doctrine’s irrationality—conflict with itself or with known facts—is a sign that it is unsound. Other thinkers have theorized that faith and reason each govern their own separate domains, such that cases of apparent conflict are resolved on the side of faith when the claim in question is, say, a religious or theological claim, but resolved on the side of reason when the disputed claim is, for example, empirical or logical. Some relatively recent philosophers, most notably the logical positivists, have denied that there is a domain of thought or human existence rightly governed by faith, asserting instead that all meaningful statements and ideas are accessible to thorough rational examination. This has presented a challenge to religious thinkers to explain how an admittedly nonrational or transrational form of language can hold meaningful cognitive content.

This article traces the historical development of thought on the interrelation of religious faith and reason, beginning with Classical Greek conceptions of mind and religious mythology and continuing through the medieval Christian theologians, the rise of science proper in the early modern period, and the reformulation of the issue as one of ‘science versus religion’ in the twentieth century. (Also, see Faith: Contemporary Issues.)

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. The Classical Period
    1. Aristotle and Plato
    2. Stoics and Epicureans
    3. Plotinus
  3. The Rise of Christianity
    1. St. Paul
    2. Early Christian Apologists
    3. St. Augustine
    4. Pseudo-Dionysius
  4. The Medieval Period
    1. St. Anselm
    2. Peter Lombard
    3. Islamic Philosophers
    4. Jewish Philosophy
    5. St. Thomas Aquinas
    6. The Franciscan Philosophers
  5. The Renaissance and Enlightenment Periods
    1. The Galileo Controversy
    2. Erasmus
    3. The Protestant Reformers
    4. Continental Rationalism
    5. Blaise Pascal
    6. Empiricism
    7. German Idealism
  6. The Nineteenth Century
    1. Romanticism
    2. Socialism
    3. Existentialism
    4. Catholic Apologists
    5. Pragmatism
  7. The Twentieth Century
    1. Logical Positivism and Its Critics
    2. Philosophical Theology
    3. Neo-Existentialism
    4. Neo-Darwinism
    5. Contemporary Reactions Against Naturalism and Neo-Darwinism
    6. Liberation Theology
  8. References and Further Reading

1. Introduction

Faith and reason are both sources of authority upon which beliefs can rest. Reason generally is understood as the principles for a methodological inquiry, whether intellectual, moral, aesthetic, or religious. Thus is it not simply the rules of logical inference or the embodied wisdom of a tradition or authority. Some kind of algorithmic demonstrability is ordinarily presupposed. Once demonstrated, a proposition or claim is ordinarily understood to be justified as true or authoritative. Faith, on the other hand, involves a stance toward some claim that is not, at least presently, demonstrable by reason. Thus faith is a kind of attitude of trust or assent. As such, it is ordinarily understood to involve an act of will or a commitment on the part of the believer. Religious faith involves a belief that makes some kind of either an implicit or explicit reference to a transcendent source. The basis for a person’s faith usually is understood to come from the authority of revelation. Revelation is either direct, through some kind of direct infusion, or indirect, usually from the testimony of an other. The religious beliefs that are the objects of faith can thus be divided into those what are in fact strictly demonstrable (scienta) and those that inform a believer’s virtuous practices (sapientia).

Religious faith is of two kinds: evidence-sensitive and evidence-insensitive. The former views faith as closely coordinated with demonstrable truths; the latter more strictly as an act of the will of the religious believer alone. The former includes evidence garnered from the testimony and works of other believers. It is, however, possible to hold a religious belief simply on the basis either of faith alone or of reason alone. Moreover, one can even lack faith in God or deny His existence, but still find solace in the practice of religion.

The basic impetus for the problem of faith and reason comes from the fact that the revelation or set of revelations on which most religions are based is usually described and interpreted in sacred pronouncements, either in an oral tradition or canonical writings, backed by some kind of divine authority. These writings or oral traditions are usually presented in the literary forms of narrative, parable, or discourse. As such, they are in some measure immune from rational critique and evaluation. In fact even the attempt to verify religious beliefs rationally can be seen as a kind of category mistake. Yet most religious traditions allow and even encourage some kind of rational examination of their beliefs.

The key philosophical issue regarding the problem of faith and reason is to work out how the authority of faith and the authority of reason interrelate in the process by which a religious belief is justified or established as true or justified. Four basic models of interaction are possible.

(a) The conflict model. Here the aims, objects, or methods of reason and faith seem to be very much the same. Thus when they seem to be saying different things, there is genuine rivalry. This model is thus assumed both by religious fundamentalists, who resolve the rivalry on the side of faith, and scientific naturalists, who resolve it on the side of reason.

(b) The incompatibilist model. Here the aims, objects, and methods of reason and faith are understood to be distinct. Compartmentalization of each is possible. Reason aims at empirical truth; religion aims at divine truths. Thus no rivalry exists between them. This model subdivides further into three subdivisions. First, one can hold faith is transrational, inasmuch as it is higher than reason. This latter strategy has been employed by some Christian existentialists. Reason can only reconstruct what is already implicit in faith or religious practice. Second, one can hold that religious belief is irrational, thus not subject to rational evaluation at all. This is the position taken ordinarily by those who adopt negative theology, the method that assumes that all speculation about God can only arrive at what God is not. The latter subdivision also includes those theories of belief that claim that religious language is only metaphorical in nature. This and other forms of irrationalism result in what is ordinarily considered fideism: the conviction that faith ought not to be subjected to any rational elucidation or justification.

(c) The weak compatibilist model. Here it is understood that dialogue is possible between reason and faith, though both maintain distinct realms of evaluation and cogency. For example, the substance of faith can be seen to involve miracles; that of reason to involve the scientific method of hypothesis testing. Much of the Reformed model of Christianity adopts this basic model.

(d) The strong compatibilist model. Here it is understood that faith and reason have an organic connection, and perhaps even parity. A typical form of strong compatibilism is termed natural theology. Articles of faith can be demonstrated by reason, either deductively (from widely shared theological premises) or inductively (from common experiences). It can take one of two forms: either it begins with justified scientific claims and supplements them with valid theological claims unavailable to science, or it starts with typical claims within a theological tradition and refines them by using scientific thinking. An example of the former would be the cosmological proof for God’s existence; an example of the latter would be the argument that science would not be possible unless God’s goodness ensured that the world is intelligible. Many, but certainly not all, Roman Catholic philosophers and theologians hold to the possibility of natural theology. Some natural theologians have attempted to unite faith and reason into a comprehensive metaphysical system. The strong compatibilist model, however, must explain why God chose to reveal Himself at all since we have such access to him through reason alone.

The interplay between reason and faith is an important topic in the philosophy of religion. It is closely related to, but distinct from, several other issues in the philosophy of religion: namely, the existence of God, divine attributes, the problem of evil, divine action in the world, religion and ethics, religious experience and religious language, and the problem of religious pluralism. Moreover, an analysis of the interplay between faith and reason also provides resources for philosophical arguments in other areas such as metaphysics, ontology, and epistemology.

While the issues the interplay between faith and reason addresses are endemic to almost any religious faith, this article will focus primarily on the faith claims found in the three great monotheistic world religions: Judaism, Islam, and particularly Christianity.

This rest of the article will trace out the history of the development of thinking about the relationship between faith and reason in Western philosophy from the classical period of the Greeks through the end of the twentieth century.

2. The Classical Period

Greek religions, in contrast to Judaism, speculated primarily not on the human world but on the cosmos as a whole. They were often formulated as literary myths. Nonetheless these forms of religious speculation were generally practical in nature: they aimed to increase personal and social virtue in those who engaged in them. Most of these religions involved civic cultic practices.

Philosophers from the earliest times in Greece tried to distill metaphysical issues out of these mythological claims. Once these principles were located and excised, these philosophers purified them from the esoteric speculation and superstition of their religious origins. They also decried the proclivities to gnosticism and elitism found in the religious culture whence the religious myths developed. None of these philosophers, however, was particularly interested in the issue of willed assent to or faith in these religious beliefs as such.

a. Aristotle and Plato

Both Plato and Aristotle found a principle of intellectual organization in religious thinking that could function metaphysically as a halt to the regress of explanation. In Plato, this is found in the Forms, particularly the Form of the Good. The Form of Good is that by which all things gain their intelligibility. Aristotle rejected the Form of the Good as unable to account for the variety of good things, appealing instead to the unmoved mover as an unchangeable cosmic entity. This primary substance also has intelligence as nous: it is “thought thinking itself.” From this mind emerges exemplars for existent things.

Both thinkers also developed versions of natural theology by showing how religious beliefs emerge from rational reflections on concrete reality as such. An early form of religious apologetics – demonstrating the existence of the gods — can be found in Plato’s Laws. Aristotle’s Physics gave arguments demonstrating the existence of an unmoved mover as a timeless self-thinker from the evidence of motion in the world.

b. Stoics and Epicureans

Both of these schools of thought derived certain theological kinds of thinking from physics and cosmology. The Stoics generally held a cosmological view of an eternal cycle of identical world-revolutions and world-destructions by a universal conflagration. Absolute necessity governs the cyclic process and is identified with divine reason (logos) and providence. This provident and benevolent God is immanent in the physical world. God orders the universe, though without an explicit purpose. Humans are microcosms; their souls are emanations of the fiery soul of the universe.

The Epicureans, on the other hand, were skeptical, materialistic, and anti-dogmatic. It is not clear they were theists at all, though at some points they seem to be. They did speak of the gods as living in a blissful state in intermundial regions, without any interest in the affairs of humans. There is no relation between the evils of human life and a divine guidance of the universe. At death all human perception ceases.

c. Plotinus

Plotinus, in the Enneads, held that all modes of being and value originate in an overflow of procession from a single ineffable power that he identified with the radical simplicity of the One of Parmenides or the Good of Plato’s Republic. Nous, the second hypostasis after the One, resembles Aristotle’s unmoved mover. The orders of the world soul and nature follow after Nous in a linear procession. Humans contain the potentialities of these creative principles, and can choose to make their lives an ascent towards and then a union with the intuitive intelligence. The One is not a being, but infinite being. It is the cause of beings. Thus Christian and Jewish philosophers who held to a creator God could affirm such a conception. Plotinus might have been the first negative theologian, arguing that God, as simple, is know more from what he is not, than from what he is.

3. The Rise of Christianity

Christianity, emerging from Judaism, imposed a set of revealed truths and practices on its adherents. Many of these beliefs and practices differed significantly from what the Greek religions and Judaism had held. For example, Christians held that God created the world ex nihilo, that God is three persons, and that Jesus Christ was the ultimate revelation of God. Nonetheless, from the earliest of times, Christians held to a significant degree of compatibility between faith and reason.

a. St. Paul

The writings attributed to St. Paul in the Christian Scriptures provide diverse interpretations of the relation between faith and reason. First, in the Acts of the Apostles, Paul himself engages in discussion with “certain Epicurean and Stoic philosophers” at the Aeropagus in Athens (Acts 17:18). Here he champions the unity of the Christian God as the creator of all. God is “not far from any one of us.” Much of Paul’s speech, in fact, seems to allude to Stoic beliefs. It reflects a sympathy with pagan customs, handles the subject of idol worship gently, and appeals for a new examination of divinity not from the standpoint of creation, but from practical engagement with the world. However, he claims that this same God will one day come to judge all mankind. But in his famous passage from Romans 1:20, Paul is less obliging to non-Christians. Here he champions a natural theology against those pagans who would claim that, even on Christian grounds, their previous lack of access to the Christian God would absolve them from guilt for their nonbelief. Paul argues that in fact anyone can attain to the truth of God’s existence merely from using his or her reason to reflect on the natural world. Thus this strong compatibilist interpretation entailed a reduced tolerance for atheists and agnostics. Yet in 1 Corinthians 1:23, Paul suggests a kind of incompatibilism, claiming that Christian revelation is folly the Gentiles (meaning Greeks). He points out that the world did not come to know God through wisdom; God chose to reveal Himself fully to those of simple faith.

These diverse Pauline interpretations of the relation between faith and reason were to continue to manifest themselves in various ways through the centuries that followed.

b. Early Christian Apologists

The early apologists were both compatibilists and incompatibilists. Tertullian took up the ideas of Paul in 1 Corinthians, proclaiming that Christianity is not merely incompatible with but offensive to natural reason. Jerusalem has nothing to do with Athens. He boldly claimed credo quia absurdum est (“I believe because it is absurd”). He claims that religious faith is both against and above reason. In his De Praescriptione Haereticorum, he proclaims, “when we believe, we desire to believe nothing further.”

On the other hand, Justin Martyr converted to Christianity, but continued to hold Greek philosophy in high esteem. In his Dialogue with Trypho he finds Christianity “the only sure and profitable philosophy.”

In a similar vein, Clement of Alexandria in his Stromata called the Gospel “the true philosophy.” Philosophy acted as a “schoolmaster” to bring the Greeks to Christ, just as the law brought the Jews. But he maintained that Greek philosophy is unnecessary for a defense of the faith, though it helps to disarm sophistry. He also worked to demonstrate in a rational way what is found in faith. He claimed that “I believe in order that I may know” (credo ut intelligam). This set Christianity on firmer intellectual foundations. Clement also worked to clarify the early creeds of Christianity, using philosophical notions of substance, being, and person, in order to combat heresies.

c. St. Augustine

Augustine emerged in the late fourth century as a rigorous defender of the Christian faith. He responded forcefully to pagans’ allegations that Christian beliefs were not only superstitious but also barbaric. But he was, for the most part, a strong compatibilist. He felt that intellectual inquiry into the faith was to be understood as faith seeking understanding (fides quaerens intellectum). To believe is “to think with assent” (credere est assensione cogitare). It is an act of the intellect determined not by the reason, but by the will. Faith involves a commitment “to believe in a God,” “to believe God,” and “to believe in God.”

In On Christian Doctrine Augustine makes it clear that Christian teachers not only may, but ought, to use pagan thinking when interpreting Scripture. He points out that if a pagan science studies what is eternal and unchanging, it can be used to clarify and illuminate the Christian faith. Thus logic, history, and the natural sciences are extremely helpful in matters of interpreting ambiguous or unknown symbols in the Scriptures. However, Augustine is equally interested to avoid any pagan learning, such as that of crafts and superstition that is not targeted at unchangeable knowledge.

Augustine believed that Platonists were the best of philosophers, since they concentrated not merely on the causes of things and the method of acquiring knowledge, but also on the cause of the organized universe as such. One does not, then, have to be a Christian to have a conception of God. Yet, only a Christian can attain to this kind of knowledge without having to have recourse to philosophy.

Augustine argued further that the final authority for the determination of the use of reason in faith lies not with the individual, but with the Church itself. His battle with the Manichean heresy prompted him to realize that the Church is indeed the final arbiter of what cannot be demonstrated–or can be demonstrated but cannot be understood by all believers. Yet despite this appeal to ecclesiastical authority, he believe that one cannot genuinely understand God until one loves Him.

d. Pseudo-Dionysius

Pseudo Dionysius was heavily influenced by neo-Platonism. In letter IX of his Corpus Dionysiacum, he claimed that our language about God provides no information about God but only a way of protecting God’s otherness. His analysis gave rise to the unique form negative theology. It entailed a severe restriction in our access to and understanding of the nature of God. In his “Mystical Theology” Pseudo-Dionysius describes how the soul’s destiny is to be fully united with the ineffable and absolutely transcendent God.

4. The Medieval Period

Much of the importance of this period stems from its retrieval of Greek thinking, particularly that of Aristotle. At the beginning of the period Arab translators set to work translating and distributing many works of Greek philosophy, making them available to Jewish, Islamic, and Christian philosophers and theologians alike.

For the most part, medieval theologians adopted an epistemological distinction the Greeks had developed: between scienta (episteme), propositions established on the basis of principles, and opinio, propositions established on the basis of appeals to authority. An established claim in theology, confirmed by either scienta or opinio, demanded the believer’s assent. Yet despite this possibility of scientia in matters of faith, medieval philosophers and theologians believed that it could be realized only in a limited sense. They were all too aware of St. Paul’s caveat that faith is a matter of “seeing in a mirror dimly” (1 Cor 1:13).

a. St. Anselm

Like Augustine, Anselm held that one must love God in order to have knowledge of Him. In the Proslogion, he argues that “the smoke of our wrongdoing” will prohibit us from this knowledge. Anselm is most noted, however, for his ontological argument, presented in his Proslogion. He claimed that it is possible for reason to affirm that God exists from inferences made from what the understanding can conceive within its own confines. As such he was a gifted natural theologian. Like Augustine, Anselm held that the natural theologian seeks not to understand in order to believe, but to believe in order to understand. This is the basis for his principle intellectus fidei. Under this conception, reason is not asked to pass judgment on the content of faith, but to find its meaning and to discover explanations that enable others to understand its content. But when reason confronts what is incomprehensible, it remains unshaken since it is guided by faith’s affirmation of the truth of its own incomprehensible claims.

b. Peter Lombard

Lombard was an important precursor to Aquinas. Following Augustine, he argued that pagans can know about much about truths of the one God simply by their possession of reason (e.g. that spirit is better than body, the mutable can exists only from a immutable principle, all beauty points to a beauty beyond compare). But in addition, pagans can affirm basic truths about the Trinity from these same affirmations, inasmuch as all things mirror three attributes associated with the Trinity: unity (the Father), form or beauty (the Son), and a position or order (the Holy Spirit).

c. Islamic Philosophers

Islamic philosophers in the tenth and eleventh centuries were also heavily influenced by the reintroduction of Aristotle into their intellectual culture.

Avicenna (Ibn Sina) held that as long as religion is properly construed it comprises an area of truth no different than that of philosophy. He built this theory of strong compatibilism on the basis of his philosophical study of Aristotle and Plotinus and his theological study of his native Islam. He held that philosophy reveals that Islam is the highest form of life. He defended the Islamic belief in the immortality of individual souls on the grounds that, although as Aristotle taught the agent intellect was one in all persons, the unique potential intellect of each person, illuminated by the agent intellect, survives death.

Averroes (Ibn Rushd), though also a scholar of Aristotle’s works, was less sympathetic to compatibilism than his predecessor Avicenna. But in his Incoherence of Incoherence, he attacked Algazel’s criticisms of rationalism in theology. For example, he developed a form of natural theology in which the task of proving the existence of God is possible. He held, however, that it could be proven only from the physical fact of motion. Nonetheless Averroes did not think that philosophy could prove all Islamic beliefs, such as that of individual immortality. Following Aristotle in De Anima, Averroes argued for a separation between the active and passive intellects, even though they enter into a temporary connection with individual humans. This position entails the conclusion that no individuated intellect survives death. Yet Averroes held firmly to the contrary opinion by faith alone.

d. Jewish Philosophy

Moses Maimonides, a Jewish philosopher, allowed for a significant role of reason in critically interpreting the Scriptures. But he is probably best known for his development of negative theology. Following Avicenna’s affirmation of a real distinction between essence and existence, Maimonides concluded that no positive essential attributes may be predicated of God. God does not possess anything superadded to his essence, and his essence includes all his perfections. The attributes we do have are derived from the Pentateuch and the Prophets. Yet even these positive attributes, such as wisdom and power, would imply defects in God if applied to Him in the same sense they are applied to us. Since God is simple, it is impossible that we should know one part, or predication, of Him and not another. He argues that when one proves the negation of a thing believed to exist in God, one becomes more perfect and closer to knowledge of God. He quotes Psalm 4:4’s approval of an attitude of silence towards God. Those who do otherwise commit profanity and blasphemy. It is not certain, however, whether Maimonides rejected the possibility of positive knowledge of the accidental attributes of God’s action.

e. St. Thomas Aquinas

Unlike Augustine, who made little distinction between explaining the meaning of a theological proposition and giving an argument for it, Aquinas worked out a highly articulated theory of theological reasoning. St. Bonaventure, an immediate precursor to Aquinas, had argued that no one could attain to truth unless he philosophizes in the light of faith. Thomas held that our faith in eternal salvation shows that we have theological truths that exceed human reason. But he also claimed that one could attain truths about religious claims without faith, though such truths are incomplete. In the Summa Contra Gentiles he called this a “a two fold truth” about religious claims, “one to which the inquiry of reason can reach, the other which surpasses the whole ability of the human reason.” No contradiction can stand between these two truths. However, something can be true for faith and false (or inconclusive) in philosophy, though not the other way around. This entails that a non-believer can attain to truth, though not to the higher truths of faith.

A puzzling question naturally arises: why are two truths needed? Isn’t one truth enough? Moreover, if God were indeed the object of rational inquiry in this supernatural way, why would faith be required at all? In De Veritate (14,9) Thomas responds to this question by claiming that one cannot believe by faith and know by rational demonstration the very same truth since this would make one or the other kind of knowledge superfluous.

On the basis of this two-fold theory of truth, Aquinas thus distinguished between revealed (dogmatic) theology and rational (philosophical) theology. The former is a genuine science, even though it is not based on natural experience and reason. Revealed theology is a single speculative science concerned with knowledge of God. Because of its greater certitude and higher dignity of subject matter, it is nobler than any other science. Philosophical theology, though, can make demonstrations using the articles of faith as its principles. Moreover, it can apologetically refute objections raised against the faith even if no articles of faith are presupposed. But unlike revealed theology, it can err.

Aquinas claimed that the act of faith consists essentially in knowledge. Faith is an intellectual act whose object is truth. Thus it has both a subjective and objective aspect. From the side of the subject, it is the mind’s assent to what is not seen: “Faith is the evidence of things that appear not” (Hebrews 11:1). Moreover, this assent, as an act of will, can be meritorious for the believer, even though it also always involves the assistance of God’s grace. Moreover, faith can be a virtue, since it is a good habit, productive of good works. However, when we assent to truth in faith, we do so on the accepted testimony of another. From the side of what is believed, the objective aspect, Aquinas clearly distinguished between “preambles of faith,” which can be established by philosophical principles, and “articles of faith” that rest on divine testimony alone. A proof of God’s existence is an example of a preamble of faith. Faith alone can grasp, on the other hand, the article of faith that the world was created in time (Summa Theologiae I, q. 46, a. 2). Aquinas argued that the world considered in itself offers no grounds for demonstrating that it was once all new. Demonstration is always about definitions, and definitions, as universal, abstract from “the here and now.” A temporal beginning, thus demonstrated, is ruled out tout court. Of course this would extend to any argument about origination of the first of any species in a chain of efficient causes. Here Thomas sounds a lot like Kant will in his antinomies. Yet by faith we believe the world had a beginning. However, one rational consideration that suggests, though not definitively, a beginning to the world is that the passage from one term to another includes only a limited number of intermediate points between them.

Aquinas thus characterizes the articles of faith as first truths that stand in a “mean between science and opinion.” They are like scientific claims since their objects are true; they are like mere opinions in that they have not been verified by natural experience. Though he agrees with Augustine that no created intellect can comprehend God as an object, the intellect can grasp his existence indirectly. The more a cause is grasped, the more of its effects can be seen in it; and since God is the ultimate cause of all other reality, the more perfectly an intellect understands God, the greater will be its knowledge of the things God does or can do. So although we cannot know the divine essence as an object, we can know whether He exists and on the basis of analogical knowledge what must necessarily belong to Him. Aquinas maintains, however, that some objects of faith, such as the Trinity or the Incarnation, lie entirely beyond our capacity to understand them in this life.

Aquinas also elucidates the relationship between faith and reason on the basis of a distinction between higher and lower orders of creation. Aquinas criticizes the form of naturalism that holds that the goodness of any reality “is whatever belongs to it in keeping with its own nature” without need for faith (II-IIae, q.2, a.3). Yet, from reason itself we know that every ordered pattern of nature has two factors that concur in its full development: one on the basis of its own operation; the other, on the basis of the operation of a higher nature. The example is water: in a lower pattern, it naturally flows toward the centre, but in virtue of a higher pattern, such as the pull of the moon, it flows around the center. In the realm of our concrete knowledge of things, a lower pattern grasps only particulars, while a higher pattern grasps universals.

Given this distinction of orders, Thomas shows how the lower can indeed point to the higher. His arguments for God’s existence indicate this possibility. From this conviction he develops a highly nuanced natural theology regarding the proofs of God’s existence. The first of his famous five ways is the argument from motion. Borrowing from Aristotle, Aquinas holds to the claim that, since every physical mover is a moved mover, the experience of any physical motion indicates a first unmoved mover. Otherwise one would have to affirm an infinite chain of movers, which he shows is not rationally possible. Aquinas then proceeds to arguments from the lower orders of efficient causation, contingency, imperfection, and teleology to affirm the existence of a unitary all-powerful being. He concludes that these conclusions compel belief in the Judeo-Christian God.

Conversely, it is also possible to move from the higher to the lower orders. Rational beings can know “the meaning of the good as such” since goodness has an immediate order to the higher pattern of the universal source of being (II-IIae q.2, a.3). The final good considered by the theologian differs from that considered by the philosopher: the former is the bonum ultimum grasped only with the assistance of revelation; the latter is the beatific vision graspable in its possibility by reason. Both forms of the ultimate good have important ramifications, since they ground not only the moral distinction between natural and supernatural virtues, but also the political distinction between ecclesial and secular power.

Aquinas concludes that we come to know completely the truths of faith only through the virtue of wisdom (sapientia). Thomas says that “whatever its source, truth of is of the Holy Spirit” (Summa Theologiae, I-IIae q. 109, a. 1). The Spirit “enables judgment according to divine truth” (II-IIae 45, q. 1, ad 2). Moreover, faith and charity are prerequisites for the achievement of this wisdom.

Thomas’s two-fold theory of truth develops a strong compatibilism between faith and reason. But it can be argued that after his time what was intended as a mutual autonomy soon became an expanding separation.

f. The Franciscan Philosophers

Duns Scotus, like his successor William of Ockham, reacted in a characteristic Franciscan way to Thomas’s Dominican views. While the Dominicans tended to affirm the possibility of rational demonstrability of certain preambles of faith, the Franciscans tended more toward a more restricted theological science, based solely on empirical and logical analysis of beliefs.

Scotus first restricts the scope of Aquinas’s rational theology by refuting its ability to provide arguments that stop infinite regresses. In fact he is wary of the attempts of natural theology to prove anything about higher orders from lower orders. On this basis, he rejects the argument from motion to prove God’s existence. He admits that lower beings move and as such they require a first mover; but he maintains that one cannot prove something definitive about higher beings from even the most noble of lower beings. Instead, Scotus thinks that reason can be employed only to elucidate a concept. In the realm of theology, the key concept to elucidate is that of infinite being. So in his discussion of God’s existence, he takes a metaphysical view of efficiency, arguing that there must be not a first mover, but an actually self-existent being which makes all possibles possible. In moving towards this restricted form of conceptualist analysis, he thus gives renewed emphasis to negative theology.

Ockham then radicalized Scotus’s restrictions of our knowledge of God. He claimed that the Greek metaphysics of the 13th century, holding to the necessity of causal connections, contaminated the purity of the Christian faith. He argued instead that we cannot know God as a deduction from necessary principles. In fact, he rejected the possibility that any science can verify any necessity, since nothing in the world is necessary: if A and B are distinct, God could cause one to exist without the other. So science can demonstrate only the implications of terms, premises, and definitions. It keeps within the purely conceptual sphere. Like Scotus he argued held that any necessity in an empirical proposition comes from the divine order. He concluded that we know the existence of God, his attributes, the immortality of the soul, and freedom only by faith. His desire to preserve divine freedom and omnipotence thus led in the direction of a voluntaristic form of fideism.

5. The Renaissance and Enlightenment Periods

Ockham’s denial of the necessity in the scope of scientific findings perhaps surprisingly heralded the beginnings of a significant movement towards the autonomy of empirical science. But with this increased autonomy came also a growing incompatibility between the claims of science and those of religious authorities. Thus the tension between faith and reason now became set squarely for the first time in the conflict between science and religion. This influx of scientific thinking undermined the hitherto reign of Scholasticism. By the seventeenth century, what had begun as a criticism of the authority of the Church evolved into a full-blown skepticism regarding the possibility of any rational defense of fundamental Christian beliefs.

The Protestant Reformers shifted their emphasis from the medieval conception of faith as a fides (belief that) to fiducia (faith in). Thus attitude and commitment of the believer took on more importance. The Reformation brought in its wake a remarkable new focus on the importance of the study of Scripture as a warrant for one’s personal beliefs.

The Renaissance also witnessed the development of a renewed emphasis on Greek humanism. In the early part of this period, Nicholas of Cusa and others took a renewed interest in Platonism.

a. The Galileo Controversy

In the seventeenth century, Galileo understood “reason” as scientific inference based and experiment and demonstration. Moreover, experimentation was not a matter simply of observation, it also involved measurement, quantification, and formulization of the properties of the objects observed. Though he was not the first to do attempt this systematization — Archimedes had done the same centuries before – Galileo developed it to such an extent that he overthrew the foundations of Aristotelian physics. He rejected, for example, Aristotle’s claim that every moving had a mover whose force had to be continually applied. In fact it was possible to have more than one force operating on the same body at the same time. Without the principle of a singular moved mover, it was also conceivable that God could have “started” the world, then left it to move on its own.

The finding of his that sparked the great controversy with the Catholic Church was, however, Galileo’s defense of Copernicus’s rejection of the Ptolemaic geocentric universe. Galileo used a telescope he had designed to confirm the hypothesis of the heliocentric system. He also hypothesized that the universe might be indefinitely large. Realizing that such conclusions were at variance with Church teaching, he followed Augustine’s rule than an interpretation of Scripture should be revised when it confronts properly scientific knowledge.

The officials of the Catholic Church – with some exceptions — strongly resisted these conclusions and continued to champion a pre-Copernican conception of the cosmos. The Church formally condemned Galileo’s findings for on several grounds. First, the Church tended to hold to a rather literal interpretation of Scripture, particularly of the account of creation in the book of Genesis. Such interpretations did not square with the new scientific views of the cosmos such as the claim that the universe is infinitely large. Second, the Church was wary of those aspects of the “new science” Galileo represented that still mixed with magic and astrology. Third, these scientific findings upset much of the hitherto view of the cosmos that had undergirded the socio-political order the Church endorsed. Moreover, the new scientific views supported Calvinist views of determinism against the Catholic notion of free will. It took centuries before the Church officially rescinded its condemnation of Galileo.

b. Erasmus

Inspired by Greek humanism, Desiderius Erasmus placed a strong emphasis on the autonomy of human reason and the importance of moral precepts. As a Christian, he distinguished among three forms of law: laws of nature, thoroughly engraved in the minds of all men as St. Paul had argued, laws of works, and laws of faith. He was convinced that philosophers, who study laws of nature, could also produce moral precepts akin to those in Christianity. But Christian justification still comes ultimately only from the grace that can reveal and give a person the ability to follow the law of faith. As such, “faith cures reason, which has been wounded by sin.” So, while the laws of works are for the most part prohibitions against certain sins, the laws of faith tend to be positive duties, such as the injunctions to love one’s enemies and to carry one’s cross daily.

c. The Protestant Reformers

Martin Luther restricted the power of reason to illuminate faith. Like many reformers, he considered the human being alone unable to free itself from sin. In The Bondage of the Will, he makes a strict separation between what man has dominion over (his dealings with the lower creatures) and what God has dominion over (the affairs of His kingdom and thus of salvation). Reason is often very foolish: it immediately jumps to conclusions when it sees a thing happen once or twice. But by its reflections on the nature of words and our use of language, it can help us to grasp our own spiritual impotence.

Luther thus rejected the doctrine of analogy, developed by Aquinas and others, as an example of the false power of reason. In his Heidelberg Disputation Luther claims that a theologian must look only “on the visible rearward parts of God as seen in suffering and the cross.” Only from this perspective, do we keep our faith when we see, for example, that in the world the unjust prosper and the good undergo afflictions. Thus faith is primarily an act of trust in God’s grace.

Luther thus stresses the gratuitousness of salvation. In a traditional sense, Roman Catholics generally held that faith is meritorious, and thus that salvation involves good works. Protestant reformers like Luther, on the other hand, held that indeed faith is pure gift. He thus tended to make the hitherto Catholic emphasis on works look voluntaristic.

Like Luther, John Calvin appealed to the radical necessity of grace for salvation. This was embodied in his doctrine of election. But unlike Luther, Calvin gave a more measured response to the power of human reason to illuminate faith. In his Institutes of the Christian Religion, he argued that the human mind possesses, by natural instinct, an “awareness of divinity.” This sensus divinitatis is that whereby we form specific beliefs about God in specific situations, e.g. when experiencing danger, beauty, or even guilt. Even idolatry can contain as aspect of this. So religion is not merely arbitrary superstition. And yet, the law of creation makes necessary that we direct every thought and action to this goal of knowing God.

Despite this fundamental divine orientation, Calvin denied that a believer could build up a firm faith in Scripture through argument and disputation. He appealed instead to the testimony of Spirit embodied gained through a life of religious piety. Only through this testimony is certainty about one’s beliefs obtained. We attain a conviction without reasons, but only through “nothing other than what each believer experiences within himself–though my words fall far beneath a just explanation of the matter.” He realized, however, that “believers have a perpetual struggle with their own lack of faith.” But these struggles never remove them from divine mercy.

Calvin is thus an incompatibilist of the transrational type: faith is not against, but is beyond human reason.

d. Continental Rationalism

René Descartes, even more profoundly than Calvin, moved reason into the confines of the thinking subject. But he expanded the power of reason to grasp firmly the preambles of faith. In his Meditations, he claimed to have provided what amounted to be the most certain proofs of God possible. God becomes explicated by means of the foundation of subjective self-certainty. His proofs hinged upon his conviction that God cannot be a deceiver. Little room is left for faith.

Descartes’s thinking prepared Gottfried Leibniz to develop his doctrine of sufficient reason. Leibniz first argued that all truths are reducible to identities. From this it follows that a complete or perfect concept of an individual substance involves all its predicates, whether past, present, or future. From this he constructed his principle of sufficient reason: there is no event without a reason and no effect without a cause. He uses this not only to provide a rigorous cosmological proof for God’s existence from the fact of motion, but also to defend the cogency of both the ontological argument and the argument from design.

In his Theodicy Leibniz responded to Pierre Bayle, a French philosophe, who gave a skeptical critique of rationalism and support of fideism. First, Leibniz held that all truths are complementary, and cannot be mutually inconsistent. He argued that there are two general types of truth: those that are altogether necessary, since their opposite implies contradiction, and those that are consequences of the laws of nature. God can dispense only with the latter laws, such as the law of our mortality. A doctrine of faith can never violate something of the first type; but it can be in tension with truths of the second sort. Thus though no article of faith can be self-contradictory, reason may not be able to fully comprehend it. Mysteries, such as that of the Trinity, are simply “above reason.” But how do we weigh the probabilities favoring a doctrine of faith against those derived from general experience and the laws of nature? We must weigh these decisions by taking into account the existence and nature of God and the universal harmony by which the world is providentially created and ordered.

Leibniz insisted that one must respect the differences among the three distinct functions of reason: to comprehend, to prove, and to answer objections. In the faith/reason controversy, Leibniz thought that the third function takes on particular prominence. However, one sees vestiges of the first two as well, since an inquiry into truths of faith employs proofs of the infinite whose strength or weakness the reasoner can comprehend.

Baruch Spinoza, a Dutch philosopher, brought a distinctly Jewish perspective to his rigorously rationalistic analysis of faith. Noticing that religious persons showed no particular penchant to virtuous life, he decided to read the Scriptures afresh without any presuppositions. He found that Old Testament prophecy, for example, concerned not speculative but primarily practical matters. Obedience to God was one. He took this to entail that whatever remains effective in religion applies only to moral matters. He then claimed that the Scriptures do not conflict with natural reason, leaving it free reign. No revelation is needed for morality. Moreover, he was led to claim that though the various religions have very different doctrines, they are very similar to one another in their moral pronouncements.

e. Blaise Pascal

Pascal rejected the hitherto claims of medieval natural theologians, by claiming that reason can neither affirm nor deny God’s existence. Instead he focused on the way that we should act given this ambiguity. He argued that since the negative consequences of believing are few (diminution of the passions, some pious actions) but the gain of believing is infinite (eternal life), it is more rational to believe than to disbelieve in God’s existence. This assumes, of course, both that God would not grant eternal life to a non-believer and that sincerity in one’s belief in God is not a requirement for salvation. As such, Pascal introduced an original form of rational voluntarism into the analysis of faith.

f. Empiricism

John Locke lived at a time when the traditional medieval view of a unified body of articulate wisdom no longer seemed plausible. Yet he still held to the basic medieval idea that faith is assent to specific propositions on the basis of God’s authority. Yet unlike Aquinas, he argued that faith is not a state between knowledge and opinion, but a form of opinion (doxa). But he developed a kind of apology for Christianity: an appeal to revelation, without an appeal to enthusiasm or inspiration. His aim was to demonstrate the “reasonableness of Christianity.” Though faith and reason have “strict” distinct provinces, faith must be in accord with reason. Faith cannot convince us of what contradicts, or is contrary, to our knowledge. We cannot assent to a revealed proposition if it be contradictory to our clear intuitive knowledge. But propositions of faith are, nonetheless, understood to be “above reason.”

Locke specifies two ways in which matters of faith can be revealed: either though “original revelation” or “traditional revelation.” Moses receiving the Decalogue is an example of the former; his communication of its laws to the Israelites is an example of the latter. The truth of original revelation cannot be contrary to reason. But traditional revelation is even more dependent on reason, since if an original revelation is to be communicated, it cannot be understood unless those who receive it have already received a correlate idea through sensation or reflection and understood the empirical signs through which it is communicated.

For Locke, reason justifies beliefs, and assigns them varying degrees of probability based on the power of the evidence. But, like Aquinas, Locke held to the evidence not only of logical/mathematical and certain self-affirming existential claims, but also “that which is evident to the senses.” All of these veridical beliefs depend upon no other beliefs for their justification. But faith requires the even less certain evidence of the testimony of others. In the final analysis, faith’s assent is made not by a deduction from reason, but by the “credit of the proposer, as coming from God, in some extraordinary way of communication.” Thus Locke’s understands faith as a probable consent.

Locke also developed a version of natural theology. In An Essay Concerning Human Understanding he claims that the complex ideas we have of God are made of up ideas of reflection. For example, we take the ideas of existence, duration, pleasure, happiness, knowledge, and power and “enlarge every one of these with our idea of Infinity; and so putting them together, make our complex idea of God.” We cannot know God’s own essence, however.

David Hume, like Locke, rejected rationalism, but developed a more radical kind of empiricism than Locke had. He argued that concrete experience is “our only guide in reasoning concerning matters of fact.” Thus he rejected the possibility of arguing for the truths of faith on the basis either of natural theology or the evidence of miracles. He supported this conclusion on two grounds. First, natural theology requires certain inferences from everyday experience. The argument from design infers that we can infer a single designer from our experience of the world. Though Hume agrees that we have experiences of the world as an artifact, he claims that we cannot make any probable inference from this fact to quality, power, or number of the artisans. Second, Hume argues that miracles are not only often unreliable grounds as evidence for belief, but in fact are apriori impossible. A miracle by definition is a transgression of a law of nature, and yet by their very nature these laws admit of no exceptions. Thus we cannot even call it a law of nature that has been violated. He concludes that reason and experience fail to establish divine infinity, God’s moral attributes, or any specification of the ongoing relationship between the Deity and man. But rather than concluding that his stance towards religious beliefs was one of atheism or even a mere Deism, Hume argued that he was a genuine Theist. He believed that we have a genuine natural sentiment by which we long for heaven. The one who is aware of the inability of reason to affirm these truths in fact is the person who can grasp revealed truth with the greatest avidity.

g. German Idealism

Immanuel Kant was heavily influenced by Descartes’s anthropomorphism and Spinoza‘s and Jean Jacques Rousseau‘s restriction of the scope of religion to ethical matters. Moreover, he wanted a view that was consistent with Newton’s discoveries about the strict natural laws that govern the empirical world. To accomplish this, he steered the scope of reason away from metaphysical, natural, and religious speculation altogether.

Kant’s claim that theoretical reason was unable to grasp truths about God effectively continued the contraction of the authority of scienta in matters of faith that had been occurring since the late medieval period. He rejected, then, the timeless and spaceless God of revelation characteristic of the Augustinian tradition as beyond human ken. This is most evident in his critique of the cosmological proof for the existence of God in The Critique of Pure Reason. This move left Kant immune from the threat of unresolvable paradoxes. Nonetheless he did allow the concept of God (as well as the ideas of immortality and the soul) to become not a constitutive but a regulative ideal of reason. God’s existence remains a necessary postulate specifically for the moral law. God functions as the sources for the summum bonum. Only God can guarantee an ideal conformity of virtue and happiness, which is required to fulfill the principle that “ought implies can.” This grounded what Kant called a faith distinct from knowledge or comprehension, but nonetheless rational. Rational faith involves reliance neither upon God’s word nor the person of Christ, but only upon the recognition of God as the source of how we subjectively realize our duties. God is cause of our moral purposes as rational beings in nature. Yet faith is “free belief”: it is the permanent principle of the mind to assume as true, on account of the obligation in reference to it, that which is necessary to presuppose as condition of the possibility of the highest moral purpose. Like Spinoza, Kant makes all theology moral theology.

Since faith transcends the world of experience, it is neither doubtful nor merely probable. Thus Kant’s view of faith is complex: it has no theoretical grounds, yet it has a rational basis that provides more or less stable conviction for believers. He provided a religion grounded without revelation or grace. It ushered in new immanentism in rational views of belief.

G.W.F. Hegel, at the peak of German Idealism, took up Kant’s immanentism but moved it in a more radical direction. He claimed that in Kant, “philosophy has made itself the handmaid of a faith once more” though one not externally imposed but autonomously constituted. Hegel approved of the way Kant helped to modify the Enlightenment’s dogmatic emphasis on the empirical world, particularly as evidenced in the way Locke turned philosophy into empirical psychology. But though Kant held to an “idealism of the finite,” Hegel thought that Kant did not extend his idealism far enough. Kant’s regulative view of reason was doomed to regard faith and knowledge as irrevocably opposed. Hegel argued that a further development of idealism shows have faith and knowledge are related and synthesized in the Absolute.

Hegel reinterpreted the traditional proofs for God’s existence, rejected by Kant, as authentic expressions of the need of finite spirit to elevate itself to oneness with God. In religion this attempt to identify with God is accomplished through feeling. Feelings are, however, subject to conflict and opposition. But they are not merely subjective. The content of God enters feeling such that the feeling derives its determination from this content. Thus faith, implanted in one’s heart, can be defended by the testimony of the indwelling spirit of truth.

Hegel’s thoroughgoing rationalism ultimate yields a form of panentheism in which all finite beings, though distinct from natural necessity, have no existence independent from it. “There is only one Being… and things by their very nature form part of it.” God is the being in whom spirit and nature are united. Thus faith is merely an expression of a finitude comprehensible only from the rational perspective of the infinite. Faith is merely a moment in our transition to absolute knowledge.

6. The Nineteenth Century

Physics and astronomy were the primary scientific concerns for theologians in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries the sciences of geology, sociology, psychology, and biology became more pronounced.

Kant’s understanding of God as a postulate of practical reason – and his dismissal of metaphysical and empirical support for religion — soon led to the idea that God could be a mere projection of practical feeling or psychological impulse. Such an idea echoed Hobbes’s claim that religion arises from fear and superstition. Sigmund Freud claimed, for example, that religious beliefs were the result of the projection of a protective father figure onto our life situations. Although such claims about projection seem immune from falsification, the Freudian could count such an attempt to falsify itself simply as rationalization: a masking of a deeper unconscious drive.

The nineteenth century biological development most significant for theology was Charles Darwin’s theory of natural selection. It explained all human development on the basis simply of progressive adaptation or organisms to their physical environment. No reference to a mind or rational will was required to explain any human endeavor. Darwin himself once had believed in God and the immortality of the soul. But later he found that these could not count as evidence for the existence of God. He ended up an agnostic. On the one hand he felt compelled to affirm a First Cause of such an immense and wonderful universe and to reject blind chance or necessity, but on the other hand he remained skeptical of the capacities of humans “developed from a mind as low as that possessed by the lowest animals.” Such naturalistic views made it difficult to support any argument for God’s existence, particularly a design argument.

Not all nineteenth century scientific thinking, however, yielded skeptical conclusions. Emilé Durkheim, in his sociological study The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, took the scientific critiques of religion seriously, but gave them a much different interpretation. He concluded that the cultic practices of religion have the non-illusory quality of producing measurable good consequences in their adherents. Moreover, he theorized that the fundamental categories of thought, and even of science, have religious origins. Almost all the great social institutions were born of religion. He was lead to claim that “the idea of society is the soul of religion”: society derived from religious forces.

In the context of these various scientific developments, philosophical arguments about faith and reason developed in several remarkable directions in the nineteenth century.

a. Romanticism

Friedrich Schleiermacher was a liberal theologian who was quite interested in problems of biblical interpretation. He claimed that religion constituted its own sphere of experience, unrelated to scientific knowledge. Thus religious meaning is independent of scientific fact. His Romantic fideism would have a profound influence on Kierkegaard.

b. Socialism

Karl Marx is well known as an atheist who had strong criticisms of all religious practice. Much of his critique of religion had been derived from Ludwig Feuerbach, who claimed that God is merely a psychological projection meant to compensate for the suffering people feel. Rejecting wholesale the validity of such wishful thinking, Marx claimed not only that all sufferings are the result of economic class struggle but that they could be alleviated by means of a Communist revolution that would eliminate economic classes altogether. Moreover, Marx claimed that religion was a fundamental obstacle to such a revolution, since it was an “opiate” that kept the masses quiescent. Religious beliefs thus arise from a cognitive malfunction: they emerge from a “perverted world consciousness.” Only a classless communist society, which Marx thought would emerge when capitalism met its necessary demise, would eliminate religion and furnish true human emancipation.

c. Existentialism

Søren Kierkegaard, arguably the father of existentialism, was a profound religious thinker. He came up with an unequivocal view of faith and reason much like Tertullian’s strong incompatibilism. If Kant argued for religion within the limits of reason alone, Kierkegaard called for reason with the limits of religion alone. Faith requires a leap. It demands risk. All arguments that reason derives for a proof of God are in fact viciously circular: one can only reason about the existence of an object that one already assumes to exist. Hegel tried to claim that faith could be elevated to the status of objective certainty. Seeking such certainly, moreover, Kierkegaard considered a trap: what is needed is a radical trust. The radical trust of faith is the highest virtue one can reach.

Kierkegaard claimed that all essential knowledge intrinsically relates to an existing individual. In Either/Or, he outlined three general forms of life individuals can adopt: the aesthetic, ethical, and ethico-religious. The aesthetic is the life that seeks pleasure. The ethical is that which stresses the fulfillment of duties. Neither of these attains to the true individuality of human existence. But in the ethico-religious sphere, truth emerges in the authenticity of the relationship between a person and the object of his attention. With authenticity, the importance is on the “how,” not the “what,” of knowledge. It attains to a subjective truth, in which the sincerity and intensity of the commitment is key. This authenticity is equivalent to faith understood as “an objective uncertainty held fast in an appropriation-process of the most passionate inwardness.” The coexistence of this “objective uncertainty” with “passionate inwardness” is strikingly paradoxical. Kierkegaard makes a similarly paradoxical claim in holding that “nothing historical can become infinitely certain for me except the fact of my own existence (which again cannot become infinitely certain for any other individual, who has infinite certainty only of his own existence) and this is not something historical.” Thus faith can never be a matter of objective certainty; it involves no reckoning of probabilities, it is not an intellectual acceptance of a doctrine at all. Faith involves a submission of the intellect. It is not only hostile to but also completely beyond the grasp of reason.

Though he never read Kierkegaard, Friedrich Nietzsche came up with remarkable parallels to his thought. Both stressed the centrality of the individual, a certain disdain for public life, and a hatred of personal weakness and anonymity. They also both attacked certain hypocrisies in Christendom and the overstated praise for reason in Kant and Hegel. But Nietzsche had no part of Kierkegaard’s new Christian individual, and instead defended the aesthetic life disdained by Kierkegaard against both morality and Christianity. So he critique religion not from Kierkegaard’s epistemological perspective, but from a highly original moral perspective.

Nietzsche claimed that religion breeds hostility to life, understood broadly as will to power. Religion produces two types of character: a weak servile character that is at the same time strongly resentful towards those in power, and an Übermensch, or superman, who creates his own values. In The Joyful Wisdom Nietzsche proclaims that God as a protector of the weak, though once alive, is now dead, and that we have rightly killed him. Now, instead, he claims that we instead need to grasp the will to power that is part of all things and guides them to their full development completely within the natural world. For humans Nietzsche casts the will to power as a force of artistic and creative energy.

d. Catholic Apologists

Roman Catholics traditionally claimed that the task of reason was to make faith intelligible. In the later part of the nineteenth century, John Cardinal Newman worked to defend the power of reason against those intellectuals of his day who challenged its efficacy in matters of faith. Though maintaining the importance of reason in matters of faith, he reduces its ability to arrive at absolute certainties.

In his Grammar of Assent, Newman argued that one assents to God on the basis of one’s experience and principles. And one can do this by means of a kind of rational demonstration. And yet this demonstration is not actually reproducible by others; each of us has a unique domain of experience and expertise. Some are just given the capacity and opportunities to make this assent to what is demonstrated others are not. Drawing for Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Newman argues that “a special preparation of mind is required for each separate department of inquiry and discussion.” He stressed the continuity between religious belief and other kinds of belief that involve complex sets of phenomena. He claims that Locke, for example, overlooked how human nature actually works, imposing instead his own idea of how the mind is to act on the basis of deduction from evidence. If Locke would have looked more closely at experience, he would have noticed that much of our reasoning is tacit and informal. It cannot usually be reconstructed for a set of premises. Rather it is the accumulation of probabilities, independent of each other, arising out of the circumstances of the particular case. No specific consideration usually suffices to generate the required conclusion, but taken together, they may converge upon it. This is usually what is called a moral proof for belief in a proposition. In fact, we are justified in holding the beliefs even after we have forgotten what the warrant was. This probabilistic approach to religious assent continued in the later thinking of Basil Mitchell.

e. Pragmatism

William James followed in the pragmatist tradition inaugurated by Charles Sanders Peirce. Pragmatists held that all beliefs must be tested, and those that failed to garner sufficient practical value ought to be discarded.

In his Will to Believe, James was a strong critic of W.K. Clifford’s uncompromising empiricism. Clifford, like Hume, had argued that acting on beliefs or convictions alone, unsupported by evidence, was pure folly. He likened such acting to that of an irresponsible shipowner who allows an untrustworthy ship to be ready to set sail, merely thinking it safe, and then gives “benevolent wishes” for those who would set sail in it. Clifford concluded that we have a duty to act only on well founded beliefs. If we have no grounds for belief, we must suspend judgment. This provided the basis for an ethics of belief quite different than Newman’s. Clifford’s evidentialism inspired subsequent philosophers such as Bertrand Russell and Michael Scriven.

James argued, pace Clifford, that life would be severely impoverished if we acted only on completely well founded beliefs. Like Newman, James held that belief admits of a wide spectrum of commitment: from tentative to firm. The feelings that attach to a belief are significant. He defended the need we have, at times, to allow our “passional tendencies” to influence our judgments. Thus, like Pascal, he took up a voluntarist argument for religious belief, though one not dependent solely upon a wager. There are times, admittedly few, when we must act on our beliefs passionately held but without sufficient supporting evidence. These rare situations must be both momentous, once in a lifetime opportunities, and forced, such that the situation offers the agent only two options: to act or not to act on the belief. Religious beliefs often take on both of these characteristics. Pascal had realized the forced aspect of Christian belief, regarding salvation: God would not save the disbeliever. As a result, religion James claimed that a religious belief could be a genuine hypothesis for a person to adopt.

James does, however, also give some evidential support for this choice to believe. We have faith in many things in life — in molecules, conversation of energy, democracy, and so forth — that are based on evidence of their usefulness for us. But even in these cases “Our faith is faith in some one else’s faith.” Our mental life effectively comprises a constant interplay between volitions and beliefs. Nonetheless, James believed that while philosophers like Descartes and Clifford, not wanting to ever be dupes, focused primarily on the need to avoid error, even to the point of letting truth take its chance, he as an empiricist must hold that the pursuit of truth is paramount and the avoidance of error is secondary. His position entailed that that dupery in the face of hope is better than dupery in the face of fear.

In “The Sentiment of Rationality” James concludes that faith is “belief in something concerning which doubt is still theoretically possible; and as the test of belief is willingness to act, one may say that faith is the readiness to act in a cause the prosperous issue of which is not certified to us in advance.” So, faith is not only compatible with doubt, but it requires its possibility. Faith is oriented towards action: it is a kind of “working hypothesis” needed for practical life.

7. The Twentieth Century

Darwins’s scientific thesis of natural selection and Freud’s projective views of God continued to have a profound impact on many aspects of the philosophy of religion in the twentieth century. In fact the interplay between faith and reason began to be cast, in many cases, simply as the conflict between science and religion.

Not all scientific discoveries were used to invoke greater skepticism about the validity of religious claims, however. For example, in the late twentieth century some physicists endorsed what came to be called the anthropic principle. The principle derives from the claim of some physicists that a number of factors in the early universe had to coordinate in a highly statistically improbable way to produce a universe capable of sustaining advanced life forms. Among the factors are the mass of the universe and the strengths of the four basic forces (electromagnetism, gravitation, and the strong and weak nuclear forces). It is difficult to explain this fine tuning. Many who adhere to the anthropic principle, such as Holmes Rolston, John Leslie, and Stephen Hawking, argue that it demands some kind of extra-natural explanation. Some think it suggests possibilities for a new design argument for God’s existence. However, one can hold the anthropic principle and still deny that it has religious implications. It is possible to argue that it indicates not a single creator creating a single universe, but indeed many universes, either contemporaneous with our own or in succession to it.

The twentieth century witnessed numerous attempts to reconcile religious belief with new strands of philosophical thinking and with new theories in science.

a. Logical Positivism and Its Critics

Many philosophers of religion in the twentieth century took up a new appreciation for the scope and power of religious language. This was prompted to a large extent by the emphasis on conceptual clarity that dominated much Western philosophy, particularly early in the century.

This emphasis on conceptual clarity was evidenced especially in logical positivism. A.J. Ayer and Antony Flew, for example, argued that all metaphysical language fails to meet a standard of logical coherence and is thus meaningless. Metaphysical claims are not in principle falsifiable. As such, their claims are neither true nor false. They make no verifiable reference to the world. Religious language shares these characteristics with metaphysical language. Flew emphasized that religious believers generally cannot even state the conditions under which they would give up their faith claims. Since their claims then are unfalsifiable, they are not objects for rational determination.

One response by compatibilists to these arguments of logical positivists was to claim that religious beliefs, though meaningless in the verificational sense, are nonetheless important in providing the believer with moral motivations and self-understanding. This is an anti-realist understanding of faith. An example of this approach is found in R.M. Hare. Responding to Flew, he admitted that religious faith consists of a set of unfalsifiable assumptions, which he termed “bliks.” But Hare argued that our practical dealings with the everyday world involve numerous such “bliks.” Though some of these principles are faulty, we cannot but have some in order to live in the world.

Basil Mitchell responded to Flew’s claim that religious beliefs cannot be falsified. Mitchell argued that although rational and scientific considerations can and ought at times to prompt revisions of one’s religious belief, no one can give a general determination of exactly at what point a set of evidence ought to count decisively against a faith claim. It is up to each believer to decide when this occurs. To underscore this claim, Mitchell claimed that the rationality of religious beliefs ought to be determined not foundationally, as deductions from rational first principles, but collectively from the gathering of various types of evidence into a pattern. Nonetheless, he realized that this accumulation of evidence, as the basis for a new kind of natural theology, might not be strong enough to counter the skeptic. In the spirit of Newman, Mitchell concluded by defending a highly refined cumulative probabilism in religious belief.

Another reaction against logical positivism stemmed from Ludwig Wittgenstein. In his “Lectures on Religious Belief,” he argued that there is something unique about the linguistic framework of religious believers. Their language makes little sense to outsiders. Thus one has to share in their form of life in order to understand the way the various concepts function in their language games. The various language games form a kind of “family resemblance.” Wittgenstein concluded that those who demand a nonperspectival impartial way of assessing the truth value of a religious claim are asking for something impossible. From Wittgenstein’s perspective, science and religion are just two different types of language games. This demand to take on an internal perspective in order to assess religious beliefs commits Wittgenstein to a form of incompatibilism between faith and reason. Interpreters of Wittgenstein, like Norman Malcolm, claimed that although this entails that religious beliefs are essentially groundless, so are countless other everyday beliefs, such as in the permanence of our objects of perception, in the uniformity of nature, and even in our knowledge of our own intentions.

Wittgenstein, like Kierkegaard, claimed that proofs for God’s existence have little to do with actual belief in God. He did think that life itself could “educate” us about God’s existence. In Culture and Value he claims that sufferings can have a great impact on one’s beliefs. “These neither show us God in the way a sense impression shows us an object, nor do they give rise to conjectures about him. Experiences, thoughts–life can force this concept on us.” D.Z. Phillips also holds the view that religion has its own unique criteria for acceptable belief.

John Hick, in Faith and Knowledge, modifies the Wittgensteinian idea of forms of life to analyze faith claims in a novel manner. Hick claimed that this could shed light upon the epistemological (fides) analysis of faith. From such an analysis follows the non-epistemological thinking (fiducia) that guides actual practice.

Taking up the epistemological analysis, Hick first criticizes the voluntarisms of Pascal and James as “remote from the state of mind of such men as the great prophets.” He criticizes James in particular for reducing truth to utility. Hick argues instead for the importance of rational certainty in faith. He posits that there are as many types of grounds for rational certainty as there are kinds of objects of knowledge. He claims that religious beliefs share several crucial features with any empirical claim: they are propositional; they are objects of assent; an agent can have dispositions to act upon them; and we feel convictions for them when they are challenged. Nonetheless, Hick realizes that there are important ways in which sense beliefs and religious beliefs are distinct: sense perception is coercive, while religious perception is not; sense perception is universal, while religious is not; and sense perception is highly coherent within space and time, while religious awareness among different individuals is not. In fact, it may in fact be rational for a person who has not had experiences that compel belief to withhold belief in God.

From these similarities and differences between faith claims and claims of reason, Hick concludes that religious faith is the noninferential and unprovable basic interpretation either of a moral or religious “situational significance” in human experience. Faith is not the result of logical reasoning, but rather a profession that God “as a living being” has entered into the believer’s experience. This act of faith situates itself in the person’s material and social environment. Religious faith interprets reality in terms of the divine presence within the believer’s human experience. Although the person of faith may be unable to prove or explain this divine presence, his or her religious belief still acquire the status of knowledge similar to that of scientific and moral claims. Thus even if one could prove God’s existence, this fact alone would be a form of knowledge neither necessary nor sufficient for one’s faith. It would at best only force a notional assent. Believers live by not by confirmed hypotheses, but by an intense, coercive, indubitable experience of the divine.

Sallie McFague, in Models of God, argues that religious thinking requires a rethinking of the ways in which religious language employs metaphor. Religious language is for the most part neither propositional nor assertoric. Rather, it functions not to render strict definitions, but to give accounts. To say, for example, “God is mother,” is neither to define God as a mother nor to assert an identity between them, but rather to suggest that we consider what we do not know how to talk about–relating to God – through the metaphor of a mother. Moreover, no single metaphor can function as the sole way of expressing any aspect of a religious belief.

b. Philosophical Theology

Many Protestant and Roman Catholic theologians in the twentieth century responded to the criticisms of religious belief, leveled by atheistic existentialists, naturalists, and linguistic positivists, by forging a new understanding of Christian revelation.

Karl Barth, a Reformed Protestant, provided a startlingly new model of the relation between faith and reason. He rejected Schleiermacher’s view that the actualization of one’s religious motivation leads to some sort of established union between man and God. Barth argued instead that revelation is aimed at a believer who must receive it before it is a revelation. This means that one cannot understand a revelation without already, in a sense, believing it. God’s revelation of Himself, His very communication of that self, is not distinct from Himself. “In God’s revelation God’s Word is identical with God Himself” (in Church Dogmatics ii, I). Moreover, Barth claimed that God’s revelation has its reality and truth wholly and in every respect, both ontically and noetically, within itself. Revelation cannot be made true by anything else. The fullness of the “original self-existent being of God’s Word” reposes and lives in revelation. This renders the belief in an important way immune from both critical rational scrutiny and the reach of arguments from analogy.

Barth held, however, that relative to the believer, God remains “totally other” (totaliter aliter). Our selfhood stands in contradiction to the divine nature. Religion is, in fact, “unbelief”: our attempts to know God from our own standpoint are wholly and entirely futile. This was a consistent conclusion of his dialectical method: the simultaneous affirmation and negation of a given theological point. Barth was thus an incompatibilist who held that the ground of faith lies beyond reason. Yet he urged that a believer is nonetheless always to seek knowledge and that religious beliefs have marked consequences for daily life.

Karl Rahner, arguably the most influential Catholic theologian of the twentieth century, was profoundly influenced by Barth’s dialectical method. But Rahner argued that God’s mystical self-revelation of Himself to us through an act of grace is not predestined for a few but extends to all persons: it constitutes the “supernatural existential” that grounds all intelligibility and action. It lies beyond proof or demonstration. Thus all persons, living in this prior and often unthematized state of God’s gift, are “anonymous Christians.” All humans can respond to God’s self-communication in history. Rahner held thus that previous religions embodied a various forms of knowledge of God and thus were lawful religions. But now God has revealed his fullness to humans through the Christian Incarnation and word. This explicit self-realization is the culmination of the history of the previously anonymous Christianity. Christianity now understands itself as an absolute religion intended for all. This claim itself is basic for its understanding of itself.

Rahner’s claim about the gratuitous gifts of grace in all humans reaches beyond a natural theology. Nonetheless one form of evidence to which he appeals for its rational justification is the stipulation that humans, social by nature, cannot achieve a relationship to God “in an absolutely private interior reality.” The individual must encounter the natural divine law, not in his role as a “private metaphysician” but according to God’s will in a religious and social context. Rahner thus emphasized the importance of culture as a medium in which religious faith becomes understood. He thus forged a new kind of compatibilism between faith and rationality.

c. Neo-Existentialism

Paul Tillich, a German Protestant theologian, developed a highly original form of Christian apologetics. In his Systematic Theology, he laid out a original method, called correlation, that explains the contents of the Christian faith through existential questions and theological answers in mutual interdependence. Existential questions arise from our experiences of transitoriness, finitude, and the threat of nonbeing. In this context, faith is what emerges as our thinking about our “ultimate concern.” Only those who have had these kinds of experiences can raise the questions that open them to understand the meaning of the Christian message. Secular culture provides numerous media, such as poetry, drama, and novels, in which these questions are engendered. In turn, the Christian message provides unique answers to these questions that emerge from our human existence. Tillich realized that such an existentialist method – with its high degree of correlation between faith and everyday experience and thus between the human and the divine — would evoke protest from thinkers like Barth.

Steven Cahn approaches a Christian existentialism from less sociological and a more psychological angle than Tillich. Cahn agrees with Kierkegaard’s claim that most believers in fact care little about proofs for the existence of God. Neither naturalist nor supernaturalist religion depend upon philosophical proofs for God’s existence. It is impossible to prove definitely the testimony of another’s supposedly self-validating experience. One is always justified in entertaining either philosophical doubts concerning the logical possibility of such an experience or practical doubts as to whether the person has undergone it. Moreover, these proofs, even if true, would furnish the believer with no moral code. Cahn concludes that one must undergo a self-validating experience personal experience in which one senses the presence of God. All moral imperatives derive from learning the will of God. One may, however, join others in a communal effort to forge a moral code.

d. Neo-Darwinism

The Darwinistic thinking of the nineteenth century continued to have a strong impact of philosophy of religion. Richard Dawkins in his Blind Watchmaker, uses the same theory of natural selection to construct an argument against the cogency of religious faith. He argues that the theory of evolution by gradual but cumulative natural selection is the only theory that is in principle capable of explaining the existence of organized complexity in the world. He admits that this organized complexity is highly improbable, yet the best explanation for it is still a Darwinian worldview. Dawkins even claims that Darwin effectively solved the mystery of our own existence. Since religions remain firm in their conviction that God guides all biological and human development, Dawkins concludes that religion and science are in fact doomed rivals. They make incompatible claims. He resolves the conflict in favor of science.

e. Contemporary Reactions Against Naturalism and Neo-Darwinism

Contemporary philosophers of religion respond to the criticisms of naturalists, like Dawkins, from several angles.

Alvin Plantinga thinks that natural selection demonstrates only the function of species survival, not the production of true beliefs in individuals. Yet he rejects traditional Lockean evidentialism, the view that a belief needs adequate evidence as a criterion for its justification. But he refuses to furnish a fideist or existentialist condition for the truth of religious beliefs. Rather he claims that religious beliefs are justified without reasons and are, as such, “properly basic.” These he sets in contrast to the claims of natural theology to form the basis of his “Reformed epistemology.” Other Reformed epistemologists are W.P Alston and Nicholas Wolterstorff.

Plantinga builds his Reformed epistemology by means of several criticisms of evidentialism. First, the standards of evidence in evidentialism are usually set too high. Most of our reliable everyday beliefs are not subject to such strict standards. Second, the set of arguments that evidentialists attack is traditionally very narrow. Plantinga suggest that they tend to overlook much of what is internally available to the believer: important beliefs concerning beauty and physical attributes of creatures, play and enjoyment, morality, and the meaning of life. Third, those who employ these epistemological criticisms often fail to realize that the criticisms themselves rest upon auxiliary assumptions that are not themselves epistemological, but rather theological, metaphysical, or ontological. Finally, and more importantly, not all beliefs are subject to such evidence. Beliefs in memories or other minds, for example, generally appeal to something properly basic beyond the reach of evidence. What is basic for a religious belief can be, for example, a profound personal religious experience. In short, being self-evident, incorrigible, or evident to the senses is not a necessary condition of proper basicality. We argue to what is basic from below rather than from above. These claims are tested by a relevant set of “internal markers.” Plantinga does admit that in fact no widespread acceptance of the markers can be assumed. He concludes, though, that religious believers cannot be accused of shirking some fundamental epistemic duty by relying upon this basic form of evidence.

Epistemological views such as Plantinga develops entail that there is an important distinction between determining whether or not a religious belief is true (de facto) and whether or not one ought to hold or accept it (de jure). On de jure grounds, for example, one can suggest that beliefs are irrational because they are produced either by a errant process or by an proper process aimed at the wrong aim or end. Theism has been criticized on both of these grounds. But since Christianity purports to be true, the de jure considerations must reduce ultimately to de facto considerations.

J.J. Haldane criticizes the scientific critiques of religion on the grounds that they themselves make two unacknowledged assumptions about reality: the existence of regular patterns of interaction, and the reality of stable intelligences in humans. These assumptions themselves cannot be proven by scientific inquiry. Thus it seems odd to oppose as rivals scientific and religious ways of thinking about reality. Science itself is faith-like in resting upon these assumptions; theology carries forward a scientific impulse in asking how the order of the world is possible. But what do we make of the fact that scientific models often explain the world better than religious claims? What troubles Haldane is the explanatory reductionism physical sciences employ is often thought to be entailed by the ontological reduction it assumes. For example, the fact that one can give a complete description of human action and development on a biological level alone is often thought to mean that all action and development can be explained according to biological laws. Haldane rejects this thesis, arguing that certain mental events might be ontologically reducible to physical events, but talk of physical events cannot be equally substituted for mental events in the order of explanation. Such argumentation reflects the general direction of the anomological monism proposed by Donald Davidson. Haldane concludes that language can be a unique source of explanatory potential for all human activity.

Like Haldane, Nancey Murphy also holds for a new form of compatibilism between religion and science. In Science and Theology she argues that the differences between scientific and theological methodologies are only of degree, not kind. She admits that scientific methodology has fundamentally changed the way we think about the world. Consequently, theology in the modern period has been preoccupied with the question of theological method. But she thinks that theological method can develop to meet the same standard of criteria as scientific method has.

Scientific thinking in the twentieth century in particular has been developing away from foundationalism: the derivation of theories from indubitable first principles. Willard van Orman Quine and others urged that scientific methodologists give up on foundationalism. He claimed that knowledge is like a web or net of beliefs: some beliefs are simply more apt to be adopted or rejected in certain situations than others are. Murphy sees that theology, too, is developing away from the foundationalism that literal interpretations of Scripture used to provide. Now it tends to emphasize the importance of religious experience and the individual interpretation of beliefs. But two problems await the move from theology away from foundationalism: subjectivism and circularity. The subjectivism emerges from the believer’s inability to make the leap from his or her private inner experience to the real world. The circularity emerges from the lack of any kind of external check on interpretation. Alasdair MacIntyre is concerned with the latter problem. He claims that evidence for belief requires a veridical experience for each subsequent belief that arises from it. But Murphy finds this approach still close to foundationalism. Instead she develops two non-foundational criteria for the interpretation of a religious belief: that several related but differing experiences give rise to the belief, and that the belief have publicly observable consequences emanating from it.

To illustrate this approach to interpretation of beliefs, Murphy considers Catherine of Siena’s claim that a true “verification” of a revelation from God requires that the believer subsequently engage in publicly observable acts of humility and charity. The verification also requires what Murphy calls discernment. Discernment reveals analogous experiences and interpretations in other believers and a certain reliability in the actions done. It functions the same way that a theory of instrumentation does in science. Discernment often takes place within a community of some sort.

But are these beliefs, supported by this indirect verification and communal discernment, still in any sense falsifiable? Murphy notes that religious experience has clashed with authoritative theological doctrine numerous times. But it has also ended up correcting it, for example in the way that Catherine of Siena’s writings eventually changed the Roman Catholic tradition in which she was writing.

Murphy claims, however, that until theology takes on the status as a kind of knowledge of a reality independent of the human subject it is unlikely that theology and science will have a fruitful dialogue. But she thinks that turning from the subjectivization of the liberal turn in theology to discourse about human religiosity will help this dialogue.

A strong critic of the negative impact of scientific naturalism on faith is the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor. Taylor finds in all naturalisms a kind of “exclusive humanism” that not only puts humans at the center of the universe, but denies them any authentic aspirations to goals or states beyond the world in which they live. In modernity naturalism has led inexorably to secularization. In Sources of the Self, Taylor argues that secularization, inspired by both Luther and Calvin, first resulted in the prioritizing of “ordinary life” of marriage and family over that of contemplative lives in the vowed or clerical state. In later phases it led to the transformation of cultural practices into forms that are neutral with regard to religious affiliation. But secularization is not a prima facie problem for any religious believer, since it does not preclude the possibility of religious faith or practices per se. Moreover, secularization has made possible the development of legal and governmental structures, such as human rights, better fit for pluralistic societies containing persons of a number of different religious faiths. Thus it has made it easier for Christians to accept full rights for atheists or violators of the Christian moral code. Nonetheless, Taylor sees problems that secularism poses for the Christian faith. It can facilitate a marriage between the Christian faith and a particular form of culture.

In contrast to naturalism, Taylor urges the adoption of a unique transcendental point of view. Such a view does not equate a meaningful life with a full or good life. Instead, a transcendental view finds in suffering and death not only something that matters beyond life, but something from which life itself originally draws. Thus natural life is to be subordinated to the “abundant life” that Jesus advocates in his Good Shepherd discourse (John 10:10). This call of the transcendental requires, ultimately, a conversion or a change of identity. This is a transition from self-centeredness, a kind of natural state, to God-centeredness. Unable to find value in suffering and death, those who focus on ordinary life try assiduously to avoid them. The consequences of this resistance to the transcendent, found in this uncritical embrace of ordinary life, are not so much epistemic as moral and spiritual. Ordinary life virtues emphasize benevolence and solidarity. But modern individuals, trying to meet these demands, experience instead a growing sense of anger, futility, and even contempt when confronted with the disappointments of actual human performance. This is ordinary life’s “dialectics of reception.” A transcendental vision, on the other hand, opens up a future for humans that is not a matter of guarantee, but only faith. It is derived from “standing among others in the stream” of God’s unconditional love.

The theological principle by which Taylor buttresses this vision is that “Redemption happens through Incarnation.” The incarnational and natural “ordinary” requires always the call of a redemptive “beyond” that is the object of our endeavors inspired by faith and hope.

f. Liberation Theology

Liberation theologians, such as Juan Segundo and Leonardo Boff, have drawn their inspiration from the plight of the poverty and injustice of peoples in the Third World, particularly Latin American. Drawing from Marx’s distinction between theory and practice, Gustavo Gutiérrez, in A Theology of Liberation, argues that theology is critical reflection on the socio-cultural situation in which belief takes place. Ultimately theology is reactive: it does not produce pastoral practice, but it finds the Spirit either present or absent in current practices. The reflection begins by examining the faith of a people is expressed through their acts of charity: their life, preaching, and historical commitment of the Church. The reflection also draws from the totality of human history. In a second moment, the reflection provides resources for new practices. Thus it protects the faith of the people from uncritical practices of fetishism and idolatry. Theology thus plays a prophetic role, by interpreting historical events with the intention of revealing and proclaiming their profound meaning.

8. References and Further Reading

  • Alston, William. “History of Philosophy of Religion.” The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Vol. 8. Ed. E. Craig. New York: Routledge, 1998. Pp. 238-248.
    • This article provides a good basic outline of the problem of faith and reason.
  • Asimov, Isaac. Asimov’s Biographical Encyclopedia of Science and Technology. Garden City NY: Doubleday, 1964.
    • Much of the above section of Galileo comes from this text.
  • Copleston, Frederick. Medieval Philosophy. New York: Harper, 1952.
  • Helm, Paul, ed. Faith and Reason. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999.
    • This text has an excellent set of readings and good introductions to each section. Some of the above treatment of the introductions to each period are derived from it.
  • McInerny, Ralph. St. Thomas Aquinas. Boston: Twayne, 1977.
  • McGrath, Alister, ed. The Christian Theology Reader. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1995.
    • This text provided some of the above material on early Christian philosophers.
  • Meagher, Paul, Thomas O’Brien and Consuelo Aherne, eds. Encyclopedic Dictionary of Religion. 3 Vols. Washington DC: Corpus Publications, 1979.
  • Murphy, Nancey. “Religion and Science.” The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Vol. 8. Ed. E. Craig.. New York: Routledge, 1998. Pp. 230-236
  • Murphy, Nancey. Theology in the Age of Scientific Reasoning. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 1990.
  • Peterson, Michael, William Hasker, Bruce Reichenback, David Basinger. Philosophy of Religion: Selected Readings. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.
    • This text was helpful for the above treatments of Richard Dawkins and Nancey Murphy.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. “Religion and Epistemology.” The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Vol. 8. Ed. E. Craig. London/New York: Routledge, 1998. Pp. 209-218.
  • Pojman, Louis, ed. Philosophy of Religion: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Belmont CA.: Wadsworth, 1994.
    • This text provides a good introduction to the philosophy of religion. Some of the above treatments of Kant, Pascal, Plantinga, Cahn, Leibniz, Flew, Hare, Mitchell, Wittgenstein, and Hick are derived from its summaries.
  • Pomerleau, Wayne. Western Philosophies of Religion. New York, Ardsley House, 1998.
    • This text serves as the basis for much of the above summaries of Augustine, Aquinas, Descartes, Locke, Leibniz, Hume, Kant, Hegel, Kierkegaard, James, Wittgenstein, and Hick.
  • Rolston, Holmes III. Science and Religion: A Critical Survey. New York: Random House, 1987.
    • This has a good section on the anthropic principle.
  • Solomon, Robert, ed. Existentialism. New York: The Modern Library, 1974.
  • Taylor, Charles. A Catholic Modernity? Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999.
  • Taylor, Charles. Sources of the Self. Cambridge MA.: Harvard University Press, 1989.
  • Wolterstoff, Nicholas. “Faith.” The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Vol. 3. Ed. E. Craig. London: Routledge, 1998. Pp. 538-544.
    • This text formed the basis for much of the above treatment of “Reformed Epistemology.

Author Information

James Swindal
Email: swindalj@duq.edu
Duquesne University
U. S. A.

Natural Theology

Natural theology is a program of inquiry into the existence and attributes of God without referring or appealing to any divine revelation. In natural theology, one asks what the word “God” means, whether and how names can be applied to God, whether God exists, whether God knows the future free choices of creatures, and so forth. The aim is to answer those questions without using any claims drawn from any sacred texts or divine revelation, even though one may hold such claims.

For purposes of studying natural theology, Jews, Christians, Muslims, and others will bracket and set aside for the moment their commitment to the sacred writings or traditions they believe to be God’s word. Doing so enables them to proceed together to engage in the perennial questions about God using the sources of evidence that they share by virtue of their common humanity, for example, sensation, reason, science, and history. Agnostics and atheists, too, can engage in natural theology. For them, it is simply that they have no revelation-based views to bracket and set aside in the first place.

This received view of natural theology was a long time in the making. Natural theology was born among the ancient Greeks, and its meeting with ancient Judeo-Christian-Muslim thought constituted a complex cultural event. From that meeting there developed throughout the Middle Ages for Christians a sophisticated distinction between theology in the Christian sense and natural theology in the ancient Greek sense. Although many thinkers in the Middle Ages tried to unite theology and natural theology into a unity of thought, the project frequently met with objections, as we shall see below. The modern era was partly defined by a widespread rejection of natural theology for both philosophical and theological reasons. Such rejection persisted, and persists, although there has been a significant revival of natural theology in recent years.

Table of Contents

  1. Historical Beginnings of Theology and Philosophy
  2. Ancient Philosophy and the First Principle
  3. Ancient Jewish and Early Christian Theology
  4. Distinction between Revealed Theology and Natural Theology
  5. Thomas Aquinas
  6. Modern Philosophy and Natural Theology
  7. Natural Theology Today
  8. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
      1. Ancient Mediaeval Theology
      2. Mediaeval Natural Theology
      3. Modern Natural Theology
      4. Contemporary Natural Theology
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Historical Beginnings of Theology and Philosophy

The story of natural theology begins where theology begins. For the Greeks the term theology originally referred to inquiry into the lives and activities of the gods or divinities. In the Greek world, theology and mythology were the same concept. The theologians were the poets whose task it was to present accounts of the gods in poetic form. In the same age when the gods dominated popular thinking, however, another movement was growing: philosophy. The first philosophers, the pre-Socratics, undertook a quest to find the first principle of things. “First principle” here means the ultimate source or origin of all things. The pre-Socratic quest is often described as “purely rational” in the sense that it proceeded without making reference or appeal to the authority of poets or stories of the gods. The pre-Socratic philosophers entertained various candidates as to the first principle, for example, water, fire, conflicting dualities, number, or simply “being.” Both the mythology of the gods (already defined by the name of theology) and the purely rational quest for the first principle (later defined by the name of philosophy) constituted the cultural heritage of Plato and Aristotle – the two thinkers who would most greatly influence the development of natural theology. Plato and Aristotle each recognized the distinction between the two ways of inquiring into ultimate truth: the poetic-mythological-theological way and the purely rational way.

2. Ancient Philosophy and the First Principle

Plato (427 – 347 B.C.E.) in his well-known “Allegory of the Cave” in Book VII of The Republic, provides an image of what education consists in. True education consists in being led from the bondage of sensory appearances into the light of knowledge afforded by the form of the Good. The form of the Good is the cause of all being and all knowledge (the first principle). Knowledge of the form of the Good is arrived at through the struggle of dialectical argumentation. The dialectical arguments of philosophy do not prove the existence of the form of the Good, but contribute to inducing a non-inferential perception of it. Although Plato himself does not identify the form of the Good as God, later thinkers surely did.

Aristotle (384 – 322 B.C.E.) offers arguments for the existence of God (a God beyond the gods so to speak). Aristotle’s arguments start from the observable fact of motion or change in things around us. On the basis of his theory of motion, change, and causality presented in Physics, Aristotle proceeds to offer a demonstration that there exists a first mover of all other movers which is not itself moved in any respect. The first, unmoved mover is a postulate intended to account for the perpetuity of motion and change around us. The “argument from motion” is not meant to be a dialectical exercise that induces non-inferential perception of God, but a demonstration or proof according to the canons of proof that Aristotle presents in the Posterior Analytics. In the later books of Metaphysics, Aristotle goes further and identifies the unmoved mover as separated from matter and as nous or Mind. It is thought thinking itself. On Aristotle’s view, even though the world is everlasting, all things everlastingly proceed in accord with separated Reason: the first principle of all. Both Plato and Aristotle have one view in common. They hold that through a form of rational argumentation (whether it be demonstrative or dialectical), one can – without appeal to the authority of sacred writings – arrive at some knowledge or awareness of a first principle that is separated from matter.

We have now come to call the development of this non-poetic or non-mythological form of thought from the pre-Socratics through Plato and Aristotle by the name of “philosophy.” Aristotle’s arguments for the existence of God, because they argued from some feature of nature, came to be called “natural theology.” Natural theology was part of philosophy, as opposed to being part of the mytho-poetic theology.

3. Ancient Jewish and Early Christian Theology

As philosophy was developing from the Pre-Socratics through to Plato and Aristotle, another development was taking place among the Israelites or the ancient Jews. What was developing was their understanding of their corporate identity as the chosen people of God (YHWH). They conceived of themselves as a people established in a covenant with him, and bound to serve him according to the law and ritual prescriptions they had received from him. Texts received as sacred and as the word of God were an essential basis for their life, practice and thought.

It was among Jews and as a Jew that Jesus of Nazareth was born, lived his life, and gathered his first adherents. Christianity shared with Judaism a method for approaching God that essentially involved texts and faith in them as God’s word (although Christianity would eventually involve more texts than ancient Judaism). As Christianity spread, so did its faith-based and text-based method for approaching an understanding of God. As a minority practice within a predominantly Roman-Hellenistic culture, Christianity soon faced two new questions. First, do Christians have a “theology?”Second, what should a Christian make of “philosophy?” So long as Christianity remained a minority practice, Christians themselves remained conflicted on how to answer the two questions posed by the predominant culture.

The first question – do Christians have a theology? – was difficult for Christians to answer due to the poetic-mythological sense of the term “theology” still prevalent in the predominant Roman-Hellenistic milieu. All Christians rejected the views of the mythological-poets (the theologians). So long as the word “theology” meant the pagan mythological poetry and worship of the gods as practiced in the prevailing culture, Christians rejected the word “theology” as well. But once Christianity became culturally predominant, the word “theology” could and did become disassociated from the belief in and worship of the gods and was applied instead to the specifically Christian task of thinking and speaking about God as revealed in the Christian Scriptures. Under the new conditions, Christians found themselves more widely capable of saying that they had a theology.

The second question – what should Christians make of philosophy? – was difficult for Christians to answer because in the name of “philosophy” Christianity met with strong resistance to its central claims, for example, that Jesus is the Word made flesh. Some Christians considered philosophy essentially incompatible with Christianity; other Christians considered the possibility of a sort of intellectual alliance between philosophy and Christianity. On the one hand, Tertullian (160 – 220) famously quipped “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” (Prescription Against the Heretics, ch. VII). He is often quoted to show (perhaps unfairly) that he and Christians of his age rejected philosophical or “purely rational” methods for approaching knowledge of God. On the other hand, some Christians who were roughly his contemporaries happily availed themselves of contemporary philosophical vocabulary, concepts, and reasoning to expound Christian teaching. For example, Justin the Martyr (100-165), a convert to Christianity from Platonism, developed an account of the activity of Christ in terms of a medley of Platonist and Stoic ideas. Clement of Alexandria developed an account of Christian knowledge (gnosis) based on a variety of ideas drawn from prevalent philosophies. Greek speaking eastern Christians (more quickly than Latin speaking ones) began a process of borrowing, altering, and then using prevalent philosophical categories to corroborate and clarify their faith-based views of God. Their writings are filled with discussions of God’s existence and attributes in terms that are recognizable to philosophers. But is philosophical thought that has been used to clarify and corroborate faith-based and text-based beliefs still philosophical thought? Philosophy, after all, proceeds without appeal to the authority of sacred texts, and Christian theology proceeded by way of appeal to Christian sacred texts. There was now need for a new degree of precision regarding the ways to arrive at knowledge of God.

4. Distinction between Revealed Theology and Natural Theology

The distinction between revealed theology and natural theology eventually grew out of the distinction between what is held by faith and what is held by understanding or reason. St. Augustine, in describing how he was taught as a catechumen in the Church, writes:

“From this time on, however, I gave my preference to the Catholic faith. I thought it more modest and not in the least misleading to be told by the Church to believe what could not be demonstrated – whether that was because a demonstration existed but could not be understood by all or whether the matter was not one open to rational proof…You [God] persuaded me that the defect lay not with those who believed your books, which you have established with such great authority amongst almost all nations, but with those who did not believe them.” Confessions Bk. VI, v (7). (Chadwick, 1992)

Here Augustine describes being asked to believe certain things, that is, take them on authority, even though they could not be demonstrated. The distinction between what one takes on authority (particularly the authority of Scripture) and what one accepts on the basis of demonstration runs throughout the corpus of Augustine’s writings. These two ways of holding claims about God correspond roughly with things one accepts by faith and things that proceed from understanding or reason. Each of the two ways will produce a type of theology. The program for inquiring into God on the basis of faith/text-commitments will be called “revealed theology” many centuries later. Also, the program for inquiring about God strictly on the basis of understanding or reason will be called “natural theology” many centuries later. The distinction between holding something by faith and holding it by reason, as well as the distinction between the two types of theology that each way produces, can be traced through some major figures of the Middle Ages. Two examples follow.

First, Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius (480 – 524) presented an elaborate account of God’s existence, attributes, and providence. Although a Christian, Boethius brings together in his Consolation of Philosophy the best of various ancient philosophical currents about God. Without any appeal to the authority of Christian Scripture, Boethius elaborated his account of God as eternal, provident, good, and so forth.

Second, Pseudo-Dionysius (late 5th century) also raised the distinction between knowing things from the authority of Scripture and knowing them from rational arguments:

“Theological tradition has a dual aspect, the ineffable and mysterious on the one hand, the open and more evident on the other. The one resorts to symbolism and involves initiation. The other is philosophic and employs the method of demonstration.” Epistola IX (Luibheid, 1987)

Here we have the distinction between the two ways of approaching God explicitly identified as two aspects of theology. Augustine, Boethius, and Pseudo-Dionysius (to name but a few) thus make possible a more refined distinction between two types of aspects to theology. On the one hand, there is a program of inquiry that aims to understand what one accepts in faith as divine revelation from above. On the other hand, there is a program of inquiry that proceeds without appeal to revelation and aims to obtain some knowledge of God from below.

The eighth to the twelfth centuries are often considered the years of monastic theology. During this time, Aristotle’s writings in physics and metaphysics were lost to the West, and the knowledge of Platonism possessed by earlier Christians waned. The speculative ambitions of earlier Christian theologians (for example, Origen, Augustine, the Cappadocians, and so forth) were succeeded by the tendency of the monks to meditate upon, but not to speculate beyond, the Scriptures and the theological tradition received from earlier Christians. The monk aimed primarily at experiencing what the texts revealed about God rather than to understanding what the texts revealed about God in terms afforded by reason and philosophy (see LeClerq, 1982). This began to change with Anselm of Canterbury (1033 – 1109).

Anselm is best known in contemporary philosophical circles for his ontological argument for the existence of God. As the argument is commonly understood, Anselm aimed to show that God exists without making appeal to any sacred texts and also without basing his argument upon any empirical or observable truth. The argument consists entirely of an analysis of the idea of God, and a tracing of the implications of that idea given the laws of logic, for example, the principle of non-contradiction. Anselm, however, is known among medieval specialists for much more. Although a monk himself, he is known as the first to go beyond the purely meditative and experiential aims of monastic theology, and to pursue a serious speculative ambition. He wished to find the necessary reasons for why God acted as he has in history (as revealed by the Bible). Although Anselm’s program was still a matter of Christian faith seeking to understand God as revealed by the Bible and grasped by faith, Anselm helped legitimize once again the use of reason for speculating upon matters held by faith. Once the writings of Aristotle in Physics and Metaphysics were recovered in the West, the question inevitably arose as to what to make of Aristotelian theses vis-à-vis views held on Christian faith. There arose a need for a new degree of precision on the relationship between philosophy and theology, faith and understanding. One classic account to provide that precision came from Thomas Aquinas who had at his disposal many centuries of preliminary reflection on the issues.

5. Thomas Aquinas

In the work of Thomas Aquinas (1225 – 1276), one finds two distinctions that serve to clarify the nature and status of natural theology. Aquinas distinguishes between two sorts of truths and between two ways of knowing them.

For Aquinas, there are two sorts of truths about God:

“There is a twofold mode of truth in what we profess about God. Some truths about God exceed all the ability of human reason. Such is the truth that God is triune. But there are some truths which the natural reason also is able to reach. Such are the truth that God exists, that he is one, and the like. In fact, such truths about God have been proved demonstratively by the philosophers, guided by the light of natural reason.” (SCG I, ch.3, n.2)

On the one hand, there are truths beyond the capacity of the human intellect to discover or verify and, on the other hand, there are truths falling within the capacity of human intellect to discover and verify. Let us call the first sort truths beyond reason and the latter sort truths of natural reason. There are different ways of knowing or obtaining access to each sort of truth.

The truths of natural reason are discovered or obtained by using the natural light of reason. The natural light of reason is the capacity for intelligent thought that all human beings have just by virtue of being human. By exercising their native intelligence, human beings can discover, verify, and organize many truths of natural reason. Aquinas thinks that human beings have discovered many such truths and he expects human beings to discover many more. Although there is progress amidst the human race in understanding truths of natural reason, Aquinas thinks there are truths that are totally beyond the intelligence of the entire human race.

The truths beyond reason are outside the aptitude of the natural light of reason to discover or verify. The cognitive power of all humanity combined, all humanity of the past, present, and future, does not suffice to discover or verify one of the truths beyond reason. How then does an individual or humanity arrive at such truths? Humanity does not arrive at them. Rather, the truths arrive at humanity from a higher intellect – God. They come by way of divine revelation, that is, by God testifying to them. God testifies to them in a three-step process.

First, God elevates the cognitive powers of certain human beings so that their cognitive powers operate at a level of aptitude beyond what they are capable of by nature. Thanks to the divinely enhanced cognition, such people see more deeply into things than is possible for humans whose cognition has not been so enhanced. The heightened cognition is compared to light, and is often said to be a higher light than the light of natural reason. It is called the light of prophecy or the light of revelation. The recipients of the light of prophecy see certain things that God sees but that the rest of humanity does not. Having seen higher truths in a higher light, the recipients of the higher light are ready for the second step.

Second, God sends those who see things in the higher light to bear witness and to testify to what they see in the higher light. By so testifying, the witnesses (the prophets and Apostles of old) served as instruments or a mouthpiece through which God made accessible to humanity some of those truths that God sees but that humanity does not see. Furthermore, such truths were then consigned to Scripture (by the cognitively enhanced or “inspired” authors of the books of the Bible), and the Bible was composed. The Bible makes for the third step.

Third, in the present God uses the Bible as a current, active instrument for teaching the same truths to humanity. By accepting in faith God speaking through the Bible, people today have a second-hand knowledge of certain truths that God alone sees first-hand. Just as God illuminated the prophets and apostles in the light of prophecy to see what God alone sees, God also illuminates people today to have faith in God speaking through the Bible. This illumination is called the light of faith.

Just as one sees certain claims of natural reason by the light of natural reason, so the Christian faith hold certain claims beyond reason by the God-given light of faith. In the thought of Thomas Aquinas, the traditional distinction between two domains of truths and the distinctive way of knowing truth in each domain, reaches a point of clarity. This distinction is at the basis of the distinction between theology and natural theology.

Theology (in the Thomistic sense), as it later came to be called, is the program for inquiring by the light of faith into what one believes by faith to be truths beyond reason that are revealed by God. Natural theology, as it later came to be called, is the program for inquiring by the light of natural reason alone into whatever truths of natural reason human beings might be able to find about God. Theology and natural theology differ in what they inquire into, and in what manner they inquire. What theology inquires into is what God has revealed himself to be. What natural theology inquires into is what human intelligence can figure out about God without using any of the truths beyond reason, that is, the truths divinely revealed. Theology proceeds by taking God’s revelation as a given and using one divinely revealed truth to account for another divinely revealed truth (or to give a higher account of truths of natural reason). Natural theology proceeds by bracketing and setting aside God’s revelation and seeking to discover, verify, and organize truths of natural reason about God. Aquinas’s distinctions remain the historical source of how many contemporary theologians and philosophers characterize the differences of their respective disciplines.

To see how theology and natural theology differ for Aquinas, it may help to look into faith and theology in more detail. One seems blind in accepting on faith the truths of revelation found in the Bible. They seem blind because faith is a way of knowing something second-hand. A faithful person is in the position of believing what another intellect (the divine intellect) sees. Now although one does not see for oneself the truths accepted in faith, one desires to see them for oneself. Faith tends to prompt intellectual questioning, inquiry, and seeking into the meaning and intelligibility of the mystery held in faith. Why did God create the world? Why does God allow so much suffering? Why did God become Incarnate? Why did he have to die on a cross to save humanity? Many more questions come up. One asks questions of the truths of divine revelation without doubting those truths. On the contrary, one raises such questions because in faith one is confident that one truth of divine revelation can explain another truth of divine revelation. The truth of the Trinity’s purposes in creating us, for example, can explain the Incarnation. Thus, one questions the faith in faith. The project of questioning the faith in faith, finding answers, organizing them, justifying them, debating them, seeking to understanding “the why” and so forth is called theology.

Natural theology, on the other hand, does not presuppose faith as theology does. Natural theology does not attempt to explain truths beyond reason such as the Incarnation or the Trinity, and it certainly does not attempt to base anything on claims made in the Bible. Rather, natural theology uses other sources of evidence. Natural theology appeals to empirical data and the deliverances of reason to search out, verify, justify, and organize as much truth about God as can be figured out when one limits oneself to just these sources of evidence.

Aquinas practiced both theology and natural theology. Furthermore, he blended the two rather freely, and blended them into a unified architectonic wisdom. His architectonic contains both theology and natural theology (sometimes they are difficult to sort out).

Aquinas is primarily a theologian and his best-known work is his Summa Theologica. Aquinas saw himself as using truths of natural reason to help understand truths of divine revelation. Consequently, as part of his theology, Aquinas presents and refines many philosophical arguments (truths of natural reason) that he had inherited from multiple streams of his culture: Aristotle, Augustine, Boethius, Pseudo-Dionysius, Muslim philosophers and commentators on Aristotle, and the Jewish Rabbi Moses Maimonides. Aquinas saw himself as taking all the truth they had discovered and using it all to penetrate the meaning and intelligibility of what God is speaking through the bible.

In his Summa Contra Gentiles, Aquinas presents in lengthy detail a series of philosophical demonstrations of the existence of God, philosophical demonstrations of a variety of divine attributes, a philosophical theory of naming God, as well as multiple philosophical points concerning divine providence, for example, the problem of evil. For the first two volumes of the Summa Contra Gentiles, Aquinas proceeds without substantial appeal to the authority of Scripture (although Aquinas does repeatedly point to the agreement between what he arrived at philosophically and what Christians hold by faith in their Scriptures). He seems to intend his arguments to presuppose as little of the Christian faith as possible. The Summa Contra Gentiles, traditionally, was pointed out as one of the principal locations of Aquinas natural theology. One old interpretation of the Summa Contra Gentiles says that its purpose was to train Christian missionaries who would be required to engage Muslims in discussion and debate about God. Since Christians and Muslims held no common sacred texts, they would need to dispute in terms afforded by their common humanity, that is, the truths of natural reason. Another interpretation makes it out to be Aquinas’s own preparation for his SummaTtheologice (Hibbs, 1995).

Thomas Aquinas’s distinction of the two sorts of truths about God and the two ways of knowing the truth about God soon faced outbreaks of skepticism. That skepticism, ironically, led to several developments in natural theology.

6. Modern Philosophy and Natural Theology

Not long after Aquinas, certain philosophers began to doubt that knowledge of God could be obtained apart from divine revelation and faith. William of Ockham (1280 – 1348) rejected central theses of Aristotelian philosophy that Aquinas relied upon in arguing for the existence of God, divine attributes, divine providence, and so forth. Ockham rejected the Aristotelian theory of form. He believed that a world construed in terms of Aristotelian essences was incompatible with God and creation as revealed in Scripture. To Ockham, Aquinas’s God seemed subject to the natures of things rather than being their author in any significant sense. Nonetheless, Ockham was a Christian. Having rejected the Aristotelian theory of form and essence, natural theology as practiced by Aquinas was not possible. Of the two ways available for obtaining some knowledge of God – faith in revelation and reason without revelation – Ockham rejected the latter. Consequently, the only way remaining to know something of God was by faith in divine revelation.

After Ockham, the modern period abounded in various views towards natural theology. On the one hand, there were many who continued to hold that nature affords some knowledge of God and that human nature has some way of approaching God even apart from revelation. The scholastic thinker Francisco Suarez (1548-1617), for example, presented arguments for the existence of God, divine attributes, and divine providence. On the other hand, the rise of general anti-Aristotelianism (for example, Bacon), the rise of a mechanistic conception of the universe (for example, Hobbes, and the methodological decision to ignore final causality (for example, Descartes), all made traditional theological arguments for the existence of God from nature harder to sustain. Modern philosophy and modern science was perceived by many to threaten the traditional claims and conclusions of natural theology, for example, that the existence and attributes of God can be known apart from revelation and faith.

Many Christian thinkers responded to the new situation posed by modern philosophy and modern science. These responses shared with modern philosophy and modern science a non-Aristotelian, and perhaps even anti-Aristotelian, line of thought. Consequently, these responses constitute a thoroughly non-Aristotelian form of natural theology, that is, a natural theology that does not presuppose any of Aristotle’s views on nature, motion, causality, and so forth.

Descartes himself, for example, is commonly thought to have offered a new version of the ontological argument (Anselm’s argument) for the existence of God. Descartes advanced his argument in such a way that not only did he intend to avoid any Aristotelian presuppositions about the external world, he apparently intended to avoid any presuppositions at all about the external world – even the presupposition of its existence. Descartes’ rationalist and a priori method characterized much of the natural theology on the continent of Europe. In Great Britain, there grew up another form of natural theology tending to use empirical starting points and consciously probabilistic forms of argument. Two examples are noteworthy in this regard. Samuel Clark’s (1675 – 1729) work A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God and Joseph Butler’s (1692 – 1752) Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed. The former latter work begins from the fact, presumably accessible empirically, that something or other has always existed. It proceeds to argue for the existence of God and various attributes, for example, God’s infinity and omnipresence. The latter work offers a probabilistic argument in favor of the existence of God and certain attributes based on analogies between what is found in nature and what is found in revelation.

David Hume (1711 – 1761) offered perhaps the most poignant criticisms of the post-Aristotelian forms of natural theology. His Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding contained a chapter criticizing the justification for belief in miracles as well as a chapter leveled against arguments from design. The latter criticism against design arguments, as well as additional criticisms of various divine attributes, was offered in much more extensive detail in his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. The latter work was more extensive in that it applied some of the central tenets of Hume’s epistemology to natural theology in general, and thus served as a sort of critique of natural theology as a whole. Inspired by Hume’s thought, the empiricist critique of natural theology would later take on even more expanded and sophisticated forms.

David Hume’s agnostic and atheistic conclusions, however, did not find much popular appeal in his own day. Hence, even after Hume’s death, William Paley (1743–1805) was able to advance a natural theology that became standard reading in universities for the first half of the nineteenth century. Paley’s Natural Theology or Evidences of the Existence and Attributes of the Deity formulated a version of the design argument that even convinced the early Charles Darwin. Although Hume did not dissuade his contemporaries such as Paley from doing natural theology, Hume still had a significant impact on natural theology through his influence on Immanuel Kant.

Immanuel Kant (1724 – 1804) found himself faced on the one side with a rationalism that made quite ambitious metaphysical claims and on the other side with an empiricism that allowed humans to know little beyond what was immediately sensible. The rationalists claimed to offer in modo geometrico, a series of demonstrations of many truths about God proceeding from a set of axioms self-evident to reason and needing no empirical verification. Later, their approach would be called a priori. The empiricists followed a different course, and stressed the human incapacity to know substantive necessary truths, or at least Hume seems to have stressed this or Hume as Kant understood him. Kant became skeptical of the rationalist’s metaphysical ambitions, yet was eager to overcome the Humean skepticism that threatened not only metaphysics but the new science as well. In his work, Kant is widely thought to have posed perhaps the most significant argumentative challenge to theology, natural theology, and metaphysics in general.

For Kant, arguments for the existence of God cannot prove their point due to the limits of the human cognitive capacity. The apparent cogency of such arguments is due to transcendental illusion; confusing the constitution of things and the constitution of one’s thought or experience of things. For example, causal principles such as “every event has a cause” are nothing but requirements for the rational organization of our perceptions. Demonstrations of God’s existence, divine attributes, and divine providence, to the extent that they use such principles as premises concerning the constitution of things in themselves, are illusory. Henceforth, any attempt to do classical theology, natural theology, or metaphysics had to answer the Kantian challenge.

Natural theology after Kant took two various routes. In Protestant and Anglican circles, the influence of Paley and others suffered a blow from Charles Darwin’s (1809 – 1882) theory of evolution and the subsequent evolutionary theories that have been developed. Given Darwin, the proposition that all life developed by chance alone is widely perceived to have a degree of plausibility that it was not perceived to have in Paley’s day. Whether and to what extent Darwinian principles eliminate the necessity for positing a divine designer is one of the most hotly contested issues in natural theology today. But there was more to post-Kantian natural theology.

In Catholic circles, natural theology went in two directions. On the one hand, there were some who intended to use modern philosophy for theological purposes just as the mediaevals had done. Antonio Rosmini (1797 – 1855), for example, developed a theology and a natural theology using elements from Augustine, Bonaventure, Pascal, and Malebranche. On the other hand, there were some who revived the thought of Thomas Aquinas. At first, there were but a handful of neo-Thomists. But in time Thomism was not only revived, but disseminated through a vast system of Catholic education. Thomists disagreed amongst each other on how to relate to strands of contemporary thought such as science and Kant. So neo-Thomism grew in many directions: Transcendental Thomism, Aristotelian Thomism, Existential Thomism, and so forth. At any rate, neo-Thomists tended to develop their own counter-reading of modern philosophy – especially Kant – and to use Thomistic natural theology as an apparatus for higher education and apologetics.

7. Natural Theology Today

Outside neo-Thomistic circles, natural theology was generally out of favor throughout the twentieth century. Due to neo-Kantian criticisms of metaphysics, an extreme confidence in contemporary science, a revival and elaboration of Humean empiricism in the form of logical positivism, as well as existentialism among Continental thinkers, metaphysics was thought to be forever eliminated as a way of knowing or understanding truth about God (or anything at all for that matter). Natural theology was thought to have suffered the same fate as being part of metaphysics. It is fair to say that in many places metaphysics and natural theology were even held in contempt. Towards the second half of the twentieth century, however, the tide began to turn – first in favor of the possibility of metaphysics and soon afterwards to a revival of natural theology.

Natural theology today is practiced with a degree of diversity and confidence unprecedented since the late Middle Ages. Natural theologians have revived and extended arguments like Anselm’s (the so-called “perfect being theology”). They have also re-cast arguments from nature in several forms – from neo-Thomistic presentations of Aquinas’s five ways to new teleological arguments drawing upon the results of contemporary cosmology. Arguments from the reality of an objective moral order to the existence of God are circulated and taken seriously. Ethical theories that define goodness in terms of divine command are considered live options among an array of ethical theories. Discussions of divine attributes abound in books and journals devoted exclusively to purely philosophical treatments of God, for example, the journal Faith and Philosophy. Debates rage over divine causality, the extent of God’s providence, and the reality of human free choice. The problem of evil has also been taken up anew for fresh discussions – both by those who see it as arguing against the existence of God and by those who wish to defend theism against the reality of evil. It is English speaking “analytic” philosophers who have taken the lead in discussing and debating these topics.

For people of faith who wish to think through their faith, to see whether reason alone apart from revelation offers anything to corroborate, clarify, or justify what is held by faith, there is no shortage of materials to research or study or criticize. Rather, vast quantities of books, articles, debates, discussions, conferences, and gatherings are available. For those who have no faith, but wish to inquire into God without faith, the same books, articles, debates, discussion, conferences, and gatherings are available. Natural theology is alive and well to assist anyone interested grappling with the perennial questions about God.

8. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

i. Ancient Mediaeval Theology

  • Plato, Republic, particularly Bk. VII.
    • The so-called “Allegory of the Cave” in the opening pages of Bk. VII was an influential text upon later conceptions of God and the Good.
  • Aristotle, Physics, particularly Bk. VII & VIII.
    • The locus classicus for the argument from motion for the existence of a first, unmoved mover.
  • Aristotle, Metaphysics, particularly Bk. XII
    • This passage takes the argument of the Physics Bks. VII & VIII a step further by arguing that the first mover moves things as an end or goal and is intelligent.

ii. Mediaeval Natural Theology

  • Augustine, Confessions, trans. Chadwick, Henry. Oxford, 1992.
    • A classic autobiographical account of a thinking man’s journey to faith in the Christian God. In Bk.VI, Augustine draws a distinction between things demonstrable and things to be taken on authority.
  • Augustine, On Free Choice of the Will, trans. Williams, Thomas. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1993.
    • Out of the many works of St. Augustine, Bks. II & III in this work come as close as possible to presenting an argument for the existence of God. Augustine considers eternal truths, the order of the world, and the nature of reason, and proceeds to discuss the relationship between these things and the wisdom the pre-existed that world. Many students find this dialogue satisfying to read.
  • Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy. trans. Green, Richard. New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1962.
    • A shorter work, cast in semi-dialogue form, that synthesizes and presents a great deal of late Hellenistic natural theology. It is fair to call this work one of the principal sources of mediaeval humanism and philosophy. Many students find this work satisfying to read.
  • Plotinus, Enneads. trans. MacKenna, Stephen. New York: Larson Publications, 1992.
    • A lengthy work of neo-Platonic cosmology and natural theology. Being the work of a non-Christian, it shows (like Aristotle’s works) that someone without Christian faith commitments can engage in natural theology. However, Plotinus’ sympathies lie more with Plato’s notion of a dialectically induced vision of the Good than with a demonstrative approach to proving the existence of God. Consequently, there are many passages of a more mystical and meditative quality intended for those who have had the prerequisite perceptions of the One.
  • Pseudo-Dionysius, “Letter Nine” in The Complete Works. trans. Luibheid, Colm. New Jersey: Paulist Press, 1987.
    • Presents the distinction between natural and mystical theology and the two ways of knowing that are proper to each.
  • Anselm, “Monologion” & “Proslogion” both in The Major Works. Oxford University Press, 1998.
    • The Proslogion contains the so-called “ontological argument” for the existence of God. The Monologion, in its first two dozen chapters, presents a natural theology by way of unpacking what is involved in the notion of a supreme nature.
  • Aquinas, SummaTtheologiae, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province. New York: Benziger Bros, 1948 .
    • The classic theological work by Thomas Aquinas. In part I, q. 2 – 27, Aquinas presents numerous philosophical arguments for the existence of God, divine attributes, divine providence, and so forth. Often called the “Treatise on God,” it is a classic locus of natural theology.
  • Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, esp. trans. Pegis, Anton. University of Notre Dame Press, 1975.
    • In Bks. I & II, Aquinas presents what he considers to be demonstrations for the existence of God, several divine attributes, and an account of divine providence. For these two books, a great deal of the thinking is commonly thought to proceed in the light of natural reason alone.
  • Bonaventure, The Journey of the Mind to God. trans. Boehner, Philotheus. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1993.
    • A short work of mediaeval natural theology. A contemporary of Aquinas, Bonaventure takes the reader on a journey from creatures to the Creator. This book shows what an alternative to Aquinas’s Aristotelian natural theology looks like.

iii. Modern Natural Theology

  • Butler, Joseph. The Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature. Ann Arbor, MI: Scholarly Publishing Office, University of Michigan Library, 2005.
    • A classic of English natural theology with an extended treatment of the immortality of the soul. The author ventures a probabilistic argument in confirmation of certain revealed truths.
  • Clark, Samuel. A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God: And Other Writings. Ed. Vailato, Ezio. Cambridge University Press, 1998.
    • This treatise of English natural theology was originally a set of sermons preached against the writings of Hobbes and Spinoza and their followers. Those sermons were revised into an extended and rigorous argument.
  • Descartes, Rene. “Meditations” in Selected Philosophical Writings. trans. Cottingham, John., Stoothoff, Robert., Murdoch, Dougald. Cambridge University Press, 1998.
    • In the “Third Meditation,” Descartes advances an argument for the existence of God that some have called an “ontological argument” because he infers from his idea of God to the existence of God.
  • Locke, John. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. Oxford University Press, 1975.
    • In Bk. IV, ch. 10 John Locke advances what he considers to be a demonstration of the existence of an eternal and necessary being. The chapter is an example of how arguments for the existence of God continued to be advanced well into early modernity by post-Aristotelian thinkers.
  • Hume, David. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company, 1977.
    • A brief classical essay in empiricist philosophy. The principles presented in this book served first to motivate Kant to mount his criticisms of metaphysics and natural theology and continue to motivate many of today’s criticisms of arguments for the existence of God, divine attributes, and so forth.
  • Hume, David. Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion: The Posthumous Essays of the Immortality of the Soul and of Suicide. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co., 1998.
    • This dialogue is an extended application of Hume’s epistemology, and in effect a critique of natural theology as an enterprise.
  • Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason. trans. Smith, Norman Kemp. NY: St. Martin’s Press. 1929.
    • This classical work stands as a permanent challenge to anyone aiming at arriving at some knowledge or understanding of God by the light of natural reason alone. The work is no easy read – not even for specialists. However, in Part II, Second Division, Chapter II, Kant presents his famous “antinomies of pure reason.” The antinomies are arguments, laid out in synopsis form, both for and against certain theses. Of all the criticism of metaphysics that can be found in this book, the antinomies in particular have persuaded many thinkers to hold that any attempt by reason alone to arrive at some knowledge of God is bound to end in hopeless self-contradiction. See especially the Fourth Antinomy.
  • Kant, Immanuel. Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics. trans. Ellington, James W. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1977.
    • This shorter work summarizes and presents in simpler form much of the thought found in the longer and more elaborate Critique of Pure Reason.
  • Newman, John Henry Cardinal. An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent. University of Notre Dame Press, 1979.
    • A classic work of nineteenth century British apologetics. Among many other things, Newman presents an account of how conscience moves one to believe in the existence of God.

iv. Contemporary Natural Theology

  • Howard-Snyder, Daniel, ed. The Evidential Argument from Evil. Indiana University Press, 1996.
    • An excellent anthology of essays, all treating of the problem of evil, by contemporary philosophers. The collection contains some essays arguing against the existence of God on the basis of evil and other essays defending the existence of God against such arguments.
  • Kenny, Anthony. The Five Ways: St. Thomas Aquinas’ proofs of the existence of God. London: Routledge & K. Paul, 1969.
    • A short work that goes through Aquinas’s arguments for the existence of God and treats them in terms of contemporary formal logic. Kenny concludes that all the arguments fail.
  • Mackie, J.L., The Miracle of Theism: Arguments for and against the existence of God. Oxford University Press, 1982.
    • A widely read work that presents a wide variety of arguments for the existence of God, criticizes them, and ultimately rejects them all. It also contains important discussions of who has the burden of proof in natural theology and arguments against the existence of God based on the reality of evil.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. God and Other Minds. Cornell University Press, 1967.
    • Another work that presents several standard proofs for the existence of God and criticizes them. The author, however, is a theist. After dismissing the standard proofs for the existence of God as inconclusive or indecisive, Plantinga goes on to give an argument that belief in the existence of God can be rational even without such proofs. He argues that believing in God is analogous to believing in other minds. Just as one is rational in believing in other minds without decisive or conclusive proof that other minds exist, so one is rational in believing in God without decisive or conclusive proof that God exists.
  • Plantinga, Alvin. God, Freedom, & Evil. William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1977.
    • This widely hailed work purports to refute the thesis that it is impossible for both God and evil to exist. Using the modal logic that he helped to pioneer, Plantinga shows how it is possible for both God and evil to exist. Even atheist philosophers find Plantinga’s point to be compelling, and the terms of the debate on the problem of evil have changed since, and because of, the book’s publication. For the current state of the debate, see Howard-Snyder’s work referenced above.
  • Swinburne, Richard. The Coherence of Theism. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977.
     Swinburne, Richard. The Existence of God. 2nd Edition. Oxford University Press, 2004.
    Swinburne, Richard. Providence and the Problem of Evil. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998.

    • These three books by Richard Swinburne jointly constitute a powerful argument for, and defense of, the existence of God. In The Coherence of Theism, Swinburne answers common arguments advanced against the possibility of the existence of God or arguing for the existence of God. In The Existence of God, Swinburne presents his “cumulative case” inductive argument for the existence of God. In Providence and the Problem of Evil, Swinburne aims to account for the existence of evil given the existence of a provident God.
  • Varghese, Roy Abraham. The Wonder of the World: A Journey from Modern Science to the Mind of God. Arizona: Tyr Publishing, 2004.
    • This work brings together under one cover many of the scientifically received facts that tend to confirm the existence of God. One can find laid out here many of the physical, biological, and cosmological facts that have persuaded many contemporary scientists of the existence of an intelligent God behind it all. The work also raises pertinent philosophical considerations in favor of the same conclusion. Written in semi-dialogue form, without using significant technical jargon, this award-winning book is accessible to a wide audience.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Craig, William Lane. The Cosmological Argument from Plato to Leibniz. NY: Barnes & Noble Books, 1980.
    • The book does what the title says; it gives a history of the various cosmological arguments from ancient times until modernity.
  • Congar, Yves. A History of Theology. NY: Doubleday, 1968.
    • A good one-volume summary of the history of theology. This book served as the basic reference for section 3 above in the discussion of ancient Greek theology, and the development of theology among early Christians.
  • Davies, Brian. An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion. Oxford University Press, 1982.
    • This widely used textbook presents most of the main topics in the philosophy of religion today – including arguments in natural theology.
  • Hibbs, Thomas. Dialectic and Narrative in Aquinas: An Interpretation of the Summa Contra Gentiles. University of Notre Dame Press, 1995.
    • This book was referenced above as presenting an alternative interpretation to the Summa Contra Gentiles.
  • LeClerq, Jean. The Love of Learning and the Desire for God. trans. Misrah, Catharine. Fordham University Press, 1982.
    • This book was referenced in the fourth section above as regards the state of theology in mediaeval monasteries.
  • Stump, Eleonore. “Aquinas on the Sufferings of Job” in The Evidential Argument from Evil. ed. Howard-Snyder, Daniel. Indiana University Press, 1996.
    • An unusually clear elucidation of Aquinas’ understanding of the relationship between God and evil as Aquinas presents it in his commentary on Job.
  • Stump, Eleonore, ed. Philosophy of Religion. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 1999.
    • An anthology of classic texts on many topics in the philosophy of religion. Many of the texts referenced in this list are found within this anthology.

Author Information

James Brent
Email: jbrentop@gmail.com
Saint Louis University
U. S. A.

Moral Luck

A case of moral luck occurs whenever luck makes a moral difference. The problem of moral luck arises from a clash between the apparently widely held intuition that cases of moral luck should not occur with the fact that it is arguably impossible to prevent such cases from arising.

The literature on moral luck began in earnest in the wake of papers by Thomas Nagel and Bernard Williams. The problem of moral luck had been discussed before Nagel’s and Williams’ articles, although not under the heading of “moral luck.” Though Nagel’s paper was written as a commentary on Williams’, they have quite different emphases. Still, the same question lies at the heart of both papers and, indeed, at the heart of the literature on moral luck: can luck ever make a moral difference? This idea of a moral difference is a wide one. Various sorts of difference have been considered. The most obvious is, perhaps, a difference in what a person is morally responsible for, but it has also been suggested both that luck affects the moral justification of our actions and that it affects a person’s moral status in general (that is, that it affects how morally good or bad a person is). We shall pay more attention to these varied differences in time, but the important point for now is that both Williams and Nagel argue that luck can make a moral difference.

So what is the problem if luck makes a moral difference? The problem is that the idea of luck making a moral difference is deeply counterintuitive. We know that luck enters into our lives in countless ways. It affects our success and our happiness. We might well think, however, that morality is the one arena in which luck has no power. Consider what we might call a person’s “moral standing”—an expression we can use to stand for all the sorts of moral difference luck might be thought to make. Luck, we might think, cannot alter one’s moral standing one bit. This seems a reasonable position, but it is a position both Nagel and Williams cast into doubt. We will first consider Williams’ argument, primarily because it is the least successful. We shall see that Williams’ argument seem to fail and that what is interesting in his argument is captured much better by Nagel.

Table of Contents

  1. Williams on Moral Luck
    1. The Argument
    2. Criticisms
  2. Nagel on Moral Luck
    1. Introduction to the Problem
    2. Four Types of Luck
    3. The Problem Summarized
  3. Responses to the Problem
  4. References and Further Reading

1. Williams on Moral Luck

a. The Argument

Williams’ aim in “Moral Luck” and much of his other work is to discredit the Kantian view of morality and to suggest that it would be best to abandon the notion of morality altogether (replacing it with the wider notion he calls the “ethical”). (See Williams, 1985, for the distinction.) In doing so, Williams takes himself to be challenging not just Kantian thinking about morality, but also commonplace ideas about it. He claims the idea that morality is immune to luck is “basic to our ideas of morality” (1993a, p. 36).

Why should this be so? Because, Williams suggests, if moral value does depend on luck, it cannot be the sort of thing we think it is. We have already noted the extent to which luck permeates our lives. Some are born healthy; others with various sorts of handicaps. Some stumble into great wealth; others work hard, but always remain poor. To those on the losing end of these matters, this often seems unfair. Success of whatever kind we might seek is not equally available to all. Luck gives some head starts and holds others back. Nonetheless, we might think there is at least one sort of value which is equally available to all: moral value. Bill Gates may be richer than Jane Doe, but that does not mean he is a better person. Donovan Bailey may be faster than Jane Doe, but that does not make him her moral superior. Of course, both these men may be her moral superiors, but, if they are, luck is supposed to have nothing to do with it. Morality thus provides us with a sort of comfort. In Williams’ words, it offers “solace to a sense of the world’s unfairness” (1993a, p. 36). As Williams points out, however, this will be cold comfort if morality doesn’t matter much. Thus, just as it is essential to the notion of moral value that it is immune to luck, so, he claims, it is essential that moral value is the supreme sort of value. Williams claims that moral value can give us the solace he describes only if it really does possess these two characteristics (being immune to luck and being the supreme sort of value). Luck may bring us all sorts of hardship, but when it comes to the single most important sort of value, we are immune to luck. It is against this picture of morality that Williams’ argument must be understood. He presents us with a dilemma: either (a) moral value is (sometimes) a matter of luck or else (b) it is not the supreme sort of value. In either case, we have to give up something very important to the notion of moral value; hence, Williams thinks we should give up morality in favour of the ethical.

Williams begins the drive towards this dilemma by focusing on rational justification rather than moral justification. The cornerstone of his argument is the claim that rational justification is a matter of luck to some extent. He uses a thought experiment to make this point. Williams presents us with a story based loosely on the life of the painter Paul Gauguin. Williams’ Gauguin feels some responsibility towards his family and is reasonably happy living with them, but nonetheless abandons them, leaving them in dire straits. He does so in an attempt to become a great painter. He goes to live on a South Sea Island, believing that living in a more primitive environment will allow him to develop his gifts as a painter more fully. How can we tell whether Gauguin’s decision to do this is rationally justified? We should ask first of all, what exactly Williams means by “rational justification.” He never says, but he seems interested in the question of whether Gauguin was epistemically justified in thinking that acting as he did would increase his chances of becoming a great painter. That is, the question is whether it was rational (given Gauguin’s interests) for him to do as he did.

Williams rightly observes that it is effectively impossible to foresee whether Gauguin will succeed in his attempt to become a great painter. Even if, prior to making his decision, Gauguin had good reason to think he had considerable artistic talent, he could not be sure what would come of that talent, nor whether the decision to leave his family would help or hinder the development of that talent. In the end, says Williams, “the only thing that will justify his choice will be success itself” (1993a, p. 38). Similarly, Williams claims the only thing that could show Gauguin to be rationally unjustified is failure. Since success depends, to some extent anyway, on luck, Williams’ claim entails that rational justification depends, at least in some cases, on luck.

Not every success, however, confers justification, nor does every failure signal lack of justification. It depends on what sort of luck, if any, was involved in the success or failure. Williams distinguishes between extrinsic and intrinsic luck, claiming that only the operation of intrinsic luck is compatible with the result of a decision determining the rational justification of that decision. Roughly, intrinsic luck is luck that arises from the elements of the project or action under consideration, while extrinsic luck is luck arising from “outside” the project. In the case of Gauguin, intrinsic luck is luck arising from Gauguin himself, since he is the only one involved in his project. If Gauguin fails because it turns out that living on a South Sea Island distracts him to such an extent that he becomes a worse painter, this will be a case of bad intrinsic luck and so he will be unjustified. On the other hand, if, at the start of his project, a freak accident causes him to sustain an injury which prevents him from ever painting again, he will be neither justified nor unjustified since his project is never really carried out. His project will have failed but, as regards justification, a verdict will not be returned due to the interference of extrinsic bad luck. What matters then with regard to rational justification is intrinsic luck. If Gauguin is lucky enough to possess sufficient talent and to find circumstances in which that talent can flourish, his project will succeed. He will be justified and this will, in part, be due to (intrinsic) luck.

(Although Williams never mentions it, presumably if Gauguin were to succeed due to good extrinsic luck, he would also be neither justified nor unjustified. If an eccentric art critic were to find a way to make Gauguin’s mediocre work speak, it might be impossible to tell whether Gauguin was justified or not.)

What, if anything, does this have to do with morality? Williams hopes to inflict fatal damage on the notion of the moral by setting up a collision between rational and moral justification. Rational justification, Williams has suggested, is, at least partly, a matter of luck. Moral justification, as we have noted, is not supposed to be a matter of luck at all. This clearly leaves room for clashes between the two sorts of justification, cases in which an action is morally unjustified, but rationally justified (or vice versa). Indeed, the example of Gauguin is supposed to provide us with just such a case. Suppose that Gauguin’s decision to leave his family is morally unjustified. Since luck has nothing to do with the moral value of this decision, we can say that Gauguin’s decision is a morally bad one when he makes it and that it stays that way, regardless of how his project turns out. According to Williams, however, whether Gauguin’s decision is rationally justified is not settled when he makes it. We have to wait and see how the project turns out. Suppose, as Williams clearly means us to, that his Gauguin, like the real one, becomes a great artist (and that this does not happen as the result of extrinsic luck). Once this is the case, Gauguin’s decision is rationally justified though still morally unjustified.

This might be thought enough to generate a problem for the type of morality Williams opposes. As Judith Andre puts it:

Since rational justification is partly a matter of luck… our notion of rational justification is not synonymous with that of moral justification, and morality is not the unique source of value (1993, p. 123)

This doesn’t, however, quite get Williams’ point right. His claim was not that morality is the only source of value, but that it is the supreme source of value. On this picture, the mere fact that morality and rationality collide does not necessarily pose a problem. It would pose a problem for the Kantian, since, for Kant, to act morally is to act rationally. But remember that Williams takes as his enemy both Kantian and everyday thinking about morality. And it is not at all clear that our everyday thinking about morality requires us to endorse such a tight link between rationality and morality. So the possibility that rationality and morality may be distinct sources of value is no more troubling than the fact that morality and pleasure are distinct sources of value. There can be more than one source of value so long as moral value trumps these others sorts of value. Problems only arise when we come to consider “where we place our gratitude” that Gauguin left his family and became a painter (Williams, 1993b, p. 255). Suppose that we are genuinely grateful that Gauguin did what he did and, as a result, became a great artist. We might say this shows that, on occasion, we have reason to be glad that the morally correct thing did not happen. But to say something like this is to call into question part of the point of morality (or so Williams says). Remember Williams claims that morality “has an ultimate form of justice at its heart, and that that is its allure. …it offers… solace to a sense of the world’s unfairness” (1993a, p. 36). He adds that it can offer that solace only if moral value possesses “some special, indeed supreme, kind of dignity or importance” (1993a, p. 36).

Thus, the problem posed by the Gauguin case is not simply, as Andre suggests, that there might be other sources of value than morality floating around. The problem is that the example of Gauguin suggests morality is not the supreme source of value after all. We are supposedly stuck between two unpalatable options:

(1) If the picture is as Williams describes it, we are in a situation in which moral value and another value (rationality) clash and the other value is the winner. So much the worse for morality, it loses its position as the supreme sort of value to a sort of value which is affected by luck. In doing so, however, we are faced with an unpalatable option: morality’s ability to provide us with “solace to a sense of the world’s unfairness” is destroyed.

(It is, however, possible to concede that morality is not the supreme source of value, but not give up the claim that our lives are, in some important respect, free of luck. Susan Mendus argues that, while the case of Gauguin shows that morality is not the supreme source of value, the only values which compete with morality for supremacy are themselves free from luck. In Gauguin’s case, she claims that the value which competes with morality for supremacy is that of art and that even if Gauguin fails, “he has reason to think it worthwhile to have tried” (1988, p. 339).)

(2) This can be avoided by claiming that morality and rationality do not collide in this case. That is, we could declare that morality is dependent on luck in the same way that rationality is. This sort of move will eliminate the threat that rationality poses to morality’s supremacy, but this occurs at the expense of one of our deep commitments about morality, namely its invulnerability to luck. We are then faced with a different unpalatable option.

Either way, the notion of morality fails to escape intact. This, anyway, is what Williams would have us believe.

b. Criticisms

Despite all the attention that Williams’ article has generated, his argument is actually fairly unimpressive. It is not clear, for instance, that moral value has to be the supreme sort of value. Why can’t it just be an important sort of value (and, according to what value are the various sorts of value to be ranked anyway)? Moreover, what is there to stop us from saying that our gratitude (if we have any) that Gauguin did what he did is just misguided and so that this is not a case in which it is better that the rational thing rather than the moral thing happened? It may be that our gratitude is no indicator of whether or not it is better that Gauguin did as he did.

These large problems aside, there is an even more basic problem with Williams’ argument. It rests on a claim about rational justification that can quite easily be made to look doubtful. At the heart of Williams’ argument is the claim that a rational justification for a particular decision can only be given after the fact. This is what allows luck to enter into rational justification. If we do not accept this claim, Williams has given us no reason to think that either rational or moral justification is a matter of luck, and so we cease to have a reason to imagine a conflict between rationality and morality (on these grounds anyway). What’s more, there is good reason to doubt the claim that rational justification must sometimes be retrospective. The usual intuition about justification is that if we want to know whether Gauguin’s decision to leave his family and become a painter was a rational one, what we need to consider is the information Gauguin had available to him when he made that decision. What did he have reason to believe would be the fate of his family? What indication did he have that he had the potential to become a great painter? Did he have good reason to think his family would hinder his quest after greatness? Did he have reason to believe a move to the South Seas would help him achieve his goal? And so on. Our standard picture of justification tells us that, regardless of how things turned out, the answer to the question about Gauguin’s justification is to be found in the answers to the above questions. Luck is thought to have nothing to do with his justification. Indeed, if Gauguin is found to have been somehow relying on luck—if, for example, he had never painted anything, but just somehow felt he had greatness in him—this would weigh substantially against the rationality of his decision. The same could be said of the moral status of his decision: what counts is the information he had at the time, not how things turned out.

(Luck clearly can enter into rational justification in ways other than the one Williams has in mind. It can be a matter of luck that you are smart enough to see that the evidence you possess justifies you in holding a certain belief, or it can be a matter of luck that you possess the evidence you do. Presumably luck can enter into moral justification in the same ways, but, with good reason, no one has ever suggested there is anything troubling about this.)

The “standard picture” of justification here is admittedly an internalist one (see Internalism and Externalism in Epistemology). Such a picture is somewhat unpopular amongst philosophers these days, although it is arguably still our intuitive picture. Regardless, those favouring adding external considerations to an account of justification are no more inclined to factor in how things turn out than internalists (see, for instance, Goldman, 1989). What matters to externalists is typically not how things do turn out, but how they are likely to turn out.

Williams does have an argument against this picture of justification, which appeals to the notion of agent regret. Agent regret is a species of regret a person can feel only towards his or her own actions. It involves a “taking on” of the responsibility for some action and the desire to make amends for it. Williams’ example is of a lorry driver who “through no fault of his” runs over a small child (Williams, 1993a, p. 43). He rightly says that the driver will feel a sort of regret at the death of this child that no one else will feel. The driver, after all, caused the child’s death. Furthermore, we expect agent regret to be felt even in cases in which we do not think the agent was at fault. If we are satisfied that the driver could have done nothing else to prevent the child’s death, we will try to console him by telling him this. But, as Williams observes, we would think much less of the driver if he showed no regret at all, saying only “It’s a terrible thing that has happened, but I did everything I could to avoid it.” Williams suggests that a conception of rationality that does not involve retrospective justification has no room for agent regret and so is “an insane concept of rationality” (1993a, p. 44). His worry is that if rationality is all a matter of what is the case when we make our decisions and leaves no room for the luck that finds its way into consequences, then the lorry driver ought not to experience agent regret, but instead should simply remind himself that he did all he could.

This, however, just does not follow. The problem is that, in any plausible case of this sort, it will not be rational for the driver to believe that he could not have driven more safely. Driving just isn’t like that. Indeed, what it is rational for the driver to do is to suspect there was something else he could have done which might have saved the life of the child. If he had just been a little more alert or driving a little closer to the centre of the road. If he had been driving a little more slowly. If he had seen the child playing near the street. If his brakes had been checked more recently and so on and so on. It will be rational for him to wonder whether he could have done more to avoid this tragedy and so rational for him feel a special sort of regret at the death of the child. (See Rosebury, 1995, pp. 514-515 for this point.) Agent regret exists because we can almost never be sure we did “everything we could.” Thus, it provides us with no reason to believe there is a retrospective component to rational justification (and so no reason to conclude that luck plays the role in justification that Williams suggests).

None of this is to deny that the way things turn out may figure in the justifications people give for their past actions. It is just that, despite this, the way things turn out has nothing to do with whether or not those past actions really were justified. Sometimes the way things turn out may be all we have to go on, but this tells us nothing about the actual justification or lack thereof of our actions, not unless we confuse the state of an action being justified with the activity of justifying that action after the fact.

Why then have Williams’ claims about moral luck been taken so seriously? Because despite the shakiness of the argument he in fact gives, he has pointed the way towards a much more interesting and troubling argument about moral luck. This argument, glimpses of which can be found in Williams’ paper, is explicitly made in Thomas Nagel’s response to Williams.

2. Nagel on Moral Luck

a. Introduction to the Problem

Nagel identifies the problem of moral luck as arising from a conflict between our practice and an intuition most of us share about morality. He states the intuition as follows:

Prior to reflection it is intuitively plausible that people cannot be morally assessed for what is not their fault, or for what is due to factors beyond their control. (Nagel, 1993, p. 58)

He then gives us a rough definition of the phenomenon of moral luck:

Where a significant aspect of what someone does depends on factors beyond his control, yet we continue to treat him in that respect as an object of moral judgment, it can be called moral luck. (Nagel, 1993, p. 59)

Clearly cases of moral luck fly in the face of the above stated intuition about morality. Yet, Nagel claims that, despite our having this intuition, we frequently do make moral judgments about people based on factors that are not within their control. We might, for instance, judge a drunk driver who kills a child (call him the “unfortunate driver”) more harshly than one who does not (call him the “fortunate driver”), even if the only significant difference between the two cases is that a child happened to be playing on the road at the wrong point on the unfortunate driver’s route home. This, for Nagel, is the problem of moral luck: the tension between the intuition that a person’s moral standing cannot be affected by luck and the possibility that luck plays an important (perhaps even essential) role in determining a person’s moral standing. Nagel suggests that the intuition is correct and lies at the heart of the notion of morality, but he also endorses the view that luck will inevitably influence a person’s moral standing. This leads him to suspect there is a real paradox in the notion of morality.

We might wonder whether the problem Nagel presents is best thought of as a problem about luck or if it is really about control. That is, is Nagel’s worry that luck seems to play a role in determining a person’s moral standing or that things which are beyond that person’s control seem to affect her moral standing? The answer is both. Nagel thinks that luck should be understood as operating where control is lacking, so for him the problem about control and the problem about luck are one and the same. The important point, however, is that Nagel seems to think that, quite aside from how luck is analyzed, there is a real problem if luck ever makes a moral difference.

This is important because there is reason to think the identification of luck with lack of control is mistaken. An event can be out of one’s control or, for that matter, anyone else’s, yet still not such that we would say one is lucky that it occurred. An event such as the rising of the sun this morning was entirely out of one’s control, yet it is not at all clear that one is lucky the sun rose this morning, although it is surely a good thing that it did. Why? Perhaps because, regardless of whether one had any control over the occurrence of that event, the chance of that event occurring was very good indeed. (A successful account of luck must weave together these ideas about chance and control. Questions about the nature of luck have been dealt with remarkably little in the literature on moral luck. See Rescher, 1995, for the beginnings of an account of luck.) But even if an event’s being lucky (or unlucky) for a given person is identical with that event being out of that person’s control, we are left with a problem of moral luck. For this reason, it is in terms of luck rather than lack of control that we shall hereafter frame the problem.

The problem of moral luck lies in the thought that luck sometimes makes a moral difference. But, as we have noted, there is more than one way in which luck might make a moral difference. Two sorts of difference are discussed in the literature on moral luck, although these are not always clearly distinguished. These two sorts of difference are represented by two different thoughts: (a) the thought that the unfortunate driver is no worse a person than the fortunate driver, and (b) the thought that since we cannot plausibly hold the fortunate driver responsible for the death of a child (as no death occurred in his case), neither can we hold the unfortunate driver morally responsible for that death. The second thought has to do with the assigning of individual events to a person. The first involves a more direct assessment of a person. It involves an assessment of how much credit or discredit attaches directly to a person. We can use the term “moral worth” to capture both credit and discredit.

We have two sorts of question to consider:

  1. Can luck make a difference in a person’s moral worth?
  2. Can luck make a difference in what a person is morally responsible for?

Which of these questions is Nagel’s? It is difficult to tell. Nagel does briefly refer to the problem of moral luck as a “fundamental problem about moral responsibility,” but most of the time his worries are about blame, a notion with overtones of both sorts of moral difference (Nagel, 1993, p. 58). Is he concerned that the driver will be blamed for the event of the child’s death or that the unlucky driver himself will be rated morally worse than the lucky driver (that is, blamed more)? Nagel seems to entertain both possibilities, asking both whether the unfortunate driver is to blame for more and whether he is a worse person than the unfortunate driver. Indeed, it may be the case that Nagel thinks the two questions are inseparable, that we cannot make sense of the idea of holding a person morally to blame for some event without this, at the same time, being counted as a reason to lower that person’s moral credit rating.

Nothing Nagel says clearly reveals his position on this point. For now, it is enough simply to bear both sorts of moral difference in mind. The important point is that, in either case, there is something troubling about the idea that luck might make a moral difference. Yet, it seems we allow luck into our moral judgments all the time. We do think less of the unfortunate driver. We do hold him responsible for the death of the child. On the face of it, this might not seem particularly troubling. We might admit that, on occasion, we judge people for things that happen as a result of luck, but simply claim that in any such case a mistake has been made. The mere fact that we do sometimes judge people for things that happen due to luck does not indicate that we should judge people for things that happen due to luck nor that we intend to. The problem Nagel points out, however, is that when we consider the sorts of things that influence us “Ultimately, nothing or almost nothing about what a person does seems to be under his control” (Nagel, 1993, p. 59) That is, everything we do seems at some level to involve luck. Nagel makes a helpful comparison to the problem of epistemological skepticism. Just as the problem of skepticism emerges from the clash of our intuition that knowledge should be certain and non-accidental with the fact that few, if any, of our true beliefs are entirely certain or free from accident, so:

The erosion of moral judgment emerges not as the absurd consequence of an over-simple theory, but as a natural consequence of the ordinary idea of moral assessment, when it is applied in view of a more complete and precise account of the facts. (Nagel, 1993, 59)

b. Four Types of Luck

What are these facts? Nagel identifies four ways in which luck plays into our moral assessments:

  1. Resultant Luck: “luck in the way one’s actions and projects turn out.”
  2. Circumstantial Luck: the luck involved in “the kind of problems and situations one faces”
  3. Causal Luck: “luck in how one is determined by antecedent circumstances.”
  4. Constitutive Luck: the luck involved in one’s having the “inclinations, capacities and temperament” that one does. (Nagel, 1993, 60)10

Nagel identifies, but does not give names to all four types of luck. He does write of “constitutive luck,” an expression he probably gets from Williams. Williams, however, intends constitutive luck to have a wider scope than Nagel does. Williams appears to want constitutive luck to encompass what we have called “circumstantial” and “causal” luck (Williams, 1993a, p. 36). The names “circumstantial” and “causal” luck here are from Daniel Statman (1993, p. 11). The term “resultant luck” comes from Michael Zimmerman (1993, p. 219) Other names have been given to resultant, circumstantial, and causal luck. Resultant luck has been called “consequential luck” (Mendus, 1988, p. 334), circumstantial luck has been called “situational luck” (Walker, 1993, p. 235), and causal luck has been called “determining luck” (Mendus, 1988, p. 334).

Each of these four types of luck is worth considering so that we might be clear on the differences between the different types. We should bear in mind, however, that we may ultimately disagree about whether these constitute cases of moral luck—something we will say more about shortly.

i. Resultant Luck

Nagel gives us several examples of resultant luck. One we have already seen is the case of the fortunate and unfortunate drunk drivers. Nagel also makes much of decisions, particularly political ones, made under uncertainty. He gives the example of someone who must decide whether to instigate a revolution against a brutal regime. She knows that the revolution will be bloody and that, if it fails, those involved will be slaughtered and the regime will become even more brutal. She also knows that if no revolution occurs, the regime will become no less brutal than it currently is. If she succeeds she will be a hero, if she fails she will bear “some responsibility” for the terrible consequences of that failure (Nagel, 1993, pp. 61-62). Thus, how the revolution turns out, something which might be almost entirely a matter of resultant luck, seems to have a great deal to do with the moral credit or blame she will receive. Again, Nagel means to suggest that luck will affect not just what praise or blame she actually receives, but also what praise or blame she deserves, regardless of how she is actually treated.

ii. Circumstantial Luck

Just as luck may interfere in the course of our actions to produce results that have a profound influence on the way we are morally judged, so our luck in being in the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time can have a profound effect on the way we are morally assessed. Nagel’s example is of a person who lives in Germany during the Second World War and “behaves badly” (Nagel, 1993, p. 65). We are surely inclined to blame such a person, to hold him or her responsible for what he or she did. But Nagel asks us to contrast this person with a German who moves to Argentina shortly before the War for business reasons. Suppose that the expatriate would have behaved just as badly as the German if he had remained in Germany. Are we willing to say the expatriate should be judged as harshly as the German? If not, circumstantial luck has made a moral difference.

We can make this sort of case more troubling if we vary the way in which the person has “behaved badly.” If the bad behaviour is gleefully shooting hundreds of people as the guard of a concentration camp, then we may be inclined to think of the expatriate—who would have behaved the same way given the chance—as an undiscovered monster who rightly should be judged as harshly as the German. In such an extreme case, it is easy enough to claim that luck does not make a moral difference even if it makes a difference in whether we discover that the expatriate is so morally repellent. But, if the bad behaviour is something less drastic, say, in refusing to give refuge to a Jewish family being pursued by the Nazis, we can be much less confident that we would not have failed in the same way. Are we willing to say that those of us who would have failed had we been in such circumstances should be assessed in the same way as the German who actually failed? It is not at all clear that we are.

iii. Causal Luck

Nagel says very little about causal luck and the same is true of those who have written about moral luck after him. The worry about causal luck should be clear enough since it is precisely the sort of worry found in the debate on free will and determinism. It also seems to be a redundant sort of luck, included by Nagel only to indicate the connection between the problem of moral luck and the debate about free will and determinism. It is redundant because circumstantial and constitutive luck seem to cover the same territory. Constitutive luck covers what we are, while circumstantial luck covers what happens to us. Nothing else seems to remain that can play a role in determining what we do.

This relationship between the controversy about free will versus determinism and worries about causal luck might, as has sometimes been suggested, be applied to the whole problem of moral luck. In other words, is the entire problem of moral luck nothing but the problem of free will and determinism in different clothing? It certainly does cover some of the same territory. Like worries about the compatibility of free will and determinism, worries about moral luck get their start when we notice how much of what is supposed to be morally significant about us is simply thrust upon us whether we like it or not. But while they cover some of the same territory, the notions upon which the problems turn are quite different. In particular, neither of the notions frequently discussed in the free will debate (free will or determinism) is of central concern when we think about moral luck. Take the latter notion (determinism) first. Suppose that determinism is true (and we were aware of this), such that it would have been possible in, say, 1897 to correctly predict that Jane would win the lottery this weekend. We would be no less inclined to say that Jane was lucky to win the lottery. So luck can still exist whether or not the world is deterministic. Now consider the former notion (free will). Suppose that Jane wins the lottery, but everyone, including Jane, lacks the kind of control over their actions that freedom of the will requires. It would arguably still be appropraite to say that it was a matter of luck that Jane won the lottery. Like determinism, then, it seems that we needn’t worry about whether people possess free will when discussing moral luck. Thus, it is reasonable to think of the problem of moral luck as related to, but distinct from, the problem of free will and determinism.

iv. Constitutive Luck

A natural reaction to worries about resultant and circumstantial luck is to suggest that what matters is not how a person’s actions turn out or what circumstances they chance to encounter, but what is in that person’s “heart” so to speak. As Nagel says, we “pare each act down to its morally essential core, an inner act of pure will assessed by motive and intention” (1993, p. 63). To do so, however, is to open oneself up to worries about constitutive moral luck. If we focus on a person’s character, then what of the luck involved in determining what that person’s character is? It may be that, in a given situation, Jane did not act with good intentions, but perhaps this was because Jane was unlucky enough to be born a bitter or spiteful person. Why then should her bad intentions figure in her blameworthiness? Nagel suggests they should not. He claims that we should not praise or condemn people for qualities that are not under the control of the will (and so not under their control). But as reasonable as this may sound, Nagel also claims we cannot refrain from making judgments about a person’s moral status based upon just this sort of uncontrollable feature. If we did so refrain, it is not clear we would be able to make any judgments at all. In the end, people are assessed for what they are like, not for how they ended up that way.

c. The Problem Summarized

The notion of constitutive luck illustrates the difficulty of the problem of moral luck. Our temptation is to avoid the other sorts of luck by focusing on what the person really is. In this way, we try to discount worries about the luck that affects the way our actions turn out or the luck that places us in situations in which we make unfortunate decisions. We focus on the core of the person, on his or her character. But on reaching that core, we are disappointed to find that luck has been at work there too. The trouble is that there is nowhere further to retreat when we are at the level of moral character. If we retreat further, there is no person left to morally assess. Nagel concludes that “in a sense the problem has no solution” (1993, p. 68). The cost of not admitting the existence of moral luck is giving up the idea of agency. We seem driven to the conclusion that no one is blameworthy for anything. But the alternative is to preserve our notions of agency and responsibility by concluding that moral value is subject to luck.

So the problem of moral luck, as Nagel conceives of it, traps us between an intuition and a fact:

  1. the intuition is that luck must not make moral differences (for example, that luck must not affect a person’s moral worth, that luck must not affect what a person is morally responsible for).
  2. the fact is that luck does seem to make moral differences (for example, we blame the unfortunate driver more than the fortunate driver).

(The problem could equally well be presented as a conflict between intuitions. The fact that luck does seem to make moral differences would not be so troubling if we did not have the intuition that it is sometimes right that luck does this. We will follow Nagel in conceiving of the conflict as one between intuition and fact. This seems the natural way to introduce it. We discover the problem when we notice how practices that, at first glance, seem right conflict with our intuition that luck should not make moral differences.)

3. Responses to the Problem

Responses to the problem have been of two broad sorts:

  1. The intuition is mistaken: there is nothing wrong with luck making a moral difference.
  2. The so-called “fact” is not a fact at all: luck never does make a moral difference.

The first sort of response has been the least popular. When it has been made, the approach has usually been to suggest that, if cases of moral luck are troubling, this is only because we have a mistaken view of morality. Brynmor Browne (1992), for instance, has argued that moral luck is only troubling because we mistakenly tend to think of moral assessment as bound up with punishment. He argues that, once we correct our thinking, cases of moral luck cease to be troubling. In an argument reminiscent of Williams, Margaret Urban Walker (1993) claims that cases of moral luck are only troubling if we adopt the mistaken view of agency she calls “pure agency.” She argues that this view has repugnant implications and so should be rejected in favour a view of agency on which moral luck ceases to be troubling (namely “impure agency”). Judith Andre (1993) claims that we find cases of moral luck troubling because some of our thinking about morality is influenced by Kant. She adds, however, that the core of our thinking about morality is Aristotelian and that Aristotelians need not be troubled by cases of moral luck. The claims of all these authors are controversial.

(Martha Nussbaum’s The Fragility of Goodness (1986) is an important work in which she considers Greek views towards luck and ethics. In particular, she presents Plato and Aristotle as disagreeing about whether a good life must be invulnerable to luck, arguing that for Plato it must, but for Aristotle it need not. Her views on these matters are controversial. She has been accused of reading too much Bernard Williams into Aristotle. See Farwell (1994), Irwin (1988) and Woodruff (1989) for helpful discussions of Nussbaum’s book.)

The most popular response to the problem of moral luck has been of the second sort: to deny that cases of moral luck ever occur. This is usually done by suggesting that cases in which luck appears to make a moral difference are really cases in which luck makes an epistemic difference—that is, in which luck puts us in a better or worse position to assess a person’s moral standing (without actually changing that standing). Consider the case of the fortunate and unfortunate drivers. On this line of argument, it is claimed that there is no moral difference between them, it is just that in the case of the unfortunate driver we have a clear indication of his deficient moral standing. The fortunate driver is lucky in the sense that his moral failings may escape detection, but not in actually having a moral standing any different from that of the unfortunate driver. Along these lines, we find passages like the following:

…the luck involved relates not to our moral condition but only to our image: it relates not to what we are but to how people (ourselves included) will regard us. (Rescher, 1993, 154-5)

A culprit may thus be lucky or unlucky in how clear his deserts are. (Richards, 1993, 169)

…if actual harm occurs, the agent and others considering his act will have a painful awareness of this harm. (Jensen, 1993, 136)

…the actual harm serves only to make vivid how wicked the behaviour was because of the danger it created. (Bennett, 1995, 59-60)

While appealing, the difficulty with this response to the problem of moral luck is that it tends to work better for some sorts of luck than others. While it is plausible that resultant or circumstantial luck might make only epistemic differences, perhaps revealing or concealing a person’s character, it is not at all clear that constitutive luck can make only epistemic differences. If a person possesses a very dishonest character by luck, what feature of the person does luck reveal to us that (non-luckily) determines his moral status?

One response to this worry has been to deny that the notion of constitutive luck is coherent. (See, in particular, Rescher, 1995, pp. 155-158 and also Hurley, 1993, pp. 197-198.) This claim turns upon a substantive claim about the nature of luck, a topic that has been surprisingly absent from the literature on moral luck. So one might worry that it is only by investigating the nature of luck that we will be able to reach any sort of a final conclusion regarding the problem of moral luck. Furthermore, while it is not defended here, one might argue that such an investigation will lead to the view that cases of moral luck are both inescapable and troubling; the problem of moral luck is both real and deep.

4. References and Further Reading

The two main papers discussed in this article by Nagel and Williams, both entitled “Moral Luck,” were originally published in The Aristotelian Society Supplementary, Volume 1, 1976. Revised versions of both papers were published as chapters of Williams (1981) and Nagel (1979). The revised versions of these papers are also included in an excellent anthology edited by Daniel Statman (1993). Althought these two papers by Nagel and Williams started the discussion of the problem of moral luck using the phrase “moral luck,” the relevant problem has been discussed before. See, for instance, Joel Feinberg (1962).

  • Andre, J. (1993) “Nagel, Williams and Moral Luck.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 123-129.
  • Bennett, J. (1995) The Act Itself. Oxford University Press, New York.
  • Browne, B. (1992) “A Solution To The Problem of Moral Luck.” The Philosophical Quarterly. 42, pp. 345-356.
  • Farwell, P. (1994) “Aristotle, Success, and Moral Luck.” Journal of Philosophical Research. 19, pp. 37-50.
  • Feinberg, J. (1962) “Problematic Responsibility in Law and Morals.” The Philosophical Review. 71, pp. 340-351.
  • Goldman, A. (1989) “Précis and Update of Epistemology and Cognition.” Knowledge and Skepticism. Marjorie Clay and Keith Lehrer (Eds.). Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, pp. 69-87.
  • Hurley, S. L. (1993) “Justice Without Constitutive Luck.” Ethics: Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement. A. Phillips Griffiths (Ed.). 35, pp. 179-212.
  • Irwin, T. H. (1988) Review of The Fragility of Goodness. The Journal of Philosophy. 85, pp. 376-383.
  • Jensen, H. (1993) “Morality and Luck.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 131-140.
  • Kant, I. (1949) “On a Supposed Right To Lie From Altruistic Motives.” Critique of Practical Reason and Other Writings in Moral Philosophy. Lewis White Beck (Trans. & Ed.). University of Chicago Press, Chicago, pp. 346-50.
  • Mendus, S. (1988) “The Serpent and the Dove.” Philosophy. 63, pp. 331-343.
  • Nagel, T. (1979) Mortal Questions. Cambridge University Press, New York.
  • Nagel, T. (1993) “Moral Luck.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 57-71.
  • Nussbaum, M. (1986) The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy. Cambridge University Press, New York.
  • Rescher, N. (1993) “Moral Luck.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 141-166.
  • Rescher, N. (1995) Luck: The Brilliant Randomness of Everyday Life. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. New York.
  • Richards, N. (1993) “Luck and Desert.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 167-180.
  • Rosebury, B. (1995) “Moral Responsibility and ‘Moral Luck’.” The Philosophical Review. 104, pp. 499-524.
  • Statman, D. (Ed.) (1993) Moral Luck. State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 1-25.
  • Walker, M. U. (1993) “Moral Luck and the Virtues of Impure Agency.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 235-250.
  • Williams, B. (1981) Moral Luck. Cambridge University Press, New York.
  • Williams, B. (1985) Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts.
  • Williams, B. (1993a) “Moral Luck.” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 35-55.
  • Williams, B. (1993b) “Postscript” Moral Luck. Daniel Statman (Ed.). State University of New York Press, Albany, New York, pp. 251-258.
  • Woodruff, P. (1989) “Review of Martha Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness.Philosophy and Phenomenological Research. 50, pp. 205-210.

Author Information

Andrew Latus
St. Francis Xavier University
U. S. A.

Moral Character

At the heart of one major approach to ethics—an approach counting among its proponents Plato, Aristotle, Augustine and Aquinas—is the conviction that ethics is fundamentally related to what kind of persons we are. Many of Plato’s dialogues, for example, focus on what kind of persons we ought to be and begin with examinations of particular virtues:

What is the nature of justice? (Republic)
What is the nature of piety? (Euthyphro)
What is the nature of temperance? (Charmides)
What is the nature of courage? (Laches)

On the assumption that what kind of person one is is constituted by one’s character, the link between moral character and virtue is clear. We can think of one’s moral character as primarily a function of whether she has or lacks various moral virtues and vices.

The virtues and vices that comprise one’s moral character are typically understood as dispositions to behave in certain ways in certain sorts of circumstances. For instance, an honest person is disposed to telling the truth when asked. These dispositions are typically understood as relatively stable and long-term. Further, they are also typically understood to be robust, that is, consistent across a wide-spectrum of conditions. We are unlikely, for example, to think that an individual who tells the truth to her friends but consistently lies to her parents and teachers possesses the virtue of honesty.

Moral character, like most issues in moral psychology, stands at the intersection of issues in both normative ethics and empirical psychology. This suggests that there are conceivably two general approaches one could take when elucidating the nature of moral character. One could approach moral character primarily by focusing on standards set by normative ethics; whether people can or do live up to these standards is irrelevant. Alternatively, one could approach moral character under the guideline that normative ethics ought to be constrained by psychology. On this second approach, it’s not that the normative/descriptive distinction disappears; instead, it is just that a theory of moral character ought to be appropriately constrained by what social psychology tells us moral agents are in fact like. Moreover, precisely because virtue approaches make character and its components central to ethical theorizing, it seems appropriate that such approaches take the psychological data on character and its components seriously. This desire for a psychologically sensitive ethics partly explains the recent resurgence of virtue ethics, but it also leads to numerous challenges to the idea that agents possess robust moral characters.

Table of Contents

  1. 1. Moral Character, Ethics and Virtue Theory
    1. a. Character and Three Major Approaches to Ethics
    2. b. Moral vs. Non-moral Character
    3. c. Moral Responsibility
  2. 2. A Traditional View of Moral Character
    1. a. Dispositions in General
    2. b. Virtues and Vices as Dispositions
      1. i. Relatively Stable, Fixed and Reliable
      2. ii. Dispositions of Action and Affect
      3. iii. Rationally Informed
    3. c. Three Central Features
      1. i. Robustness Claim
      2. ii. Stability Claim
      3. iii. Integrity Claim
  3. 3. Challenges to Moral Character
    1. a. Situationism
    2. b. Moral Luck
    3. c. Impossibility of Being Responsible for One’s Character
    4. d. Responses
  4. 4. Conclusion
  5. 5. References and Further Reading
    1. a. Character and Virtue
    2. b. Dispositions
    3. c. Challenges to the Traditional View

1. Moral Character, Ethics and Virtue Theory

Etymologically, the term “character” comes from the ancient Greek term charaktêr, which initially referred to the mark impressed upon a coin. The term charaktêr later came to refer more generally to any distinctive feature by which one thing is distinguished from others. Along this general line, in contemporary usage character often refers to a set of qualities or characteristics that can be used to differentiate between persons. It is used this way, for example, commonly in literature. In philosophy, however, the term character is typically used to refer to the particularly moral dimension of a person. For example, Aristotle most often used the term ēthē for character, which is etymologically linked to “ethics” and “morality” (via the Latin equivalent mores).

Aristotle’s discussion of moral character, and virtue in particular, is the most influential treatment of such issues. For this reason, his discussion will be used as a beginning point. The Greek word used by Aristotle and most commonly translated as virtue is aretē, which is perhaps better translated as “goodness” or “excellence.” In general, an excellence is a quality that makes an individual a good member of its kind. For example, it is an excellence of an ax if it is able to cut wood. An excellence, therefore, is a property whereby its possessor operates well or fulfills its function. Along these same lines, it is helpful to think of excellences as defining features of one’s character. Aristotle, for instance, sometimes speaks of a good moral character as “human excellence” or an “excellence of soul” (Nicomachean Ethics I.13). The idea here is the same as with the axe—having a good moral character helps its possessor operate well and live up to her potential, thereby fulfilling her nature.

In Nicomachean Ethics Book II, Aristotle distinguishes two kinds of excellences or virtues: excellences of intellect and excellences of character (though, as we shall see below, he does not think these two are completely separable). The excellences of thought include epistemic or intellectual virtues such as technical expertise accomplishment and practical wisdom. The last of these, practical wisdom, is particularly important and will be discussed in greater detail below because of its relationship with the excellences of character. Given their connection with the intellect, it is not surprising that he thought these excellences are fostered through instruction and teaching.

Aristotle’s phrase for the excellences of character is ēthikē aretē, literally “virtue of character,” and is sometimes translated as “moral virtue.” As discussed in greater detail below, the excellences of character are dispositions to act and feel in certain ways. Aristotle famously thought a moral disposition was virtuous when it was in proper proportion, which he described as a mean between two extremes:

Excellence [of character], then, is a disposition issuing in decisions, depending on intermediacy of the kind relative to us, this being determined by rational prescription and in the way in which the wise person would determine it. And it is intermediacy between two bad states, one involving excess, the other involving deficiency; and also because one set of bad states is deficient, the other excessive in relation to what is required both in affections and actions, whereas excellence both finds and chooses the intermediate. (Nicomachean Ethics II.7).

For instance, the courageous person is one who is disposed to feel neither more nor less fear than the situation calls for. Furthermore, insofar as the excellences of character include a person’s emotions and feelings, and not just her actions, there is a distinction between acting virtuously and doing a virtuous action. Merely doing the right action is not sufficient to have the moral excellences. One must also be the right sort of individual or have the right sort of character.

The subject of moral character belongs to virtue theory more generally, which is the philosophical examination of notions related to the virtues. Roger Crisp distinguishes virtue ethics and virtue theory as follows: “Virtue theory is the area of inquiry concerned with the virtues in general; virtue ethics is narrower and prescriptive, and consists primarily in the advocacy of the virtues” (Crisp 1998, 5). Virtue ethics is a sub-species of virtue theory insofar as the former attempts to base ethics on evaluation of virtue.

a. Character and Three Major Approaches to Ethics

It is commonplace to differentiate three major approaches to normative ethics: consequentialism, deontology, and virtue ethics. At the heart of consequentialist theories is the idea that the moral action is the one that produces the best consequences. According to deontological theories, morality is primarily a function of duties or obligations, regardless of the consequences of acting in accordance with those duties. Both of these sets of theories are commonly described as ethics of rules. In contrast, virtue theories give primacy of importance not to rules, but to particular habits of character such as the virtue of courage or the vice of greed. This description of these three approaches is a vast over-simplification. For example, the ethical writings of Immanuel Kant are often taken to be the epitome of deontology, but his Lectures on Ethics and the second part of The Metaphysics of Morals focus largely on virtue. Nevertheless, even this short discussion illustrates how moral character plays a particularly central role in virtue ethics, even if it can also play a similar role in other approaches to normative ethics.

Most ancient philosophers were virtue theorists of some sort or other. Virtue ethics was often criticized during the modern period, but has experienced a revival in recent years. This recent resurgence in virtue ethics, and virtue theory more generally, has many sources. Two of the most notable are G. E. M. Anscombe’s “Modern Moral Philosophy” (1958) and John Rawls’s A Theory of Justice (1971). In her article, Anscombe criticizes deontological and consequentialist approaches to ethics for wrongly focusing on legalistic notions of obligations and rules. She suggests that ethics would benefit from an adequate philosophy of psychology. According to Anscombe, only a return to a virtue approach to ethics and the notions of human flourishing and well-being will be able to provide for the future flourishing of ethics. Less directly influential is Rawls. Though the primary aim of A Theory of Justice is not virtue ethics, Rawls’s discussion of the good citizen affords an important place to virtue and moral character in part III: “the representative member of a well-ordered society will find that he wants others to have the basic virtues, and in particular a sense of justice” (Rawls 1971, 436).

b. Moral vs. Non-moral Character

Persons have all kinds of traits: physical, psychological, social traits. Not all of these traits are particularly moral in nature, though they can impact one’s moral character. Psychologist Lawrence Pervin defines a personality trait as “a disposition to behave expressing itself in consistent patterns of functioning across a range of situations” (Pervin 1994, 108). But even among such traits, some do not appear to be morally relevant. For instance, Holli’s disposition to drink coffee rather than tea, or her disposition to exercise by jogging rather than doing yoga, will not be morally relevant in most cases. We thus need a way to differentiate those traits that are morally relevant from those that are not, particularly because philosophers and psychologists tend to use the term “character trait” in slightly different ways. Yet the differences are crucial. Philosophers typically think that moral character traits, unlike other personality or psychological traits, have an irreducibly evaluative dimension; that is, they involve a normative judgment. The evaluative dimension is directly related to the idea that the agent is morally responsible for having the trait itself or for the outcome of that trait. Thus, a specifically moral character trait is a character trait for which the agent is morally responsible.

c. Moral Responsibility

According to a widespread approach to moral responsibility, to be morally responsible is to be deserving of the reactive attitudes. According to Peter Strawson, whose work on moral responsibility has had wide influence, the reactive attitudes “are essentially natural human reactions to the good or ill will or indifference of others towards us, as displayed in their attitudes and actions” (P. Strawson 1997, 127). These reactive attitudes can be either positive (as in cases of moral praise, gratitude, respect, love), or negative (as in cases of moral blame, resentment, indignation). In other words, a person is morally responsible for performing some action X only if that person is the apt recipient of praise (or gratitude, etc.) or blame (or resentment, etc.). On such an account, a person could be responsible for some action even if no other person in fact actually held her responsible. A person could be deserving of resentment, for example, for performing some action even if no one does, in fact, resent her for performing that action.

Most work on moral responsibility has focused on an agent’s responsibility for her actions. Such an account of moral responsibility, however, can be extended beyond actions to include character traits as well. Consider the case of Chester. Chester has a very strong desire to molest young children. If he thought he could get away with it, he would abduct and molest the children playing on the playground near his house. But Chester is very afraid of getting caught since there is a police station across the street from the playground. As a result of his fear, Chester never does in fact molest any children, and thus isn’t deserving of blame or punishment for his behavior in this regard. Despite this fact, there is still something morally wrong with Chester; he is deserving of blame for being the kind of individual that wants to molest children and would if he could get away with it.

Finally, there are two related sets of questions that may be asked about responsibility. The first set of questions is about the general conditions that must be met in order for an agent to be morally responsible. Such questions include:

  • What kind of control over one’s actions is required for an agent to be morally responsible?
  • What is the epistemic condition that must be met in order for an agent to be morally responsible?
  • Must an action flow from an agent’s moral character for her to be responsible for it?

The second sort of question attempts to figure out what candidates are subject to the conditions for moral responsibility, in other words, whether a particular individual satisfies these conditions. In what follows, it will be assumed that only persons are morally responsible agents. However, it does not follow from the fact that a person is a morally responsible agent that she is morally responsible for all her actions and character traits.

2. A Traditional View of Moral Character

The previous section helped to differentiate moral versus non-moral character traits via their relationship with moral responsibility. In short, moral character traits are those for which the possessor is the proper recipient of the reactive attitudes. Little was said, however, about the exact nature of a moral character trait. The present section explores the nature of the most common understanding of moral character traits, which I will call “the Traditional View of Moral Character,” or Traditional View for short. Different theories within the Traditional View will, of course, fill out the details in diverse ways. So it will be helpful to think of the Traditional View as a family of similar and related views, rather than a fully developed and determinate view itself.

As mentioned earlier, the moral character traits that constitute one’s moral character are typically understood as behavioral and affective dispositions. For this reason, it will be helpful to look at dispositions in general before turning toward specifically moral dispositions. This is the topic of the first sub-section below. The second sub-section looks at virtues and vices as particular kinds of dispositions. The third sub-section discusses the three central claims of the Traditional View of moral character. (The present entry will not address the related issue of the development of moral character—see the entry on Moral Development.)

a. Dispositions in General

Dispositions are particular kinds of properties or characteristics that objects can possess. Examples of dispositions include the solubility of a sugar-cube in water, the fragility of porcelain, the elasticity of a rubber band, and the magnetism of a lodestone. Dispositional properties are usually contrasted with non-dispositional or categorical properties. Providing a fully adequate account of this distinction is difficult, though the basic idea is fairly easy to grasp (for a discussion of these issues, see Mumford 1998, particularly Chapter 4). Compare the solubility of a sugar-cube in water with its volume. The sugar-cube’s solubility means that it would dissolve if placed in water. The sugar-cube need not actually be placed in water to be soluble; one simply sees that it is soluble when it is placed in water. In contrast, one need not do anything to the sugar-cube to see that it has the categorical property of volume, for the sugar-cube always manifests this property in a way that it does not always manifest solubility in water. For dispositional properties, there is a difference between an object having such a property and manifesting its disposition (this same point will be true of the virtues discussed below). This contrast suggests that dispositional properties fundamentally involve conditionality in a way that categorical properties do not. What objects are soluble in water at standard temperature and pressure? Just those that would dissolve if placed in water at standard temperature and pressure.

There are a number of metaphysical questions about dispositions. Is the conditionality involved in dispositions to be understood counter-factually, or some other way? Are colors dispositional or categorical properties? Can dispositional properties be reduced to categorical properties, or vice versa? Such questions, however, need not concern us here. Instead, it is sufficient to note that a thing’s dispositional properties are often just as important to us as their non-dispositional properties. There would be significantly fewer college students, for example, with avidity for beer were it not disposed to cause intoxication in those who drink it. Dispositions can help explain not only why past events happened, but also provide the grounds for future events.

Certain kinds of objects are dispositional in nature; thermostats, for example. While persons aren’t inherently dispositional in this way, they can and do have numerous dispositions. Persons have some dispositions in virtue of their physical bodies (such as solubility in certain solvents) and other dispositions in virtue of their mental lives (such as a disposition to play the piano when one is present, or to give to Oxfam if asked). In fact, Gilbert Ryle has famously suggested that the mind, rather than being another substance in addition to the body, is just a set of dispositions for the body to behave in certain ways (It is on this basis that Ryle argues that substance dualism is a category mistake; see Ryle 1949, Chapter 1). Whether one accepts Ryle’s claim, persons have behavioral and affective dispositions that impact our moral judgments of those persons. It is to these moral character traits that we now turn.

b. Virtues and Vices as Dispositions

Moral character traits are those dispositions of character for which it is appropriate to hold agents morally responsible. A trait for which the agent is deserving of a positive reactive attitude, such as praise or gratitude, is a virtue, and a vice is a trait for which the agent is deserving of a negative reactive attitude, such as resentment or blame. Moral character traits are relatively stable, fixed and reliable dispositions of action and affect that ought to be rationally informed. The subsequent sub-sections will further elucidate these various aspects of moral character traits.

i. Relatively Stable, Fixed and Reliable

Moral character traits are relatively stable and reliable dispositions, and thus should be reasonably good predictors over time of an agent’s behavior if that agent is in a trait-relevant situation. This does not mean, however, that such traits must be exceptionless. For example, a single case of dishonesty need not mean that an individual lacks a generally honest character. Thus, the dispositions should be understood as involving a particular level of probability. Furthermore, while such traits are malleable—individuals can change their moral character over time—such changes are usually not immediate, taking both time and effort.

ii. Dispositions of Action and Affect

Moral character traits are not just dispositions to engage in certain outward behaviors; they can also be dispositions to have certain emotions or affections. For example, justice is the disposition to treat others as they deserve to be treated, while courageousness is the disposition to feel the appropriate amount of fear called for by a situation. Additionally, as mentioned above with regard to dispositions in general, an individual can have a particular moral character trait and not currently be manifesting trait-relevant behavior or affect. An individual may be generous in her giving to charity, even if she is not engaged presently in any charitable action.

iii. Rationally Informed

In order for a moral character trait to be a virtue, it must not only be in accord with the relevant moral norms, but the disposition must also be informed by proper reasoning about the matter at hand. This is so because the virtues are excellences of character insofar as they are the best exercise of reason. In his discussion of the virtues, for example, Aristotle says that all the excellences of character must be informed by practical wisdom (phronēsis), itself a disposition to make morally discerning choices in practical matters. This suggests a link between intellectual virtues and virtues of character.

c. Three Central Features

With the above discussion of the nature of moral character traits in mind, the Traditional View can now be summarized as consisting primarily of three claims about moral character: the Robustness Claim, the Stability Claim and the Integrity Claim. The first two are claims about the nature of moral character traits, while the third is a claim about the relationship among traits within a particular individual.

i. Robustness Claim

According to the first central claim of the Traditional View, an individual with a particular moral character trait will exhibit trait-relevant behavior across a broad spectrum of trait-relevant situations. Such traits are said to be “robust” traits. For example, the Robustness Claim suggests that an honest person will tend to tell the truth in a wide range of honesty-related situations: honesty toward friends, family members, co-workers, students, etc. Given that moral character traits need not be exceptionless, a single counter-instance doesn’t rule out an individual’s possession of a particular trait and doesn’t contradict the Robustness Claim.

ii. Stability Claim

According to the Stability Claim, moral character traits are relatively stable over time. The Stability Claim doesn’t preclude the possibility of an individual changing his moral character over time. Rather, it holds that such changes take time. A soldier who has courageously proven himself in battle situations over the course of numerous years will not cease to be courageous overnight. If the soldier does act non-courageously in a particular battle, the Stability Claim suggests that we should still think of the soldier as possessing the virtue of courage unless the soldier behaves non-courageously for a significant period of time.

iii. Integrity Claim

According to the Integrity Claim, there is a probabilistic correlation between having one virtue and having other virtues. For example, an individual who is temperate with regard to the pleasures derived from food (the virtue of abstinence) is likely to also be temperate with regard to the pleasures derived from sexual intercourse (the virtue of chastity). Likewise, an individual with a particular vice is likely to possess other vices. Here, the Integrity Claim suggests that an individual who is disposed to lie for monetary gain will likely also be disposed to cheat for monetary gain. The Traditional View thus expects a fairly high level of inter-trait consistency.

This is the most contentious and perhaps counter-intuitive of the three claims of the Traditional View. Examples such as the courageous and self-controlled bomber appear to be counterexamples to the Integrity Claim insofar as such an individual appears to possess some virtues (such as courage) but lack others (such as justice). Nevertheless, the Integrity Claim has a substantial pedigree among virtue theorists. Aristotle held that the multiplicity of virtues are all related by practical wisdom: “It is clear… it is not possible to possess excellence in the primary sense without [practical] wisdom, nor to be wise without excellence of character” (Nicomachean Ethics, 1144b30-32). Given the role that phronēsis plays, the “evaluative considerations” involved in the virtues are so interdependent that any individual having one virtue will have them all (see Nicomachean Ethics, 1144b30-1145a11). Plato similarly held that the various virtues are all related by justice. More recently, Raymond Devettere embraces the unity of the virtues thesis as follows:

If you have one virtue, you have them all…. Virtues cannot be separated—a person lacking the virtue of temperance also lacks the virtues of justice, love, and so forth. At first, this thesis appears counterintuitive, but once the central role of practical wisdom in each and every moral virtue is understood, the unity of the virtues emerges as inevitable (Devettere 2002, 64).

Socrates took the unity among the virtues even further, arguing not only that the virtues are unified in this way, but that there is in fact ultimately only one virtue—wisdom; the apparent diversity of virtues is in reality just different expressions of this one virtue (Protagoras, 330e-333d).

3. Challenges to Moral Character

As indicated above, versions of the Traditional View of moral character outlined in the previous section have long been accepted within the virtue ethics tradition. Other ethical traditions such as utilitarianism and deontology have been less inclined to stress the importance of moral character, though there are exceptions. For example, Julia Driver’s Uneasy Virtue (2001) provides a consequentialist account of virtue. Similarly, as mentioned above, some of Kant’s ethical writings focus largely on virtue. Despite these exceptions, it is not surprising that many proponents of these other ethical traditions have critiqued the traditional understanding of moral character and its relation to virtue.

More recently, however, the traditional understanding of moral character outlined above has been criticized from other directions. One major source of criticism is motivated by the idea that normative ethics ought to be constrained by the best currently available psychological data. According to this view, theories of moral character ought to be constrained in certain regards by what social and cognitive psychology tells us moral agents are actually like. And recent empirical work suggests that agents lack the kind of robust moral character at the heart of the Traditional View. Other recent challenges arise from the fact that the preconditions for moral character cannot be met, either because they are undermined by moral luck, or because it is impossible for an agent to be morally responsible for anything, in which case moral character collapses. This section briefly considers these recent challenges.

a. Situationism

Recently, a number of philosophers and social scientists have begun to question the very presuppositions that robust theories of moral character and moral character traits are based on. The following quotation by John Doris captures this concern:

I regard this renaissance of virtue with concern. Like many others, I find the lore of virtue deeply compelling, yet I cannot help noticing that much of this lore rests on psychological theory that is some 2,500 years old. A theory is not bad simply because it is old, but in this case developments of more recent vintage suggest that the old ideas are in trouble. In particular, modern experimental psychology has discovered that circumstance has surprisingly more to do with how people behave than traditional images of character and virtue allow (Doris 2002, ix).

In other words, the Traditional View of moral character is empirically inadequate (see also Mischel 1968).

This criticism of the Traditional View began with attributionism, a branch of psychology that seeks to differentiate what is rightly attributable to an individual’s character from what is rightly attributable to outside features. Much of attribution theory attributes a significantly higher proportion of the causal basis of behavior to external factors and less to moral character than traditionally thought. According to such theorists, most individuals overestimate the role of dispositional factors such as moral character in explaining an individual’s behavior, and underestimate the role the situation plays in explaining an agent’s behavior. Gilbert Harmon expresses this idea as follows:

In trying to characterize and explain a distinctive action, ordinary thinking tends to hypothesize a corresponding distinctive characteristic of the agent and tends to overlook the relevant details of the agent’s perceived situation…. Ordinary attributions of character traits to people are often deeply misguided and it may even be the case that there… [are] no ordinary traits of the sort people think there are (Harman 1999, 315f).

Philosophers such as Doris and Harman have used this work in the social sciences to develop an alternative approach to moral character, commonly known as “Situationism.”

Like the Traditional View, Situationism can be understood as comprised of three central claims:

  1. Non-robustness Claim: moral character traits are not robust—that is, they are not consistent across a wide spectrum of trait-relevant situations. Whatever moral character traits an individual has are situation-specific.
  2. Consistency Claim: while a person’s moral character traits are relatively stable over time, this should be understood as consistency of situation specific traits, rather than robust traits.
  3. Fragmentation Claim: a person’s moral character traits do not have the evaluative integrity suggested by the Integrity Claim. There may be considerable disunity in a person’s moral character among her situation-specific character traits.

Thus, Situationism rejects the first and third claims of the Traditional View, and embraces only a modified version of the second claim.

According to Situationists, the empirical evidence favors their view of moral character over the Traditional View. To cite just one early example, Hugh Hartshorne and M. A. May’s study of the trait of honesty among school children found no cross-situational correlation. A child may be consistently honest with his friends, but not with his parents or teachers. From this and other studies, Hartshorne and May concluded that character traits are not robust but rather “specific functions of life situations” (Hartshorne and May 1928, 379f). Other studies further call into question the Integrity Claim of the Traditional View.

b. Moral Luck

A second challenge to the traditional view can be found in the idea of moral luck. While there are a number of varieties of moral luck, the underlying idea is that moral luck occurs when the moral judgment of an agent depends on factors beyond the agent’s control. There are number of ways that moral luck can motivate criticisms of moral character.

A species of moral luck that is particularly relevant to Situationism is circumstantial or situational luck, which is the luck involved in “the kind of problems and situations one faces” (Nagel 1993, 60). If all of an agent’s moral character traits are situation-specific rather than robust, what traits an agent manifests will depend on the situation that she finds herself in. But what situations an agent finds herself in is often beyond her control and thus a matter of situational luck. According to one experiment conducted by Isen and Levin, experimenters looked for helping behavior in unaware subjects after they left a public phone-booth. Whether or not the individuals helped a person in need was found significantly influenced by whether or not one had just found a dime in the phone-booth. In the initial experiment, the results for the 41 subjects are as follows (Doris 2002, 30):

Helping Behavior
No Helping Behavior
Found Dime
14
2
Didn’t Find Dime
1
24

These results suggest that morally significant behavior such as helping another in need depends largely on minute factors of the situation that are not in the control of the agent. (It should be noted that Isen and Levin’s results have not been replicated in all subsequent studies. See, for example, the discussion in Chapter 4 of Doris’s text. Doris concludes that the set of results from all these experiments “in any event… exemplifies an established pattern of results” [Doris 2002, 180 footnote 4]).

But there is a more significant challenge that luck plays to the idea of moral character, regardless of the outcome of the dispute between proponents of the Traditional View and Situationists. Whether moral character traits are robust or situation-specific, some have suggested that what character traits one has is itself a matter of luck. If our having certain traits is itself a matter of luck, this would seem to undermine one’s moral responsibility for one’s moral character, and thus the concept of moral character altogether. As Owen Flanagan and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty write:

It [the morality and meaning of an individual’s life] will depend on luck in an individual’s upbringing, the values she is taught, the self-controlling and self-constructing capacities her social environment enables and encourages her to develop, the moral challenges she faces or avoids. If all her character, not just temperamental traits and dispositions but also the reflexive capacities for self-control and self-construction, are matters of luck, then the very ideas of character and agency are in danger of evaporation (Flanagan and Rorty 1990, 5).

c. Impossibility of Being Responsible for One’s Character

Related to the problem posed by moral luck is the third recent challenge to the Traditional View, namely the idea that moral responsibility is impossible. Indeed, this option may be understood as taking the problem that moral luck proposes to its logical conclusion.

It was suggested above that what makes a character trait a specifically moral character trait, and thus a constituent of a person’s moral character, is an evaluative dimension of that trait. A moral character trait is a character trait for which the agent is morally responsible; in other words, the apt recipient of the reactive attitudes. If moral responsibility is impossible, however, then agents cannot be held responsible for their character traits or for the behaviors that they do as a result of those character traits.

Why might one think that moral responsibility, and thus moral character, is impossible? Galen Strawson (1994) summarizes the argument, which he calls the Basic Argument, in this way:

  1. In order to be morally responsible, an agent would have to be a cause of itself or causa sui.
  2. Nothing can be causa sui.
  3. Therefore, no agent can be morally responsible.

The idea behind the Basic Argument can be elaborated as follows. In order for an agent, Allison, to be responsible for some action of hers, that action must be a result of the kind of person that Allison is. We might say, for instance, that Allison is blameworthy for eating too much chocolate at time T because she is a gluttonous individual. But in order for Allison to be responsible for being a gluttonous individual at T, she would have to be responsible at some earlier time T-1 for being the kind of person that would later become a gluttonous person. But in order for Allison to be responsible for being the kind of person that would later become a gluttonous person, she would have to be responsible at some earlier time T-2 for being the kind of person that would later become the kind of person that would later become a gluttonous person. According to Strawson, this line of thinking begins an infinite regress: “True self-determination is impossible because it requires the completion of an infinite series of choices of principles of choice” (G. Strawson, 7).

A similar argument has also recently been advocated by Bruce Waller. According to Waller, no one is “morally responsible for her character or deliberative powers, or for the results that flow from them…. Given the fact that she was shaped to have such characteristics by environmental (or evolutionary) forces far beyond her control, she deserves no blame [nor praise]” (Waller, 85f).

Of course, if moral responsibility is impossible, then all moral theories that involve responsibility are wrong, not just the Traditional View of moral character. So the argument for the impossibility of moral responsibility is not just a challenge for the Traditional View, but for all views. And there is perhaps reason to think that character-based approaches are better able to deal with this problem than are choice-based theories.

d. Responses

These recent challenges to the Traditional View have not gone unnoticed. Some have attempted to modify the Traditional View to insulate it from these challenges, while others have tried to show how these challenges fail to undermine the Traditional View at all. For example, Dana Nelkin (2005), Christian Miller (2003), Gopal Sreenivasan (2002), and John Sabini and Maury Silver (2005), among others, have argued that the empirical evidence cited by the Situationists does not show that individuals lack robust character traits.

4. Conclusion

Given the importance of moral character to issues in philosophy, it is unlikely that the debates over the nature of moral character will disappear anytime soon.

5. References and Further Reading

a. Character and Virtue

  • Anscombe, G. E. M. (1958). “Modern Moral Philosophy,” Philosophy 33:1-19.
  • Aristotle (2002). Nicomachean Ethics, translated by Christopher Rowe (Oxford University Press). A good translation of Aristotle’s text which also contains a very helpful introduction to Aristotle’s ethical thought by Sarah Broadie.
  • Brandt, Richard (1992). Morality, Utilitarianism, and Rights (Cambridge University Press).
  • Crisp, Roger (1998). “Modern Moral Philosophy and the Virtues,” in How Should One Live? Essays on the Virtues, ed. Roger Crisp (Oxford University Press): 1-18. A very good discussion of the virtues in modern ethics.
  • Devettere, Raymond (2002). Introduction to Virtue Ethics (Georgetown University Press). A very readable introduction to virtue ethics.
  • Driver, Julia (2001). Uneasy Virtue (Cambridge University Press). A consequentialist account of virtue.
  • Flanagan, Owen, and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty (1990). Identity, Character, and Morality (MIT Press). A collection of interesting and wide-ranging essays on topics related to moral character.
  • Kupperman, Joel (1995). Character (New York: Oxford University Press). Focuses on the nature and acquisition of moral character.
  • MacIntyre, Alasdair (1981). After Virtue (London: Duckworth). An influential book on the virtues and their relationship to modern ethics.
  • McKinnon, Christine (1999). Character, Virtue Theories, and the Vices (Broadview Press). A clear and thorough discussion of central themes in virtue ethics, with a focus on moral character.
  • Rawls, John (1971). A Theory of Justice (Harvard University Press).
  • Strawson, Peter (1997). “Freedom and Resentment,” in Free Will, ed. Derk Pereboom (Hackett Press): 119-142. A seminal discussion of the nature of moral responsibility and its relation to the reactive attitudes.

b. Dispositions

  • Mellor, D. H. (1974). “In Defense of Dispositions,” Philosophical Review 83: 157-181.
  • Mumford, Stephen (1998). Dispositions (Oxford University Press). One of the most thorough and detailed discussion of dispositions in general.
  • Prior, Elizabeth (1985). Dispositions (Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press).
  • Ryle, Gilbert (1949). The Concept of Mind (Hutchinson’s University Library). Contains Ryle’s famous argument that the mind is just the disposition of the body to behave in certain ways.

c. Challenges to the Traditional View

  • Doris, John (2002). Lack of Character: Personality and Moral Behavior (Cambridge University Press). A fascinating, and thorough, discussion of the psychological challenges to the Traditional View and a defense of Situationism.
  • Harman, Gilbert (1999). “Moral Philosophy Meets Social Psychology: Virtue Ethics and the Fundamental Attribution Error,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 99: 315-331. Another influential philosophical defense of Situationism.
  • Hartshorne, Hugh, and M. A. May (1928). Studies in the Nature of Character (Macmillan). Widely influential discussion of psychological challenges to the Traditional View.
  • Mischel, Walter (1968). Personality and Assessment (John J. Wiley and Sons). Contains a discussion of the psychological literature on the problems with the Traditional View
  • Nagel, Thomas (1993). “Moral Luck,” in Moral Luck, ed. Daniel Statman (State University of New York Press): 57-61.
  • Nelkin, Dana (2005). “Freedom, Responsibility, and the Challenge of Situationism,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 29 (Free Will and Moral Responsibility). An argument against Situationist conclusions.
  • Miller, Christian (2003). “Social Psychology and Virtue Ethics,” The Journal of Ethics 7: 365-392. A defense of the traditional view of moral character in the light of Situationist critiques.
  • Pervin, Lawrence (1994). “A Critical Analysis of Current Trait Theory,” Psychological Inquiry 5: 103-113.
  • Sabini, John and Maury Silver (2005). “Lack of Character? Situationism Critiqued,” Ethics 115: 535-562. A recent criticism of Situationism.
  • Sreenivasan, Gopal (2002). “Errors about Errors: Virtue Theory and Train Attribution,” Mind 111: 47-68. Another criticism of Situationism.
  • Strawson, Galen (1994). “The Impossibility of Moral Responsibility,” Philosophical Studies 75: 5-24. A well known and influential argument for the impossibility of moral responsibility.
  • Waller, Bruce N. (2006). “Denying Responsibility without Making Excuses,” American Philosophical Quarterly 43: 81-89.

Author Information

Kevin Timpe
Email: ktimpe@sandiego.edu
University of San Diego
U. S. A.

Giambattista Vico (1668—1744)

VicoGiambattista Vico is often credited with the invention of the philosophy of history. Specifically, he was the first to take seriously the possibility that people had fundamentally different schema of thought in different historical eras. Thus, Vico became the first to chart a course of history that depended on the way the structure of thought changed over time.

To illustrate the difference between modern thought and ancient thought, Vico developed a remarkable theory of the imagination. This theory led to an account of myth based on ritual and imitation that would resemble some twentieth century anthropological theories. He also developed an account of the development of human institutions that contrasts sharply with his contemporaries in social contract theory. Vico’s account centered on the class struggle that prefigures nineteenth and twentieth century discussions.

Vico did not achieve much fame during his lifetime or after. Nevertheless, a wide variety of important thinkers were influenced by Vico’s writings. Some of the more notable names on this list are Johann Gottfried von Herder, Karl Marx, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, James Joyce, Benedetto Croce, R. G. Collingwood and Max Horkheimer. References to Vico’s works can be found in the more contemporary writings of Jürgen Habermas, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Alasdair MacIntyre and many others.

There is no question that his work is difficult to grasp. Vico’s style is challenging. Further, he is heavily influenced by a number of traditions that many philosophers may find unfamiliar: the natural law tradition of thinkers like Grotius; the Roman rhetorical tradition of authors like Quintillian; and the current science and anthropology of his day. Nevertheless, Vico’s theories on culture, language, politics and religion are deeply insightful and have excited the imaginations of those who have read him.

Table of Contents

  1. Vico’s Life
  2. Early Works
    1. Vico as Anti-Cartesian and Anti-Enlightenment
    2. On the Study Methods of Our Time
    3. On the Ancient Wisdom of the Italians
      1. The Verum-Factum Principle
      2. Metaphysical Points and the Attack on Cartesian Stoicism
      3. Vico’s Use of Etymology
  3. Vico and Jurisprudence
    1. The Universal Law (Il Diritto Universale)
    2. The Verum/Certum Principle
    3. The Natural Law and the Law of the Gentes
  4. The New Science
    1. The Conceit of Nations and the Conceit of Scholars
    2. The New Critical Art and the Poetic Wisdom
    3. Vico’s Method
    4. The Ideal Eternal History
    5. The New Science and the Roman Catholic Church
    6. The Three Principles of History: Religion, Marriage and Burial
    7. The Imaginative Universal
    8. The Discovery of the True Homer
    9. The Barbarism of Reflection
  5. Autobiography
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Vico’s Life

Giambattista Vico was born in a small room above his father’s bookshop on the Via San Biagio dei Librai in the old center of Naples on June 23rd, 1668 . His family was poor, and Giambattista was the sixth of eight children (Auto 215-6). Vico recounts that at the age of seven he fell from the top of a ladder, probably in his father’s bookshop, and seriously injured his head. He had to spend three years recovering from the injury (Auto 111), and for most of his life he complained of bouts of ill health.

Upon his recovery, Vico studied scholastic philosophy and jurisprudence. He worked with a number of Jesuit tutors, but as he grew older he taught himself these traditions (Auto 118). From 1686 to 1695, Vico worked as a tutor for the Rocca family in Vatolla, approximately 100 kilometers from Naples. During this time, he gave up his study of scholastic philosophy, and concentrated on the study of Plato and poets such as Virgil, Dante and Petrarch (Auto 120-2). Vico depicts these years as a time when he lived in isolation and during which Naples was overrun by Cartesian scientists (Auto 132). However, Vico was in contact with Naples during this period, and he completed his law degree during this time.

In 1699, Vico became a professor of rhetoric at the University of Naples, a position he held until 1741. He also married and later had three children. In 1709, Vico published his first major work On the Study Methods of Our Time which was a defense of humanistic education. This was followed in 1710 by his work on metaphysics: On the Ancient Wisdom of the Italians Unearthed From the Origins of the Latin Language. This was intended to be the first part of a trilogy including a volume on physics and a volume on moral philosophy. However, he never completed the remaining volumes. During this period, Vico recognized four authors as his most important influences: Plato, Tacitus, Grotius and Bacon.

Vico’s job as a professor of rhetoric was primarily to prepare students for law school; however, he desired to be promoted to the superior position of professor of law. To achieve this goal, he published his longest work, in three volumes, from 1720 to 1722, generally referred to as Universal Law (Il Diritto Universale). However, due to political circumstances, he was defeated in the contest for the chair, despite having superior credentials and doing better in the oral competition for the job (Auto 163-4).

Vico then abandoned his search for a chair of law and dedicated himself to explicating his own philosophy. To reach a wider audience, he began to write in Italian instead of Latin. In 1725 he published the first edition of his major work, New Science. Vico was dissatisfied with that text, however, and in 1730 published a radically different second edition. He continued to revise that text throughout his later years and the variation that was published in 1744 is considered his definitive work.

Vico sent copies of his works to influential thinkers in other parts of Europe. While he had little success achieving fame in the north, he did make a large impact in Venice. In 1725, Vico was contacted by a Venetian journal that was going to publish a series of essays written by scholars about their lives; he was the first and only contributor to the series. He updated his essay a few times and had it published as his Autobiography.

Vico did have some political influence in his later years. In 1734 Naples was retaken by the Spanish from the Austrians who had ruled it from 1704. The new viceroy named Vico the Royal Historiographer of Naples. Due to failing health, Vico’s son Gennaro took his chair of rhetoric in 1741 and Giambattista Vico died in 1744.

2. Early Works

a. Vico as Anti-Cartesian and Anti-Enlightenment

Vico is rightfully cast as a counter-Enlightenment thinker. In the face of the Enlightenment emphasis on doing natural science through the search for clear and distinct ideas, Vico saw himself as a defender of rhetoric and humanism. Many of Vico’s ideas are most easily grasped through a contrast with Cartesian rationalism and specifically Descartes’ emphasis on the geometric method. However, it is unclear exactly the extent to which Vico disagreed with the overall project of the Enlightenment. In a number of respects, Vico engaged in the same type of philosophical investigations as other eighteenth-century thinkers. He calls his main work a ‘science’, and claims Bacon as a major influence. Vico searched for a universal mental dictionary, and his science may be seen as its own type of encyclopedia. Further, recent scholarship suggests that Vico was heavily influenced by Malebranche. So while there is absolutely no question that Vico remains a staunch defender of ancient rhetoric, how much of the rest of the Enlightenment he rejects is a question.

The main debate between Vico and Descartes is over the value of the imagination and of rhetoric. In the opening of the Discourse on Method, Descartes rejects rhetoric and culture as sources of certainty. This implies, for Descartes, that there really is no value for these institutions. If one can state an idea clearly, then there is no need for rhetoric to defend it. While Descartes’ view was probably more subtle than this, as Cartesian science swept into Naples people began teaching children math and critique at the expense of training imagination.

Vico would devote most of his writings to stemming this tide by defending the importance of rhetoric. Vico began this defense in the Study Methods by claiming that children should develop their imaginations when they are young. This defense would continue in different forms until the New Science when Vico articulated the poetic wisdom which is an entire way of thinking based on the imagination and rhetoric. These points will be articulated below.

b. On the Study Methods of Our Time

As professor of rhetoric, Vico was required to give inaugural orations each academic year. His first six orations are an extended defense of the study of virtue and the liberal arts; these orations have been translated and given the title On Humanistic Education. The seventh oration was expanded by Vico and published by him as a small book entitled On the Study Methods of Our Time. The subject of the work was to determine the best method by which to educate people: the Ancient method that emphasizes rhetoric and imagination; or the Cartesian method that emphasizes conceptual thought. His conclusion is that both methods are important (SM 6). However, because Vico actually defends the value of the Ancient method against the Cartesian method (which rejects the value of the ancient tradition), this work is seen as a cornerstone of Vico’s counter-Enlightenment stance.

Vico defines a study method as having three parts. The instruments are the systematic order by which the course of study progresses. The aids are the tools one would use along the course of study such as the books to read. The aims are the goals of the study (SM 6-8).

Vico spends the majority of the work criticizing the modern instruments of learning in favor of the ancient ones. The modern Cartesian method teaches the method of philosophical critique which concentrates on teaching students how to find error and falsity in one’s thinking. The emphasis is on critiquing ideas by finding weaknesses in their foundation (SM 13).

The ancient instrument is the art of topics. This is the art by which one uses the imagination to find connections between ideas. This art shows students how to make new arguments rather than critiquing the arguments of other people. In Aristotelean logic, it emphasizes finding middle terms in order to create persuasive syllogisms. Further, it shows how a speaker can find a connection with an audience that will make a speech persuasive (SM 14-16).

For Vico, the argumentis over whether to teach children to find faults with arguments or to create arguments imaginatively; he argues that both are necessary. However, it is essential to teach children the art of topics first. This is because children have naturally strong imaginations. This needs to be developed early. After the children have developed these strong imaginations, then they can learn Cartesian critique (SM 13-14).

Vico suggests it is vital to develop the imagination of children because imagination is essential for doing ethics. The Cartesian method is effective in those instances where geometric certainty may be found. However, in most ethical situations, this certainty will not be possible. In these cases, the art of topics is vital because it allows one to recognize the best course of action and persuade others to pursue that course. Prudent individuals are those who can use their imaginations to uncover new ways of looking at a situation rather than critiquing a pre-existing belief. So the imagination and the art of topics are vital for prudence in a way that the Cartesian method cannot satisfy (SM 33-34). This is Vico’s first attempt to defend the power of rhetoric against Descartes.

c. On the Ancient Wisdom of the Italians Unearthed from the Origins of the Latin Language

i. The Verum-Factum Principle

Perhaps the greatest significance of the Ancient Wisdom lies in its presentation of the verum-factum principle. This and the ideal eternal history are Vico’s two most famous ideas. The verum-factum principle holds that one can know the truth in what one makes. Vico writes, “For the Latins, verum (the true) and factum (what is made) are interchangeable, or to use the customary language of the Schools, they are convertible (Ancient Wisdom 45).”

This presents a serious challenge to Cartesian science. The Cartesians had always assumed that the natural world provided certain ideas while the human world — the world of culture — was uncertain. This principle turns that around. Because God made the natural world, only God can know it. Humans can understand the human world because humans made it. This provides the foundation for the New Science since it suggests that the true focus of science should be the human world not the natural world.

While Vico couches this in an etymology, he does provide another justification for it. Descartes famously used “I think therefore I am” to provide a first principle that refutes skepticism. Vico claims that this does not work because it does not entirely address the challenge of the skeptics. The skeptic knows that he or she exists. The skeptic does not, however, know anything significant about that existence because the skeptic cannot know the cause of his or her ideas (AW 55). The verum-factum principle solves the skeptic’s problem by explaining that since we are the cause of what we make, we can know what was made. Since humans have made the civil world, they can understand the cause of the civil world and know the truth about it. Thus the skeptic, who claims knowledge is impossible, is incorrect because it is possible to know the truth about what humans have made. For Vico, making something becomes the criteria for knowing the truth about it (AW 56).

It is important to note that Vico does not appear to hold that the only truth humans can know is of what humans make. Especially in his later writings, Vico holds that through the world humans make, humans can witness eternal truths such as the ideal eternal history and the verum-factum principle itself. The verum-factum principle ought to be read in conjunction with the verum/certum principle outlined in the Universal Law and discussed below (Verene, 1981, 56-7).

ii. Metaphysical Points and the Attack on Cartesian Stoicism

The majority of the Ancient Wisdom is spent on a metaphysics that culminates in Vico’s idea of metaphysical points. Vico regarded Descartes as a stoic who held a mechanistic view of the universe. Descartes himself was a dualist; however, Vico is looking at the Cartesian scientists who followed Descartes and saw in them an abandonment of any ultimate truth as well as a reduction of existence to the motion of bodies. Vico links this metaphysical view to the ethical stoic view that deemphasizes both freedom and the hope of finding transcendent wisdom. He argues for a dualistic view that establishes a strong separation between the physical and eternal. This allows for a Platonic ethics which calls for philosophers to move from the physical to witnessing a higher realm.

In the Ancient Wisdom, Vico tries to justify this separation by arguing that the physical world cannot move itself. The only source of motion is not found in the physical but in the infinite. The infinite lacks motion but can provide motion to the world through metaphysical points, those places in which the infinite provides motion (conatus) to the physical. Vico again provides a fanciful etymology for this, claiming that the Latin words for point and momentum were synonymous since both refer to indivisible entities (AW 69). While Vico attacks Descartes’ stoicism throughout his writings, it is unclear to what extent Vico retains to this particular metaphysical view.

iii. Vico’s Use of Etymology

The Ancient Wisdom is one of Vico’s first major attempts to use etymology as a philosophical tool. Vico claims that by understanding the origin of words, it is possible to understand an ancient wisdom that has valuable insight. In the Ancient Wisdom, this insight is into metaphysical truth. In the later works, these etymologies reveal the nature of human laws and customs. He often takes the names of mythological gods or Roman legal terms and uses them to derive lessons from the origins of these words. This use of etymology is consistent with Vico’s overriding goal of demonstrating that ancient wisdom is valuable and requires careful attention on the part of the reader.

These etymologies are almost always extremely problematic given later research that has been done on the origin of languages, which undercuts Vico’s interpretation. This presents a serious problem for people trying to find philosophical merit in Vico’s texts. However, two things are worth keeping in mind when looking at Vico’s etymologies and his later analysis of myth. First, Vico usually provides other forms of demonstration to make his points rather than just relying on etymology. Their failure rarely represents a serious undermining of the entire system. Second, Vico is trying to do philosophy in a new way that involves making connections rather than making Cartesian distinctions. It may be worth engaging these etymologies to see how Vico imaginatively constructs these connections without worrying as much about the validity of the etymologies. One does not want to be too apologetic for Vico; however, there are reasons for not dismissing his system entirely solely on the basis of the etymologies.

3. Vico and Jurisprudence

a. The Universal Law (Il Diritto Universale)

The Universal Law has been neglected in Vico scholarship because of its complexity and because it has only recently been translated into English. However, its three volumes taken together represent Vico’s longest work: On the One Principle and one End of Universal Law, On the Constancy of the Jurisprudent and Dissertations. It is often referred to as Il diritto universale. This is because the term diritto signifies a universal structure of law as opposed to legge which refers to particular laws made by particular individuals. English does not make this distinction.

The goal of this work is to show that all truth and all law (diritto) comes from God (On the One Principle 50, 54). Hence, he wants to demonstrate that there is truly one universal law in history. To do this, he needs to show that while there are different manifestations of the one law, they are all reducible to the one eternal law. He is not concerned with how one particular law (legge) may or may not fit the system, because there will be instances where bad judges make bad decisions. However, this does not mean that all law (diritto) is arbitrary. Indeed, Vico holds that there is still a consistency to history that reveals how God’s divine providence orchestrates the enactment of the natural law through the civil law.

The majority of the work consists in trying to understand the ways in which different societies in history enacted the eternal law differently. He does this through fanciful etymologies and extended interpretations of Roman law. This work has many of the same characteristics of the New Science but lacks a full explanation of the poetic wisdom underlying ancient myths.

b. The Verum/Certum Principle

The essential companion to the verum-factum principle is the verum/certum principle. Vico writes, “The certain is part of the true (On the One Principle 90).” This, as much as the verum-factum principle, represents Vico’s attitude toward history. By certain, Vico means the particular facts of history. So the principle is saying that by looking at particular facts of history, it is possible to discover universal truth. This principle justifies Vico’s use of philological and historical evidence to make metaphysical claims.

Not all certa are part of the true, however. Because humans are free, they can make bad choices. So legislators are capable of passing bad laws as well as good laws. When a choice is made contrary to reason, a certum occurs that does not connect with universal truth (On the One Principle 90). At other times, these laws are rational and therefore part of the true. So when the philosopher tries to deduce the verum from the certum, the primary difficulty is in establishing which certa represent rational and true choices and which are bad certa and ought to be disregarded.

Vico sees laws as being rational when they are in accord with public utility (On the One Principle 91). A legislator’s laws are certain not because of a direct insight into the mind of God; rather, divine providence orchestrates history such that when legislators make decisions they find useful, they are unknowingly doing the work of divine providence (On the One Principle 65). In order to understand the eternal law, then, one has to first understand the necessity that different legislators faced through history. By understanding their responses one can see the motion of divine providence. So Vico does not grasp universal truth through a direct analysis of God’s will but rather by analyzing the way in which necessity led legislators to produce the institutions of history.

c. The Natural Law and the Law of the Gentes

Vico defines the natural law by writing “the natural law proceeds from choosing the good that you know to be equitable (On the One Principle 66).” This law does not change; however, the way in which utility constitutes what it means to be equitable does change. Early in human history it is more equitable to give the rulers more power and more wealth to control the weak. As the need for this control lessens, wealth becomes distributed more evenly.

At the origin of humanity, there were families in which the fathers used violence and religious ritual to control their children. While the private law of the fathers was harsh, it gave stability to the families. These fathers were independent of each other and had no reason to fight. All the violence was directed internally in order to control their children.

Eventually, wandering people who did not have their own families and did not have anything checking their passions, wanted to benefit from the protection of the fathers. This created a practical problem for the fathers because they wanted to use the stragglers for their own ends but were afraid of revolution. Fathers from different families banded together to create the law of the greater gentes — clans or tribes — as a way of suppressing the newcomers (On the One Principle 97). Again, the fathers, who now constitute an aristocracy of nobles or heroes, are not particularly worried about fighting each other; they were worried primarily about controlling this new lower class of people.

Two things are of immediate significance in Vico’s account. First, Vico makes a strong connection between public law and private law. Indeed, the private law of the families leads to the public law of the nobles. Second, Vico is making an important case against social contract theory. Rather than society forming by an agreement of all its members, society is formed by the aristocrats who then, out of a sense of utility, impose a violent rule. Social contract theory does not make sense for Vico because it would take humans a long time to develop the ability to reason through such an agreement.

Much of the rest of Vico’s Universal Law explains history as an extended class struggle between the heroes who descended from the first fathers and the plebeians who descended from those who wandered into the gentes. Vico examines at length both ancient Roman myths and ancient Roman jurisprudence to show how utility, generated through the work of divine providence, directed this struggle. The detail with which Vico engages in this project is extraordinary. It is significant that Vico is unclear as to how this class struggle ends. He praises the Romans for their sense of virtue and the Law of the XII Tables (On the Constancy 257-276). However, what this means for the course of history is left unclear. Vico would not present his answer to this until he wrote the New Science.

4. The New Science

a. The Conceit of Nations and the Conceit of Scholars

The main problem Vico saw with the Universal Law is that it failed to portray clearly the origin of society. To grasp that origin, Vico developed a new critical art to reveal how the most ancient humans thought. This art rested on recognizing two conceits. Both of these conceits can be traced to a principle which Vico finds in Tacitus: “Because of the indefinite nature of the human mind, whenever it is lost in ignorance man makes himself the measure of all things (NS 120).” This axiom not only serves as a basis for these conceits but also the whole of poetic wisdom.

The conceit of nations holds that every nation thinks it is the oldest in the world and that all other nations derived their wisdom from them (NS 125). Because one nation does not understand the origin of others, it assumes all other nations learned from it. This conceit prevents nations from realizing that every nation actually had its own independent origin. Thus, they fail to realize that similarities between cultures do not indicate a common origin but instead indicate universal institutions that are necessary for all cultures.

The conceit of scholars is that scholars tend to assume that everyone thinks in the same way that contemporary scholars do (NS 127). This conceit has kept scholars from understanding both ancient mythology and ancient jurisprudence. By assuming the ancients thought the same way as moderns do, the scholars assume that ancient mythology is simply bad science and superstition. What the modern scholars fail to grasp is that the ancients actually were solving different problems in a radically different mental framework. The ancients were doing what they found to be useful; however, their way of thinking indicated radically different ideas of what was necessary and how to get it.

It is the conceit of scholars that thus provides the basis for the claim that Vico was the first true philosopher of history and an anticipation of Hegel. He was the first to try to explain how people thought differently in different eras. Further, he tries to show how one form of thinking led into another, thereby creating a cycle of history.

b. The New Critical Art and the Poetic Wisdom

In order to overcome the prejudice of the conceit of scholars, Vico created a new “metaphysical art of criticism (NS348).” This art goes beyond the philological art of criticism which simply verifies the authenticity of particular facts. This new art distinguishes the truth in history from the accidental — as dictated by the verum-certum principle — by grasping the manner in which the first humans thought. This will allow the philosopher to witness the universal truth of the ideal eternal history, described below. While Vico does not clearly define this critical art, it is marked by elements he has always been working with: using rhetoric, creative etymologies and seeing connections rather than making distinctions.

The art reveals the way the first humans thought, which Vico calls ‘poetic wisdom’. Vico uses the term wisdom to emphasize that this way of thinking has its own truth or validity that contemporary conceptual thinkers do not recognize. It is poetic because it is marked by imaginative creativity rather than discursive analysis.

Vico holds that poetic wisdom is fundamentally different from modern wisdom. The fundamental difference between the two is that modern wisdom uses reflection to create concepts while the poetic wisdom does not reflect but spontaneously generates imaginative universals which are described below. The poetic wisdom generates a common sense that is shared by an entire peoples (NS 142).

c. Vico’s Method

Vico places his new critical art in the context of a more general method for his New Science. The section of the New Science entitled ‘Method’ is a sharp departure from any sort of Cartesian science. It in no way involves the rigorous and clear movement from premises to conclusions advocated by Descartes. Instead, Vico describes three different types of proofs that will be employed by the science: 1) theological proofs which witness the movement of divine providence; 2) philosophical proofs which are based on the uniformity of poetic wisdom; and 3) philological proofs which recognize certain elements of history. These proofs rely more on recognizing the way in which ideas have to fit together to reveal hidden or divine patterns. The method of the science is to bring all these proofs together in a way that produces a coherent and true narrative. Vico writes, “We make bold to affirm that he who meditates this Science narrates to himself this ideal eternal history so far as he himself makes it for himself by that proof ‘it had, has, and will have to be’ (NS 348).” Rather than a Cartesian conceptual scheme, Vico’s science is one in which truth is attained by imaginatively linking different elements together to reveal the order of history.

An important example of the method of the New Science is revealed in Vico’s use of axioms (degnità). Traditionally, axioms have a fixed place in the order of geometric proofs following directly from definitions and proofs. Vico intends his axioms to be weaved imaginatively throughout all the ideas of the text (Goetsch). Vico describes this with this analogy, “just as the blood does in animate bodies, so will these elements (degnità) course through our Science and animate it (NS 199).”

d. The Ideal Eternal History

While the conceit of scholars may be what is at the core of Vico’s significance, the ideal eternal history is, along with the verum-factum principle, Vico’s most famous concept. The ideal eternal history can be thought of loosely as a Platonic ideal. Stated in the abstract, the ideal eternal history is the perfect course through which all nations pass. In practice, each nation travels through it slightly differently.

Vico describes this ideal eternal history most colorfully when he gives this axiom: “Men first felt necessity, then look for utility, next attend to comfort, still later amuse themselves with pleasure, thence grow dissolute in luxury, and finally go mad and waste their substance (NS 241).” It is possible in the quote to see the same emphasis on utility that Vico had in the Universal Law. However, what changes is that this history is now presented clearly as a circular motion in which nations rise and fall. Nations eternally course and recourse through this cycle passing through these eras over and over again.

Vico divides the ideal eternal history into three ages which he adopts from Varro. Vico first used these three ages in the Universal Law but now he presents it with more clarity. Indeed, Book IV of the New Science is a comparison of how different human institutions existed differently in the three ages of history. Clearly the history of Rome is again Vico’s primary model for the ideal eternal history.

The first age is the age of gods. In this age, poetic wisdom is very strong. Again, there is an aristocracy of fathers who know how to control themselves and others through religion. These fathers, which Vico calls theological poets, rule over small asylums and the famuli who are wandering outsiders who come to them seeking protection. The famuli is the term Vico now uses for those who wandered into the lands of the fathers in the Universal Law.

The second age is the age of heroes. In this age, the famuli transform from being simple slaves to plebeians who want some of the privileges of the rulers. The theological poets transform into heroes. These heroes show their strength by fighting each other as illustrated in Homer. However, for Vico, the most important conflict is not between the heroes but between the heroes and the plebeians fighting for their own privileges.

The third age is the age of humans. Divine providence orchestrates the class wars so that the heroes inadvertently undermine themselves by conceding certain powers to the plebeians. The plebeians are able to build these concessions in order to advance a new way of thinking. In the previous ages, society was ruled by poetic wisdom which controlled all actions through ritual. In order to undermine the power of these rituals, the plebeians slowly found ways to assert the power of conceptual wisdom, which is the ability to think scientifically and rationally. This way of thinking gives the plebeians more power and removes the stranglehold of poetic wisdom on humanity.

Unfortunately, while this conceptual wisdom gives the plebeians their freedom, it undermines the cultural unity provided by poetic wisdom. While all in society become free and equal, the religious inspiration to work for the common good rather than the individual becomes lost. Society eventually splinters into a barbarism of reflection in which civil wars are fought solely for personal gain. This is the barbarism of reflection which returns society to its origin.

One of the major debates about the ideal eternal history is whether it is a circle or a spiral. Those who suggest that it is a spiral hold that each time a nation goes through the ideal eternal history, it improves. Those who suggest it is a circle hold that each cycle of the ideal eternal history really does reduce it back to its beginning. Unfortunately, this appears to be an instance where Vico had to remain silent because, had he tried to resolve the issue, he would have had to make some sort of comment on the relation of the church to society which he was not prepared to do. As a result, the debate about how best to read the ideal eternal history continues.

e. The New Science and the Roman Catholic Church

It is helpful to note that during Vico’s life and especially during the production of the New Science, the Inquisition was quite active in Naples. The Inquisition put some Neapolitain works on the Index and tried close friends of Vico (Bedani, 7-21).

What this means for Vico’s faith is unclear; however, it seemed to cause Vico to make a very important and awkward decision. Vico claims that while the ideal eternal history applies to all gentile nations, it does not apply to the Hebrews. This is because the Hebrews always had the revealed wisdom of God and did not need the pattern of the ideal eternal history to develop (NS 369). Hence, Vico leaves out any discussion of the Bible or any evidence about early Judaism as he constructs his science. As illustrated by The Universal Law, Vico clearly held that God existed and that it is God’s order that history passes through. So there is good reason to think Vico had a theistic foundation. It is unclear, however, whether Vico really held that the Hebrews were exempt from the Ideal Eternal History or if this was just a way of avoiding the Index.

f. The Three Principles of History: Religion, Marriage and Burial

Vico uses his new critical art to provide a better account of the origin of society than provided in The Universal Law. Vico explains the three principles of history: religion, marriage and burial. These are principles both in the sense that they are the first things in society and in that they lie at the core of social existence.

Vico posits that before human society there were giants roaming the earth who had no ability to check their violent passions. Eventually, a thunder strike occurred that was so violent it caused some of the giants to stop their passionate wanderings. These giants felt a fear that was unique because unlike a natural danger, it was produced by a cause the giants did not recognize (NS 377, 504). Since the giants did not understand the cause of the fear, other than the sky, they took what they knew (which was their own passion) and attributed it to a giant who lived in the sky. This gave birth to Jove, the first imaginative universal, which is discussed below.

Out of this terror, giants felt shame for the first time. Specifically, they were ashamed about copulating randomly and out in the open. Vico writes, “So it came about that each of them would drag one woman into his cave and would keep her there in perpetual company for the rest of their lives (NS 504).” This created the second imaginative universal, Juno. It also caused the giants to settle down in a particular area. They saw the need to keep this area clean so they began to bury their dead.

There is no question that this account of the origin of humanity is peculiar. Nevertheless, Vico finds the account satisfying because it does not place any rational decision making at the origin of society. Society does not develop in a social contract but in the spontaneous checking of passions that produces poetic wisdom.

g. The Imaginative Universal

The bulk of the New Science is the description of Poetic Wisdom. This is the way of mythic thinkers at the origin of society. It is also the manner of thinking that dominated society until the plebeians gained control of society through the class struggle. Vico goes into detail explaining things such as the poetic metaphysics, poetic logic, poetic economics and poetic geography. Throughout this section, Vico spells out the details of the development of the age of gods and then the breakdown of the age of heroes into the age of humans.

In this section, Vico explains his perhaps most controversial notion: what he calls the imaginative universals or the poetic characters. Some scholars, most notably Benedetto Croce, hold that this notion is a tragic problem on Vico’s part and is best ignored. Other scholars use the imaginative universal as a way to defend Vico as a champion of the philosophical need to use imagination and rhetoric. Vico himself saw the imaginative universal as the ‘master key’ to his New Science which seems to make the topic worth investigating (NS 34).

The imaginative universals are tricky to grasp, but two fairly non-contentious axioms can help provide a background. The first is that first language would be a combination of mute gestures and rudimentary, monosyllabic words (NS 225, 231). The second is that “Children excel in imitation; we observe that they generally amuse themselves by imitating whatever they are able to apprehend (NS 215).” This is connected to Vico’s notion that people grasp what they do not understand by relating it to something familiar. In the case of children, they use their powerful imaginations to understand things by copying their movements.

Vico speculates that the first humans must have had minds that resembled children. So, when they first started to use language, rather than naming objects conceptually, they imitated those objects with mute gestures and monosyllabic cries. Thus, when the thunder struck, the first people imitated the shaking of the sky and shouted the interjection pa (father) thereby creating the first word (NS 448).

This makes imaginative universals quite distinct from intelligible universals. An intelligible universal would be constructed through an act similar to what we would ordinarily think of as ‘naming’. An imaginative universal is created through the repeated imitation of an event. Words are merely the associated sound that goes with that imitation. So, for Vico, the first words were actually rituals that served as metaphors for events.

A helpful passage for understanding this is found in Axiom XLVII. Vico writes, “Thence springs this important consideration in poetic theory: the true war chief, for example, is the Godfrey that Torquato Tasso imagines; and all the chiefs who do not conform throughout to Godfrey are not true chiefs of war (NS 205).” The imaginative universal, Godfrey, is the name used for anyone who performs the rituals of the true war chief. All true war chiefs actually become Godfrey through their actions. Vico applies this principle to the gods of the Roman pantheon. For example, anyone getting married becomes Juno and anyone practicing divination becomes Apollo. The bulk of the section on the poetic wisdom in the New Science endeavors to demonstrate how the first societies managed to create institutions solely through the use of these imaginative universals.

Many readers find Vico’s account of the imaginative universal utterly baffling. Vico’s challenging writing style, combined with the fanciful way in which he interprets ancient myths, make this section of the New Science a mystery for first-time readers. However, in approaching this section, it is helpful to remember that Vico holds that this type of thinking is by definition distinct from our more common way of reflective thought. Further, there are contemporary anthropologists who see Vico as a precursor to their discoveries. Ultimately, Vico’s idea may not really be so far-fetched.

h. The Discovery of the True Homer

Book III of the New Science contains one of Vico’s most remarkable insights. Vico was among the first, if not the first, to hold that Homer was not one individual writing poems but was a conglomeration of different poets who expressed the will of the entire people. His arguments for this are a combination of philological claims which show that there are many disparate elements in the work, as well as philosophical claims that when the work was composed, people could not have been using modern wisdom to write it as a modern epic.

Vico’s motivation for this reading of Homer is his quest to find a metaphysical truth to history. If the works of Homer were written by one person, then the truths held in it would be arbitrary. However, Vico argues that Homer’s poems spring from the common sense of all the Greek people. Therefore, the poems represent institutions universal to a culture that can then be used to justify universal truths. Whereas in the Universal Law, where Vico examined Roman law to see its universality, he has now replaced that idea with Homer’s poems since those poems date back earlier than the law.

i. The Barbarism of Reflection

The brief conclusion of the New Science largely pays homage to the glory of divine providence. Within it, Vico gives a brief statement about the barbarism of reflection. As indicated in the section on the Ideal Eternal History, Vico sees that history is cyclical. Vico claims that history begins in a barbarism of sense and ends in a barbarism of reflection. The barbarism of reflection is a returned barbarism in which the common sense established by religion through poetic wisdom holding a society together has been broken down by individual interests. The interests are spurred because individuals each think according to their own conceptual scheme without concern for the society, which makes it barbaric.

Vico describes the returned barbarism this way, “such peoples [in the barbarism], like so many beasts, have fallen into the custom of each man thinking only of his own private interests and have reached the extreme delicacy, or better of pride, in which like wild animals they bristle and lash out at the slightest displeasure (NS 1106).” These private interests lead into a civil war in which everyone betrays everyone else. This takes humanity back to where it started — individual giants acting solely on their own individual passions.

Unfortunately, Vico does not give a clear ethical position on what to do in the face of the barbarism of reflection. He wrote a section of the New Science called a Practic but decided not to include it. Clearly, Vico wants his readers to recognize universal truth and appreciate a rhetorical approach to philosophy. But, what this means in particular for an ethical theory is a matter of some debate.

5. Autobiography

Vico’s Autobiography is worthy of philosophical investigation. It was written by the invitation of a journal which was going to publish a series of essays by scholars describing their lives. Vico was the only one to contribute to the series. The journal was published in 1725 and he updated it in 1728 and 1731.

On one level, the Autobiography contains the basic facts of his life recounted above. However, it seems clear that Vico does have an important philosophical agenda that goes beyond any attempt to recount simply the facts of his life. The most immediate piece of evidence for this is that on the first line Vico gets the year of his birth wrong. He gives it as 1670 rather than 1668. Given how easy it would be to access his baptism records in Naples, it is entirely possible that Vico intended his audience to know he was being imprecise, and perhaps imaginative, when he composed his Autobiography.

One way of reading the Autobiography is as a further attack on Descartes. The Autobiography itself highlights his conflict with the Cartesians of Naples. Further, rather than using the first person, as Descartes does in the Discourse on Method, Vico refers to himself in the third person. The fact that Vico willfully gets his birth date wrong could be an indication that he dismisses Descartes’ calls for certainty.

Beyond that, there appear to be strong parallels between Vico’s task in the Autobiography and in the New Science. Returning to the verum-factum principle, Vico claims that the task of the New Science is not simply to retell the facts of history. Instead, it is to understand the workings of divine providence in this history by remaking it. As quoted above in the section on Method, Vico emphasizes that to witness the ideal eternal history, the reader must make it for oneself (NS 349). In saying this, Vico turns the entire New Science into a text that could be thought of as a type of fable. In the Autobiography, Vico, rather than giving a strictly accurate account of his life, makes a fable which actually parallels some elements of the ideal eternal history. For example, Vico’s fall in the bookstore may parallel the thunderstrike of Jove. Regardless of how strict this parallel is, Vico appears to be consciously applying some of his philosophical principles to his Autobiography (Verene 1990).

The Marquis of Villarosa wrote a conclusion to the Autobiography in 1818. He relates an odd story about Vico’s funeral. When Vico died, two groups, the professors at the University of Naples and the Confraternity of Santa Sophia, both wanted to carry the coffin to its resting place. A dispute broke out which could not be resolved. As a result, both sides abandoned the coffin and left. Vico was buried by officers of the Cathedral the next day (Auto 207-8).

6. References and Further Reading

Italian Editions of Vico

The standard Italian edition of Vico is: Opere di G. B. Vico, ed. Fausto Nicolini, 8 vols. (Bari: Laterza, 1911-1941). However, two other editions are being used more regularly. The first is: Vico, Giambattista. Opere, ed. Andrea Battistini, 2 vols. (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 1990). The second is a multi-volume edition edited by Paolo Cristofolini and published by Alfredo Guida under the auspices of the Instituto per la Storia del Pensiero Filosofico e Scientifico Moderno and the Centro di Studi Vichiani. This is an effort to systematically release all the works of Vico.

English Editions of Vico

  • The following are the English translations of Vico referred to in this article.
  • Vico, Giambattista. The Autobiography of Giambattista Vico. Translated by Thomas Goddard Bergin and Max Harold Fisch. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1983.
  • Vico, Giambattista. The First New Science. Edited and Translated by Leon Pompa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
  • Vico, Giambattista. The New Science of Giambattista Vico (1744 edition). Including the “Practic of the New Science.” Translated by Thomas Goddard Bergin and Max Harold Fisch. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984.
  • Vico, Giambattista. On Humanistic Education (Six Inaugural Orations, 1699-1707) from the Definitive Latin Text, Introduction and Noted of Gian Galeazzo Visconti. Translated by Georgio A. Pinton and Artuhur W. Shippee. Introduction by Donald Phillip Verene. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993.
  • Vico, Giambattista. On the Most Ancient Wisdom of the Italians, Unearthed from the Origins of the Latin Language. Including the Disputations with the Giornale de’ Letterata d’Italia. Translated with an Introduction and Notes by L. M. Palmer. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1988.
  • Vico, Giambattista. On the Study Methods of Our Time. Translated by Elio Gianturco. Reissued with a Preface by Donald Phillip Verene, and including “The Academies and the Relation between Philosophy and Eloquence,” Translated by Donald Phillip Verene. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1990.
  • The Universal Law was translated by John D. Schaeffer and recently published in the following three separate volumes of New Vico Studies.
  • Vico, Giambattista. On the One Principle and One End of Universal Law. Translated by John D. Schaeffer. New Vico Studies vol. 21, 2003.
  • Vico, Giambattista. On the Constancy of the Jurisprudent. Translated by John D. Schaeffer. New Vico Studies vol. 23, 2005.
  • Vico, Giambattista. Dissertations [from the Universal Law]. Translated by John D. Schaeffer. New Vico Studies vol 24, 2006: 1-80.

Other Works Cited

  • Bedani, Gino. Vico Revisited: Orthodoxy, Naturalism and Science in the Scienza Nuova. Oxford: Berg, 1989.
  • Goetsch, James Robert. Vico’s Axioms: The Geometry of the Human World. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995.
  • Verene, Donald Phillip. The New Art of Autobiography: An Essay on the Life of Giambattista Vico. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991.
  • Verene, Donald Phillip. Vico’s Science of the Imagination. Cornell: Cornell University Press, 1981.

Bibliographies on Vico

Benedetto Croce published a bibliography of works on Vico in 1904. This was updated by Fausto Nicolini in 1948. This bibliography was further updated: Donzelli, Maria. Contributo alla bibliografia vichiana (1948-1970). Naples: Guida Editori, 1973. And updated again: Battistini, Andrea. Nuovo contributo alla bibliografia vichiana (1971-1980). Studi vichiani 14. Naples: Guida 1983. Updates to this bibliography have been published as supplements to the Bolletino del Centro di Studi Vichiani.

For works in English, this volume compiles works on Vico as well as works citing Vico: Verene, Molly Black. Vico: A Bibliography of Works in English from 1884 to 1994. Bowling Green, OH: Philosophy Documentation Center, 1994. Supplements to this bibliography which update it from 1994 to the present have been appearing in New Vico Studies.

Author Information

Alexander Bertland
Email: bertland@niagara.edu
Niagara University
U. S. A.

Qualia

Qualia are the subjective or qualitative properties of experiences. What it feels like, experientially, to see a red rose is different from what it feels like to see a yellow rose. Likewise for hearing a musical note played by a piano and hearing the same musical note played by a tuba. The qualia of these experiences are what give each of them its characteristic “feel” and also what distinguish them from one another. Qualia have traditionally been thought to be intrinsic qualities of experience that are directly available to introspection. However, some philosophers offer theories of qualia that deny one or both of those features.

The term “qualia” (singular: quale and pronounced “kwol-ay”) was introduced into the philosophical literature in its contemporary sense in 1929 by C. I. Lewis in a discussion of sense-data theory. As Lewis used the term, qualia were properties of sense-data themselves. In contemporary usage, the term has been broadened to refer more generally to properties of experience. Paradigm examples of experiences with qualia are perceptual experiences (including nonveridical perceptual experiences like hallucinations) and bodily sensations (such as pain, hunger, and itching). Emotions (like anger, envy, or fear) and moods (like euphoria, ennui, or anxiety) are also usually taken to have qualitative aspects.

Qualia are often referred to as the phenomenal properties of experience, and experiences that have qualia are referred to as being phenomenally conscious. Phenomenal consciousness is often contrasted with intentionality (that is, the representational aspects of mental states). Some mental states—for example, perceptual experiences—clearly have both phenomenal and intentional aspects. My visual experience of a peach on the kitchen counter represents the peach and also has an experiential feel. Less clear is whether all phenomenal states also have intentional aspects and whether all intentional states also have phenomenal aspects. Is there really something that it is like to have the belief—even the occurrent belief—that there is a peach on the counter? What could be the representational content of the experience of an orgasm? Along these lines, the nature of the relationship between phenomenal consciousness and intentionality has recently generated considerable philosophical discussion. Some philosophers think that phenomenal consciousness reduces to intentional content, while others think that the reductive relationship goes in the other direction. Still other philosophers deny both claims.

From the standpoint of introspection, the existence of qualia seems indisputable. It has, however, proved remarkably difficult to accommodate qualia within a physicalist account of the mind. Many philosophers have argued that qualia cannot be identified with or reduced to anything physical, and that any attempted explanation of the world in solely physicalist terms would leave qualia out. Thus, over the last several decades, qualia have been the source of considerable controversy in philosophy of mind.

Table of Contents

  1. The Hard Problem of Consciousness
  2. Qualia and Functionalism
  3. Qualia and Physicalism
  4. Qualia and Representationalism
  5. Eliminativism about Qualia
  6. Naturalistic Dualism
  7. References and Further Reading

1. The Hard Problem of Consciousness

One of the most fundamental questions about the mind concerns its relationship to the body (and, more specifically, its relationship to the brain). This has become known as the mind-body problem. Although it dates back at least to Plato‘s Phaedo, the problem was thrust into philosophical prominence by René Descartes. In taking up these issues in his Meditations on First Philosophy, Descartes argued for a dualist view according to which the mind and the body are fundamentally different kinds of things: While the body is a material thing existing in space, the mind is an immaterial thing, one that altogether lacks spatial extension. In contrast to dualists, the materialists claim that everything that exists must be made of matter. Historically, materialism was associated with Thomas Hobbes. Starting in the twentieth century, this position has become known as physicalism, the claim that everything that exists—all things and all properties of things—must fundamentally be physical. Most philosophers today endorse some form of physicalism.

For some aspects of consciousness, it is relatively straightforward to see how they can be accommodated within a physicalist picture. Consider, for example, our abilities to access, report on, and attend to our own mental states. It seems reasonable to assume that as neuroscience progresses and we learn more and more about the brain, we will be able to explain these abilities in terms of neural mechanisms. Aspects of consciousness that can be explained in this way constitute what David Chalmers has referred to as the easy problems of consciousness. The assertion that these problems are easy does not mean that they have already been solved or even that we are close to finding solutions. As Chalmers explicitly notes, we should think of “easy” as a relative term. In most cases, we are still nowhere near having a complete explanation of the relevant phenomena. Rather, what makes the problems easy is that, even though the solutions to these problems probably still require decades or even centuries of difficult empirical investigation, we nonetheless have every reason to believe that we can reach them using the standard methods of cognitive science and neuroscience. (Chalmers 1995, 1996) Solving the problem of attention, for example, simply awaits the empirical identification of a relevant neural mechanism. But what kind of mechanism could account for qualia? Though we strongly suspect that the physical system of the brain gives rise to qualia, we do not have any understanding of how it does so. The problem of accounting for qualia has thus become known, following Chalmers, as the hard problem of consciousness.

The hard problem of consciousness relates quite closely to what Joseph Levine had previously referred to as the explanatory gap. Given the scientific identification of heat with the motion of molecules, there is no further explanation that needs to be given: “our knowledge of chemistry and physics makes intelligible how it is that something like the motion of molecules could play the causal role we associate with heat…. Once we understand how this causal role is carried out there is nothing more we need to understand.” (Levine 1983) In contrast, when we are told that pain is to be identified with some neural or functional state, while we have learned quite a bit, there is still something left unexplained. Suppose, for example, that we precisely identify the neural mechanism that accounts for pain—C-fiber firing, let’s say. Still, a further question would remain: Why does our experience of pain feel the way that it does? Why does C-fiber firing feel like this, rather than like that, or rather than nothing at all? Identifying pain with C-fiber firing fails to provide us with a complete explanation along the lines of the identification of heat with the motion of molecules.

Some philosophers have claimed that closing the explanatory gap and fully accounting for qualia is not merely hard but rather impossible. This position, often referred to as new mysterianism, is most closely associated with Colin McGinn. According to McGinn, we will in principle never be able to resolve the mystery of what it is about the brain that accounts for qualia. (McGinn 1989) A similar, though slightly weaker, view is held by Thomas Nagel. According to Nagel, we currently do not have the conceptual apparatus necessary to even begin to understand how physicalism might be true. In order to solve the hard problem of consciousness, we would have to undergo a complete overhaul of our entire conceptual apparatus—a conceptual revolution so radical that we cannot even begin to conceive what the resulting concepts would be like. (Nagel 1998) But other philosophers reject the pessimism of the new mysterians as unwarranted or premature. Chalmers, for example, suggests that an explanation of how consciousness relates to the physical, even if it does not reduce to it, may well be enlightening. (See Chalmers 1996, 379)

It is perhaps easiest to see why the hard problem of consciousness is so hard by looking at particular attempts to account for qualia. The following three sections review three different theories of mental states—functionalism, physicalism, and representationalism—and the problems they face in accounting for qualia.

2. Qualia and Functionalism

The contemporary debate about qualia was framed in large part by discussions of functionalism in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Some attention had earlier been paid to qualia in connection with type identity theory, the view that mental state types could be identified with physical state types (for example, the mental state type pain might be identified to the neural state type C-fiber firing). But it was with the emergence of functionalism as a theory of mind that the debate about qualia began to heat up.

The intuition underlying the functionalist view is that the function of a mental state is its defining feature. Mental states are defined in terms of the causal role that they play in the entire system of the mind—that is, in terms of their causal relations to sensory stimuli, behavioral outputs, and other mental states. By defining mental states in this way, functionalism avoids many of the objections aimed at philosophical behaviorism, an early 20th century theory of mental states that defines them simply in terms of their input-output relations. Moreover, because a causal role can be defined independently of its physical realization (that is, because functional states are multiply realizable), functionalism avoids many of the objections aimed at the type identity theory. Rather than define pain in terms of C-fiber firing, functionalism defines pain in terms of the causal role it plays in our mental life: causing avoidance behavior, warning us of danger, etc., in response to certain environmental stimuli.

As plausible as functionalism may seem, however, it has long faced the charge that it is unable to account adequately for qualia. The causal role of a state seems to come apart from its qualitative aspects. To show this, opponents of functionalism have mounted two different kinds of arguments: (1) those aiming to show that two systems might be functionally identical even though only one of them has any qualia at all, and (2) those aiming to show that two systems might be functionally identical even though they have vastly different qualia from one another.

Falling in the first of these two categories, the absent qualia argument tries to establish that a system could instantiate the functional state of, say, pain without having any pain qualia. Ned Block originated this objection to functionalism with the thought experiment of the homunculi-headed robot (Block 1978). Suppose a billion people were recruited to take part in a giant experiment. Each individual is given a very small task to perform—for example, to press a certain button when a certain light comes on. In doing so, each of them plays the causal role of an individual neuron, with the communications between them mirroring the synaptic connections among the neurons. Now suppose that signals from this network of people are appropriately connected to a robot body, so that the signals from the network cause the robot to move, talk, etc. If the network were set up in the right way, then it seems in principle possible that it could be functionally equivalent to a human brain. However, intuitively speaking, it seems very odd to attribute qualia to the robot. Though it might be in a state functionally equivalent to the state you are in when you have a pain in your right toe, it seems implausible to suppose that the robot is feeling pain. In fact, it seems implausible to suppose that the robot could have any phenomenal experience whatsoever. Thus, if the absent qualia objection is right, we can have functional equivalence without qualitative equivalence, so qualia escape functional explanation.

A related objection, falling into the second category, is the inverted qualia argument against functionalism, which arises from considering a possibility originally suggested by John Locke. Suppose that two people, Norma and Abby, are qualitatively inverted with respect to one another. Both of them refer to stop signs, Coke cans, and Elmo as “red,” and both refer to sugar snap peas, Heineken bottles, and Kermit the Frog as “green.” But Abby’s phenomenal experience when she sees a Coke can is like Norma’s phenomenal experience when she sees a Heineken bottle. When Norma sees the Coke can, she has a reddish experience; when Abby sees the Coke can, she has a greenish experience. Likewise, when Norma sees the Heineken bottle, she has a greenish experience; but when Abby sees the Heineken bottle, she has a reddish experience. Qualitatively, the two are inverted relative to each other.

Though most people find this scenario conceptually coherent, the functionalist can make no sense of this inversion. Abby and Norma both refer to the Coke can as “red.” They both indicate that it is the same color as stop signs and ripe tomatoes. Functionally speaking, there is nothing to differentiate the states that Abby and Norma are in when they see the Coke can. But, by hypothesis, they have different qualitative experiences when they see the Coke can. Thus, it looks as if functional definitions of mental states leave out the qualitative aspects of mental states.

In response to these qualia-related objections, the functionalist might try to argue that we have not really imagined the scenarios that we think we have imagined. For example, can we really imagine what would happen if we had a billion people participating in a network to operate the robot? (In fact, even a billion people would not be enough to simulate the human brain, which is estimated to have 100 billion neurons.) Along these lines, William Lycan (1995, 50-52) argues that our intuition that the robot does not have qualia stems from a misguided focus on each microscopic part of the system rather than on the macroscopic system as a whole. Likewise, the functionalist might offer considerations to show that, contrary to how it first seems, the notion of behaviorally undetectable qualia inversion is not conceptually coherent after all. For example, because saturated yellow is brighter than saturated blue, the inversion between Norma and Abby would be detectable if they were both shown patches of saturated blue and saturated yellow and asked which was brighter. (See Tye 1995, 203-4)

Alternatively, if the functionalist cannot convince us that the absent qualia and inverted qualia scenarios are incoherent, he might instead narrow the scope of the theory, restricting it to mental states that are not qualitative. As John Haugeland argues, we can “segregate” the states that can be functionalized from the states that cannot: “if felt qualities are fundamentally different, so be it; explaining them is somebody else’s business.” (Haugeland 1978, 222) However, while this kind of segregation might save functionalism as a theory of cognition, it does so only by ignoring the hard problem of consciousness.

3. Qualia and Physicalism

As described above, the absent qualia objection and the inverted qualia objection specifically target functionalism, but they can be generalized to apply to physicalism more broadly. For the inverted qualia argument, the generalization is straightforward. Just as we can conceive of Abby and Norma being in functionally identical states, it does not seem implausible to suppose that their brains might be physically identical to one another. If so, then just as qualia escape functional explanation, they also escape physical explanation.

The generalization is less straightforward with the absent qualia argument. The homunculi-headed robot, though functionally identical to a human being, is not physically identical to a human being. However, in recent work, Chalmers has argued that we can conceive of what he terms “zombies”—beings who are molecule-for-molecule identical with phenomenally conscious beings but who are not themselves phenomenally conscious. In appearance and action, a conscious being and his zombie replica would be indistinguishable, but for the zombie, as Chalmers says, “all is dark inside.” (Chalmers 1996, 96) When Zack and Zombie Zack each take a bite of chocolate cake, they each have the same reaction—they smile, exclaim how good it is, lick their lips, and reach for another forkful. But whereas Zack, a phenomenally conscious being, is having a distinctive (and delightful) qualitative experience while tasting the chocolate cake, Zombie Zack is experiencing nothing at all. This suggests that Zack’s consciousness is a further fact about him, over and above all the physical facts about him (since all those physical facts are true of Zombie Zack as well). Consciousness, that is, must be nonphysical.

Chalmers’ argument has the standard form of a conceivability argument, moving from a claim about conceivability to a claim about metaphysical possibility. Though zombies are probably not physically possible—not possible in a world that has laws of nature like our world—the fact that they are conceivable is taken to show that there is a metaphysically possible world in which they could exist. This form of argument is not entirely uncontroversial (see, for example, Hill and McLaughlin 1999), and there is also considerable debate about whether Chalmers is right that zombies are conceivable (see, for example, Searle 1997). But if Chalmers is right about the conceivability of zombies, and if this conceivability implies their metaphysical possibility, then it would follow that physicalism is false.

An early and influential discussion of the general problem that qualia pose for physicalism can be found in Thomas Nagel’s seminal paper, “What is it like to be a Bat?” (Nagel 1974). Although it might be that not all living creatures have phenomenal experiences, we can be pretty confident that bats do—after all, they are mammals who engage in fairly sophisticated behavior. In Nagel’s words, there is something that it is like to be a bat. But the physiology of bats is radically different from the physiology of human beings, and the way they interact with the world is radically different from the way that we interact with the world. What we do via vision, they do via echolocation (sonar). We detect objects by sight; bats detect objects by sending out high-frequency signals and detecting the reflections from nearby objects. Because this way of perceiving the world is so different from our own, it seems that their perceptual experiences must be vastly different from our own—so different, in fact, that Nagel argues that it is unimaginable from our perspective. We, who are not bats, cannot know what it is like to be a bat. Qualia are inherently subjective, and as such, Nagel argues that they cannot be accommodated by physicalism: “Every subjective phenomenon is essentially connected with a single point of view, and it seems inevitable that an objective, physical theory will abandon that point of view.” (Nagel 1974, 520)

Related worries about physicalism and qualia have been forcefully developed by Frank Jackson in his well-known thought experiment involving Mary, a brilliant color scientist who has spent her entire life in a black-and-white room. (Jackson 1982) Although she has normal color vision, her confinement has prevented her from ever having any color sensations. While in the room, Mary has studied color science through black and white textbooks, television, etc. And in that way she has learned the complete physical story about color experience, including all the physical facts about the brain and its visual system. She knows all the physical facts about color. But she has never seen anything in color. Now suppose that Mary is one day released from her room and presented with a ripe tomato. What should we imagine happens? Most people have the very strong intuition that Mary learns something from this perceptual experience. “Aha!” she might say. “Now I finally know what the color red is like.”

The Mary case is the centerpiece of Jackson’s knowledge argument against physicalism. While in the room, Mary knew all the physical facts about color, including the color red. When she is released from the room, Mary learns something about the color red, namely, what seeing red is like. What Mary learns consists of new, factual information. So there are facts about color in addition to all the physical facts about color (since Mary already knew all the physical facts about color). Thus, the argument goes, physicalism is false.

In the quarter century since Jackson’s development of the knowledge argument, a vast literature has developed in response to it. Attempting to save physicalism, some philosophers deny that Mary learns anything at all when she leaves the room. If we really imagine that Mary has learned all the physical facts about color while in the room, then there would be no “Aha!” moment when she is shown a ripe tomato. We are led to think otherwise only because we typically fall short of imagining what we’ve been asked to imagine—we imagine only that Mary knows an immense amount about colors, that she has mastered all the information contained in our present science of color, which still remains incomplete. As Patricia Churchland has argued, “How can I assess what Mary will know and understand if she knows everything there is to know about the brain? Everything is a lot, and it means, in all likelihood, that Mary has a radically different and deeper understanding of the brain than anything barely conceivable in our wildest flights of fancy.” (P.S. Churchland 1986, 332; see also Dennett 1991, 399-400)

Despite these reservations about what happens when Mary leaves the room, most philosophers—even most physicalists—accept Jackson’s assessment that Mary learns something from her experience with the ripe tomato. Physicalists who grant this point have typically attempted two different strategies to respond to the knowledge argument: (1) They might accept that Mary gains new knowledge that isn’t understood in terms of facts; or (2) they might accept that Mary’s knowledge is factual but deny that she’s learned anything new; rather, facts that she already knew are presented to her in a new way.

To pursue strategy (1), the physicalist might argue that the knowledge Mary gains when she leaves the room consists in nonfactual knowledge. Along these lines, David Lewis (1988) offers the ability hypothesis: When Mary leaves the room, all that happens is that she gains some new abilities regarding color that she didn’t have before. Unlike before, Mary is now able to imagine, recognize, and remember the color red. So she gains know-how, but she doesn’t learn any facts. Pursuing strategy (1) in a different way, Earl Conee (1994) offers the acquaintance hypothesis: When Mary leaves the room, all that happens is that she becomes acquainted with the color red. When you meet someone for the first time that you’ve previously heard or read a lot about, you don’t necessarily learn any facts about them; rather, you just become acquainted with them. Conee thus argues that acquaintance knowledge (like ability knowledge) should not be understood in terms of facts. If either the ability hypothesis or the acquaintance hypothesis is right, and Mary does not learn any facts when she leaves the room, then the knowledge argument does not show that the physical facts are incomplete.

To pursue strategy (2), the physicalist might argue that Mary doesn’t gain any new knowledge when she leaves the room; rather, she simply comes to apprehend an old fact under a new guise. While in the room, she did not have the conceptual apparatus she needed in order to apprehend certain color facts in a phenomenal way. Having seen color, she has now gained new concepts—phenomenal concepts—and thus is able to re-apprehend the same facts she already knew in a different way. (Loar 1990) Whether there are genuinely phenomenal concepts, and if so, whether they do the work in answering the knowledge argument that the physicalists want them to, has recently been generating a growing literature of its own.

4. Qualia and Representationalism

While functionalism and physicalism are put forth as general theories of mind, representationalism aims specifically to give an account of qualia. According to this view, the qualitative character of our phenomenal mental states depends on the intentional content of such states. Representationalist views divide into two categories depending on exactly how they characterize this dependence. Weak representationalism makes a claim only about supervenience: The qualitative character of our mental states supervenes on the intentional content of those states (that is, if two experiences are alike representationally, then they are alike phenomenally). Strong (or pure) representationalism makes a further claim: The qualitative character of our mental states consists in the intentional content of such states. Strong representationalism thus offers a theory of qualia—it attempts to explain what qualitative character is. This section addresses the strong representationalist theory of qualia; hereafter, the modifier “strong” will be omitted.

Recall the distinction above between the easy problems of consciousness and the hard problem. Accounting for representational content is supposed to be one of the easy problems. It may take us an enormous amount of empirical work to get to the solution, but the standard methods of cognitive science will be able to apply. Thus, if qualia can be reduced to intentionality, then we have turned the hard problem of consciousness into an easy problem. A full and satisfactory account of qualia awaits only a solution to the easy problem of intentionality.

Consider pain qualia. Traditionally, philosophers classified pain experiences as non-intentional. However, the representationalist claims that this is a mistake. When one has a pain in one’s leg, the experience represents damage in the leg. Moreover, its phenomenal feel—its painfulness—consists in its doing so. As Michael Tye argues, “[T]he phenomenal character of my pain intuitively is something that is given to me via introspection of what I experience in having the pain. But what I experience is what my experience represents. So, phenomenal character is representational.” (Tye 1990, 338)

Given that the representationalist typically does not want to claim that all intentional content is qualitative, he must explain what is special about the intentional content in which phenomenal character is supposed to consist. My belief that Thomas the Tank Engine is blue and my mental image of Thomas the Tank Engine have similar intentional content; they both represent him as blue. So, what about the intentional content of the latter gives it its distinctive phenomenology? Here Tye has a particularly well-developed answer. He suggests that phenomenal content is a species of nonconceptual intentional content, in particular, nonconceptual intentional content that is poised and abstract. (Tye 1995) Because we can experience many things for which we lack concepts—for example, a proud parent might visually experience his young child’s drawing without having a concept for the shape that the drawing is—it is important that phenomenal content be restricted to nonconceptual content. The requirement that the contents be poised means that they “stand ready and in position to make a direct impact on the belief/desire system.” (Tye 1995, 138) The requirement that the contents be abstract means that no particular concrete object is a part of them.

In support of their theory, representationalists often invoke what we might call the transparency thesis. According to this thesis, experience is alleged to be transparent in the sense that we “see” right through it to the object of that experience, analogously to the way that we see through a pane of glass to whatever is on the other side of it. Gilbert Harman introduced such considerations into the contemporary debate about qualia in a now-famous passage: “When Eloise sees a tree before her, the colors she experiences are all experienced as features of the tree and its surroundings. None of them are experienced as intrinsic features of her experience. Nor does she experience any features of anything as intrinsic features of her experiences.” (Harman 1990, 667) As Harman went on to argue, the same is true for all of us: When we look at a tree and then introspect our visual experience, all we can find to attend to are features of the presented tree. Our experience is thus transparent; when we attend to it, we can do so only by attending to what the experience represents. Representationalists contend that their theory offers the best and simplest possible explanation of this phenomenon. The best explanation of the fact that we cannot introspectively find any intrinsic features of our experience is that there are none to find; the phenomenal character of experience is wholly constituted by the representational content of the experience. (see especially Tye 1995, 2000)

Whether experience is really transparent in the way that the representationalists suppose has lately been the subject of some dispute, and there has also been considerable discussion about the relationship between experiential transparency and representationalism (See, for example, Kind 2003, Siewert 2004). Most problematic for the representationalists, however, has been the fact that their view falls victim to several persistent and compelling counterexamples. Many phenomenal states simply do not seem to be doing any representing—or, more cautiously, it seems that their phenomenal content far outruns their representational content. Ned Block has argued this point using the example of the orgasm: “Orgasm is phenomenally impressive and there is nothing very impressive about the representational content that there is an orgasm.” (Block 2003, 543) He also discusses phosphene experiences, the color sensations created by pressure on the eyeball when one’s eyelids are closed. Phosphene experiences do not seem to be representing anything; we don’t take the experience to suggest that there are colored moving expanses out there somewhere.

Consider also the experience of seeing something flying overhead and hearing something flying overhead. While these two experiences have quite different phenomenal characters, their representational contents are plausibly the same: there’s something flying overhead. (The most obvious way of differentiating them—by talking of the “way” of representing—brings in something nonrepresentational.) If this is right, then phenomenal character does not supervene on representational character. In response to objections of this sort, intramodal representationalists restrict their view so that it applies only within a given sensory modality. Unlike intermodal representationalists, who claim that all phenomenal differences, even differences between sensory modalities, can be explained in terms of representational content, intramodal representationalists think that we must offer some additional explanation to account for what makes a phenomenal experience auditory rather than visual, or visual rather than tactile. Typically, this additional explanation is provided in functionalist terms. (See Lycan 1996, esp. 134-35)

Along with these sorts of counterexamples, representationalism also falls victim to a version of the inverted qualia argument: the case of Inverted Earth (Block 1990). On Inverted Earth, the colors of objects are inverted relative to earth. Ripe tomatoes are green; unripe tomatoes are red. Big Bird is blue; the Cookie Monster is yellow. Other than this color inversion, everything else on Inverted Earth is exactly like earth. Now imagine that, without your knowledge, you are fitted with color-inverting lenses and transported to Inverted Earth. Since the lens-inversion cancels out the inversion of colors of Inverted Earth, you are unable to detect that you’re in a different environment. When you look at the sky on Inverted Earth, you have a blue experience even though the sky there is yellow; when you look at the green ripe tomatoes, you have a red experience. While originally on earth, your red experience while looking at ripe tomatoes represented red. But according to Block, after enough time passes and you have become embedded in the linguistic and physical environment of Inverted Earth, your reddish experience while looking at ripe tomatoes represents green (since that is the color of the ripe tomatoes on Inverted Earth). If Block’s description of the Inverted Earth case is correct, then two experiences having identical qualitative character can differ in their intentional contents; thus, qualia do not supervene on intentional content and representationalism must be false.

In response to the Inverted Earth scenario, representationalists often adopt a teleological account of intentionality according to which the intentional contents of an individual’s qualitative states are determined by the evolutionary history of its species. This allows them to reject Block’s assertion that your intentional contents switch to match the Inverted Earthlings intentional contents. Humans have evolved such that red experiences represent red things. Thus, no matter how long you spend on Inverted Earth, the intentional contents of your reddish experiences will never switch to match the intentional contents of the Inverted Earthlings.

A completely different source of worry about representationalism has been raised by John Searle. Searle agrees with the representationalist that there is a close connection between phenomenal consciousness and intentionality, but he thinks that the representationalist gets the explanatory connection backwards. Rather than explain consciousness in terms of intentionality, Searle claims that we need to explain intentionality in terms of consciousness: “There is a conceptual connection between consciousness and intentionality that has the consequence that a complete theory of intentionality requires an account of consciousness.” (Searle 1992, 132) Recent work by George Graham, Terry Horgan, and John Tienson argues along similar lines. On their view, “the most fundamental, nonderivative sort of intentionality is fully constituted by phenomenology.” (Graham and Horgan 2008, 92; see also Horgan and Tienson 2002)

5. Eliminativism about Qualia

Rather than trying to find some way to fit qualia into a physicalist theory of mind, some philosophers have taken an entirely different attitude towards qualia. They deny that qualia exist. This position is known as eliminativism about qualia, and it commonly constitutes a part of a larger eliminativist project about mental states in general. For example, Paul and Patricia Churchland have argued (both together and individually) that as we gain more and more neuroscientific understanding of our mental lives, we will come to see that our current mental state concepts—belief, pain, sensation, qualia, etc.—all need to be discarded.

The Churchlands offer numerous useful analogies to help make this point. To consider just one of their examples: Ptolemaic theory placed the Earth at the center of the universe, around which a giant celestial sphere revolved. This created all sorts of difficult problems in need of solutions, like determining the cause of the sphere’s rotation. When Newtonian theory displaced Ptolemaic theory, the notion of the celestial sphere was completely discarded. It wasn’t that Ptolemaic theorists had an inadequate account of the celestial sphere; rather, what was discovered was that there was no celestial sphere. Thus, the problem of what causes the sphere’s movement turned out to be a pseudo-problem. Similarly, the Churchlands predict that as our neuroscientific knowledge increases, we will come to see that the problem of qualia is a pseudo-problem, because we will come to see that there are no qualia—at least not as presently understood. Just as the celestial sphere did not turn out to be identifiable with or reducible to some element of Newtonian theory, qualia will not turn out to be identifiable with or reducible to some element of future neuroscientific theory. Rather, the concept will have to be eliminated entirely. (P.S. Churchland 1986, 292-293; P.M. Churchland 1984, 43-45)

Insofar as eliminative materialism merely makes a prediction about what will happen once we increase our neuroscientific knowledge, it is hard to evaluate. However, Daniel Dennett offers related arguments for eliminativism designed to show there is such internal inconsistency in our notion of qualia that we are hopelessly misguided in trying to retain it. According to Dennett, there are no properties that meet the standard conception of qualia (that is, properties of experience that are intrinsic, ineffable, directly and/or immediately introspectible, and private). He reaches this conclusion by consideration of numerous thought experiments that are designed to tease out the alleged confusions inherent in our concept of qualia. For example, consider two coffee drinkers, Chase and Sanborn. Both discover one day that they no longer like the Maxwell House coffee they’ve long enjoyed. Chase claims: “Even though the coffee still tastes the same to me, I now no longer like that taste.” In contrast, Sanborn claims: “The coffee now tastes different to me, and I don’t like the new taste.” But, asks Dennett, how do they know this? Perhaps Chase’s taste receptors have changed so gradually that he hasn’t noticed a change in taste; that is, perhaps he’s really in the situation that Sanborn purports to be in. Or perhaps Sanborn’s standards have changed so gradually that he hasn’t noticed that he now employs different criteria in evaluating the coffee; that is, perhaps he’s really in the situation that Chase purports to be in. There seems no first-personal way for Chase and Sanborn to settle the matter, calling into question the idea that they have any kind of direct or special access to private properties of their experience. We might try to devise some behavioral tests to detect the difference, but if we could do so, that would suggest that qualia could be defined relationally, in reference to behavior, and this would call into question the idea that they are intrinsic. Thus, concludes Dennett, our conception of qualia is so confused that it would be “tactically obtuse” to try to salvage the notion; rather, we should just admit that “there simply are no qualia at all.” (Dennett 1988)

6. Naturalistic Dualism

There is at least one further option available to philosophers when confronting the hard problem of consciousness. Without denying the reality of qualia, one might simply accept that they resist reduction in physical, functional, or representational terms and embrace some form of dualism. This is David Chalmers’ own approach to the hard problem. Because he believes that we can account for phenomenal consciousness within a solely natural framework, he adopts what he refers to as naturalistic dualism.

Descartes’ dualism was a version of substance dualism. According to Descartes, the mind is an immaterial substance existing independently of the body. In contrast, Chalmers’ dualism is a version of property dualism. This view does not posit the existence of any nonphysical or immaterial substances, but instead posits the existence of properties—qualia—that are ontologically independent of any physical properties. Though these properties are not entailed by physicalism (that is, though they do not logically supervene on physical properties) they may nonetheless somehow arise from them. As Chalmers describes his view: “[C]onsciousness arises from a physical substrate in virtue of certain contingent laws of nature, which are not themselves implied by physical laws.” (Chalmers 1996, 125)

Physics postulates a number of fundamental features of the world: mass, spin, charge, etc. Naturalistic dualism adds nonphysical phenomenal properties to this list. Correspondingly, it suggests we must add fundamental laws governing the behavior of the fundamental phenomenal features to the list of the fundamental laws governing the behavior of the fundamental physical features of the world. We don’t presently understand exactly what these new laws and the completed theory containing them will look like, and Chalmers admits that developing such a theory will not be easy, but in principle it should be possible to do so.

This commitment to lawfulness is what allows Chalmers to remain within a naturalistic framework, even as he abandons the physicalistic framework. On his view, “the world still consists in a network of fundamental properties related by basic laws, and everything is to be ultimately explained in those terms. All that has happened is that the inventory of properties and laws has been expanded [beyond the physical properties and laws].” (Chalmers 1996, 127-8) In a similar spirit, Gregg Rosenberg has recently offered a view he calls liberal naturalism.Though liberal naturalism holds that the fundamental properties of the world “are mutually related in a coherent and natural way by a single set of fundamental laws,” it denies that these properties and laws can all be completely captured in physical terms. (Rosenberg 2004, 9)

In giving up physicalism, naturalists argue that we can retain almost everything that’s important about our current scientific worldview. But the adoption of nonphysicalistic naturalism typically leads in two directions that many have thought problematic. First, it seems to imply panpsychism, the view that everything in the universe has consciousness. Once you accept the existence of nonphysical features of the world that are fundamental, it is hard to find a principled way of limiting exactly where those fundamental features are found. As Chalmers admits, “if experience is truly a fundamental property, it seems natural for it to be widespread.” (Chalmers 1996, 297; see also Nagel 1979) Second, it seems to commit one to epiphenomenalism, the view that qualia lack any causal power whatsoever. Intuitively, we believe that the qualitative character of pain—the fact that it hurts—causes us to react the way that we do when we feel pain. But if qualia are epiphenomenal, then the painfulness of pain is causally inert.

In addressing the first of these two worries, Chalmers denies that naturalistic dualism entails panpyschism. Though he recognizes that it provides a particularly elegant way of working out the details of the view that experience supervenes naturally on the physical, he believes that there remains the possibility that those details could be worked out another way. Benjamin Libet, for example, offers a theory that sees consciousness as fundamental without endorsing panpsychism (Libet 1996). In contrast to Chalmers and Libet, Rosenberg concedes that nonreductive naturalism will most likely require us to adopt at least a weak form of panpsychism, and he offers arguments to show why this consequence should not be seen as threatening.

Even if naturalism leads only to a mild form of panpyschism, however, most contemporary philosophers would find this extremely problematic. How could blades of grass, or rocks, or atoms be conscious? Panpsychism is almost universally regarded with skepticism, if not outright scorn. Colin McGinn, for example, has claimed that panpsychism is “metaphysically and scientifically outrageous.” (McGinn 1996, 34) Similarly, in reaction to Chalmers’ panpsychist musings, John Searle calls panpsychism “absurd” and claims that there is “not the slightest reason” to adopt it. (Searle 1997, 161)

The worries about epiphenomenalism are no less troublesome for the naturalist than are the worries about panpsychism. Intuitively speaking, qualia are important aspects of our mental lives. The itchiness of an itch makes us scratch, the delicious taste of chocolate leads us to reach for another piece, the wrenching feeling of grief erupts in a flood of tears. But if qualia are physically irreducible, then it seems they must be left out of the causal explanations of our actions. We typically assume that the physical world is causally closed; all physical events, including bodily movements, can be given complete causal explanations in wholly physical terms. Unless we reject causal closure, then assuming we do not want to embrace the possibility of causal overdetermination, qualia have no role to play in the causal story of our actions.

We can easily see why naturalism leads to epiphenomenalism by reconsidering the zombie world. By hypothesis, your zombie twin is behaviorally indistinguishable from you despite having no qualia. His actions can be causally explained entirely by the physical workings of his brain. But he’s a molecule-for-molecule duplicate of you, so the physical workings of your brain can provide a complete causal explanation of your actions. Your qualia play no role in causing the actions that you perform.

Chalmers addresses the threat of epiphenomenalism in two ways. First, he suggests that our inadequate understanding of the nature of causation may here be leading us astray: “it is possible that when causation is better understood we will be in a position to understand a subtle way in which consciousness may be relevant.” (Chalmers 1996, 150) Second, he tries to show that epiphenomenalism may not be as unpalatable as many have thought. In particular, he argues that we don’t have any reasons to reject epiphenomenalism except for its seeming counterintuitive; there are no effective arguments against it. (See also Jackson 1982.) Moreover, given the fatal flaws that threaten the competing alternatives to naturalistic dualism, it may turn out that accepting some degree of counterintuitiveness is the small price we have to pay in order to develop a coherent and unmysterious view of consciousness and its place in nature.

7. References and Further Reading

  • Block, N. 2007. Consciousness, Function, and Representation. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • A very useful collection bringing together Block’s impressive body of work in philosophy of mind on issues relating to functionalism, qualia, and consciousness.
  • Block, N. 2003. “Mental Paint.” In Martin Hahn and Bjorn Ramberg, eds., Reflections and Replies: Essays on the Philosophy of Tyler Burge, 165-200. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2003. Reprinted in Block 2007, 533-563; page references are to the reprinted version.
    • A helpful characterization of the issues surrounding representationalism (which Block calls representationism) and a defense of a qualia realist view he calls phenomenism.
  • Block, N. 1994. “Qualia.” In Samuel Guttenplan, ed., A Companion to the Philosophy of Mind, 514-520. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Reprinted in Block 2007, 501-510.
  • Block, N. 1990. “Inverted Earth.” In James Tomberlin, ed., Philosophical Perspectives 4, Action Theory and Philosophy of Mind, 53-79. Atascadero, Calif.: Ridgeview. Reprinted in Block 2007, 511-532.
    • A reply to Harman’s “The Intrinsic Quality of Experience.” This paper introduces the much-discussed Inverted Earth thought experiment, a version of the inverted qualia argument targeting representationalism.
  • Block, N. 1978. “Troubles with Functionalism.” In C.W. Savage, ed., Perception and Cognition: Issues in the Foundations of Psychology, pp. 261-326. Reprinted with revision and abridgement in Block 2007, 63-101.
    • An influential work that develops in detail the absent qualia objection to functionalism.
  • Block, N., Flanagan, O., and Guzeldere, G., eds. 1997. The Nature of Consciousness. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • An anthology collecting much of the classic work on consciousness.
  • Byrne, A. 2001. “Intentionalism Defended.” Philosophical Review 110: 199-240.
    • A very useful overview of the issues surrounding representationalism.
  • Chalmers, D. 1996. The Conscious Mind: In Search of a Fundamental Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • One of the most important books in philosophy of mind over the last twenty years; introduces and discusses in detail the hard problem of consciousness. Although the book is technical in parts, the most technical sections are indicated by asterisk and can be skipped without losing the overall argument.
  • Chalmers, D. 1995. “Facing Up to the Problem of Consciousness.” Journal of Consciousness Studies 2: 200-219.
  • Churchland, P.M. 1984. Matter and Consciousness: A Contemporary Introduction to the Philosophy of Mind. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • An accessible introductory text to the philosophy of mind, though Churchland’s own eliminativist leanings shade his treatment of the issues discussed.
  • Churchland, P.S. 1986. Neurophilosophy: Toward a Unified Science of the Mind-Brain. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
  • Churchland, P.M. and Churchland, P.S. 1981. “Functionalism, Qualia, and Intentionality.” Philosophical Topics 12: 121-145.
  • Conee, E. 1994. “Phenomenal Knowledge.” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 72: 136-150. Reprinted in Ludlow et al, 2004.
    • A classic presentation of Conee’s “acquaintance hypothesis” in response to Jackson’s knowledge argument.
  • Dennett, D. 1991. Consciousness Explained. Boston: Little, Brown and Company.
  • Dennett, D. 1988. “Quining Qualia.” In A. Marcel and E. Bisiach, eds., Consciousness in Contemporary Science, 43-77. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • Argues, in Dennett’s characteristically jocular style, for eliminativism about qualia.
  • Dretske, F. 1995. Naturalizing the Mind. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • A sustained argument for representationalism, with sustained discussion of how representation works.
  • Graham, G. and Horgan, T. “Qualia Realism’s Contents and Discontents.” In Edmond Wright, ed., The Case for Qualia. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press (2008), 89-107.
  • Harman, G. 1990. “The Intrinsic Quality of Experience.” In James Tomberlin, ed., Philosophical Perspectives 4, Action Theory and Philosophy of Mind, 31-52. Atascadero, Calif.: Ridgeview. Reprinted in Block et al, 1997, 663-675; page references to the reprinted version.
    • Introduces considerations of the transparency of experience into contemporary discussions of qualia.
  • Haugeland, J. 1978. “The Nature and Plausibility of Cognitivism.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 2: 215-260.
  • Hill, C. and McLaughlin, B. 1999. “There are Fewer Things in Reality than are Dreamt of in Chalmers’ Philosophy.” Journal of Phenomenological Research 59: 445-454.
  • Horgan, T. and Tienson, J. 2002. “The Intentionality of Phenomenology and the Phenomenology of Intentionality.” In David Chalmers, ed., Philosophy of Mind: Classical and Contemporary Readings. Oxford: Oxford University Press (2002), 520-533.
  • Jackson, F. 1982. “Epiphenomenal Qualia.” Philosophical Quarterly 32: 127-136. Reprinted in Ludlow et al, 2004.
    • Jackson’s classic paper first laying out the Mary case and the knowledge argument against physicalism.
  • Keeley, B. 2009. “The Early History of the Quale and Its Relation to the Senses.” In John Symons and Paco Calvo, eds., Routledge Companion to the Philosophy of Psychology. New York: Routledge Press.
    • Reviews the history of the use of the term “qualia,” both before and after C.I. Lewis introduced it into the philosophical literature in roughly its contemporary sense.
  • Kind, A. 2003. “What’s So Transparent About Transparency?” Philosophical Studies 115: 225-244.
  • Levine, J. 1983. “Materialism and Qualia: The Explanatory Gap.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 64: 354-361.
  • Lewis, C.I. 1929. Mind and the World Order. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.
    • Introduces the term “qualia” in its contemporary sense (introspectible, monadic, subjective properties), though Lewis uses it in the context of sense data.
  • Lewis, D. 1988. “What Experience Teaches.” In J. Copley-Coltheart, ed., Proceedings of the Russellian Society 13: 29-57. Reprinted in Ludlow et al, 2004.
    • An influential presentation of the “ability hypothesis” in response to Jackson’s knowledge argument.
  • Libet, B. 1996. “Solutions to the Hard Problem of Consciousness.” Journal of Consciousness Studies 3: 33-35.
  • Loar, B. 1990. “Phenomenal States.” In James Tomberlin, ed., Philosophical Perspectives 4, Action Theory and Philosophy of Mind, 81-108. Atascadero, Calif.: Ridgeview. Revised version reprinted in Ludlow et al, 2004.
  • Ludlow, P., Nagasawa, Y., and Stoljar, D. 2004. There’s Something About Mary: Essays on Phenomenal Consciousness and Frank Jackson’s Knowledge Argument. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • An anthology that collects Jackson’s original two papers laying out the knowledge argument along with many important papers in response. Also contains Jackson’s recent surprising recantation of the original argument, published here for the first time. Jackson now believes that the representationalist view helps us to see how the argument goes wrong.
  • Lycan, W.G. 1996. Consciousness and Experience. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • A development of Lycan’s intramodal representationalism.
  • Lycan, W. 1995. Consciousness. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
  • McGinn, C. 1989. “Can We Solve the Mind-Body Problem?” Mind 98: 349-366. Reprinted in Block et al, 1997, 529-542.
    • Defends new mysterianism, that is, the view that the problem of consciousness cannot in principle be solved.
  • McGinn, C. 1996. The Character of Mind (Second Edition). Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Nagel, T. 1998. “Conceiving the Impossible and the Mind-Body Problem”, Philosophy 73: 337-352
  • Nagel, T. 1979. “Panpsychism.” In Mortal Questions. Cambridge University Press.
  • Nagel, T. 1974. “What is it Like to be a Bat?” Philosophical Review 83: 435-450. Reprinted in Block et al, 1997, 519-527; page references are to the reprinted version.
    • A classic paper arguing that physicalism cannot accommodate the subjective aspects of experience—much-cited and well worth reading.
  • Rosenberg, G. 2004. A Place for Consciousness. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Searle, John. 1997. The Mystery of Consciousness. New York: New York Review of Books.
    • A collection of Searle’s essays from The New York Review of Books.
  • Searle, J. 1992. The Rediscovery of the Mind. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • Argues for a conceptual connection between consciousness and intentionality.
  • Shoemaker, S. 1975. “Functionalism and Qualia.” Philosophical Studies 27, 291-315.
    • An interesting argument attempting to show that functionalism can handle inverted qualia. Shoemaker’s own view about qualia is somewhat idiosyncratic in that he denies they are directly introspectible.
  • Siewert, C. 2004. “Is Experience Transparent?” Philosophical Studies, 117: 15-41.
  • Tye, M. 2000. Consciousness, Color, and Content. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • Further development of the representationalist view, including responses to common criticisms of the view.
  • Tye, M. 1995. Ten Problems of Consciousness. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press.
    • Develops a strong representationalist view in an attempt to unravel several puzzling aspects of consciousness (its subjectivity, transparency, etc.).
  • Tye, M. 1990. “A Representational Theory of Pains and their Phenomenal Character.” In James Tomberlin, ed., Philosophical Perspectives 9. Atascadero, Calif.: Ridgeview.
    • An early statement of representationalism, here limited specifically to pain.

Author Information

Amy Kind
Email: amy.kind@cmc.edu
Claremont McKenna College
U. S. A.

René Descartes (1596—1650)

René Descartes is often credited with being the “Father of Modern Philosophy.” This title is justified due both to his break with the traditional Scholastic-Aristotelian philosophy prevalent at his time and to his development and promotion of the new, mechanistic sciences. His fundamental break with Scholastic philosophy was twofold. First, Descartes thought that the Scholastics’ method was prone to doubt given their reliance on sensation as the source for all knowledge. Second, he wanted to replace their final causal model of scientific explanation with the more modern, mechanistic model.

Descartes attempted to address the former issue via his method of doubt. His basic strategy was to consider false any belief that falls prey to even the slightest doubt. This “hyperbolic doubt” then serves to clear the way for what Descartes considers to be an unprejudiced search for the truth. This clearing of his previously held beliefs then puts him at an epistemological ground-zero. From here Descartes sets out to find something that lies beyond all doubt. He eventually discovers that “I exist” is impossible to doubt and is, therefore, absolutely certain. It is from this point that Descartes proceeds to demonstrate God’s existence and that God cannot be a deceiver. This, in turn, serves to fix the certainty of everything that is clearly and distinctly understood and provides the epistemological foundation Descartes set out to find.

Once this conclusion is reached, Descartes can proceed to rebuild his system of previously dubious beliefs on this absolutely certain foundation. These beliefs, which are re-established with absolute certainty, include the existence of a world of bodies external to the mind, the dualistic distinction of the immaterial mind from the body, and his mechanistic model of physics based on the clear and distinct ideas of geometry. This points toward his second, major break with the Scholastic Aristotelian tradition in that Descartes intended to replace their system based on final causal explanations with his system based on mechanistic principles. Descartes also applied this mechanistic framework to the operation of plant, animal and human bodies, sensation and the passions. All of this eventually culminating in a moral system based on the notion of “generosity.”

The presentation below provides an overview of Descartes’ philosophical thought as it relates to these various metaphysical, epistemological, religious, moral and scientific issues, covering the wide range of his published works and correspondence.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. The Modern Turn
    1. Against Scholasticism
    2. Descartes’ Project
  3. Method
  4. The Mind
    1. Cogito, ergo sum
    2. The Nature of the Mind and its Ideas
  5. God
    1. The Causal Arguments
    2. The Ontological Argument
  6. The Epistemological Foundation
    1. Absolute Certainty and the Cartesian Circle
    2. How to Avoid Error
  7. Mind-Body Relation
    1. The Real Distinction
    2. The Mind-Body Problem
  8. Body and the Physical Sciences
    1. Existence of the External World
    2. The Nature of Body
    3. Physics
    4. Animal and Human Bodies
  9. Sensations and Passions
  10. Morality
    1. The Provisional Moral Code
    2. Generosity
  11. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Life

René Descartes was born to Joachim Descartes and Jeanne Brochard on March 31, 1596 in La Haye, France near Tours. He was the youngest of the couple’s three surviving children. The oldest child, Pierre, died soon after his birth on October 19, 1589. His sister, Jeanne, was probably born sometime the following year, while his surviving older brother, also named Pierre, was born on October 19, 1591. The Descartes clan was a bourgeois family composed of mostly doctors and some lawyers. Joachim Descartes fell into this latter category and spent most of his career as a member of the provincial parliament.

After the death of their mother, which occurred soon after René’s birth, the three Descartes children were sent to their maternal grandmother, Jeanne Sain, to be raised in La Haye and remained there even after their father remarried in 1600. Not much is known about his early childhood, but René is thought to have been a sickly and fragile child, so much so that when he was sent to board at the Jesuit college at La Fleche on Easter of 1607. There, René was not obligated to rise at 5:00am with the other boys for morning prayers but was allowed to rest until 10:00am mass. At La Fleche, Descartes completed the usual courses of study in grammar and rhetoric and the philosophical curriculum with courses in the “verbal arts” of grammar, rhetoric and dialectic (or logic) and the “mathematical arts” comprised of arithmetic, music, geometry and astronomy. The course of study was capped off with courses in metaphysics, natural philosophy and ethics. Descartes is known to have disdained the impractical subjects despite having an affinity for the mathematical curriculum. But, all things considered, he did receive a very broad liberal arts education before leaving La Fleche in 1614.

Little is known of Descartes’ life from 1614-1618. But what is known is that during 1615-1616 he received a degree and a license in civil and canon law at the University of Poiters. However, some speculate that from 1614-1615 Descartes suffered a nervous breakdown in a house outside of Paris and that he lived in Paris from 1616-1618. The story picks up in the summer of 1618 when Descartes went to the Netherlands to become a volunteer for the army of Maurice of Nassau. It was during this time that he met Isaac Beekman, who was, perhaps, the most important influence on his early adulthood. It was Beekman who rekindled Descartes’ interest in science and opened his eyes to the possibility of applying mathematical techniques to other fields. As a New Year’s gift to Beekman, Descartes composed a treatise on music, which was then considered a branch of mathematics, entitled Compendium Musicae. In 1619 Descartes began serious work on mathematical and mechanical problems under Beekman’s guidance and, finally, left the service of Maurice of Nassau, planning to travel through Germany to join the army of Maximilian of Bavaria.

It is during this year (1619) that Descartes was stationed at Ulm and had three dreams that inspired him to seek a new method for scientific inquiry and to envisage a unified science. Soon afterwards, in 1620, he began looking for this new method, starting but never completing several works on method, including drafts of the first eleven rules of Rules for the Direction of the Mind. Descartes worked on and off on it for years until it was finally abandoned for good in 1628. During this time, he also worked on other, more scientifically oriented projects such as optics. In the course of these inquiries, it is possible that he discovered the law of refraction as early as 1626. It is also during this time that Descartes had regular contact with Father Marin Mersenne, who was to become his long time friend and contact with the intellectual community during his 20 years in the Netherlands.

Descartes moved to the Netherlands in late 1628 and, despite several changes of address and a few trips back to France, he remained there until moving to Sweden at the invitation of Queen Christina in late 1649. He moved to the Netherlands in order to achieve solitude and quiet that he could not attain with all the distractions of Paris and the constant intrusion of visitors. It is here in 1629 that Descartes began work on “a little treatise,” which took him approximately three years to complete, entitled The World. This work was intended to show how mechanistic physics could explain the vast array of phenomena in the world without reference to the Scholastic principles of substantial forms and real qualities, while also asserting a heliocentric conception of the solar system. But the condemnation of Galileo by the Inquisition for maintaining this latter thesis led Descartes to suppress its publication. From 1634-1636, Descartes finished his scientific essays Dioptique and Meteors, which apply his geometrical method to these fields. He also wrote a preface to these essays in the winter of 1635/1636 to be attached to them in addition to another one on geometry. This “preface” became The Discourse on Method and was published in French along with the three essays in June 1637. And, on a personal note, during this time his daughter, Francine, was born in 1635, her mother being a maid at the home where Descartes was staying. But Francine, at the age of five, died of a fever in 1640 when he was making arrangements for her to live with relatives in France so as to ensure her education.

Descartes began work on Meditations on First Philosophy in 1639. Through Mersenne, Descartes solicited criticism of his Meditations from amongst the most learned people of his day, including Antoine Arnauld, Peirre Gassendi, and Thomas Hobbes. The first edition of the Meditations was published in Latin in 1641 with six sets of objections and his replies. A second edition published in 1642 also included a seventh set of objections and replies as well as a letter to Father Dinet in which Descartes defended his system against charges of unorthodoxy. These charges were raised at the Universities of Utrecht and Leiden and stemmed from various misunderstandings about his method and the supposed opposition of his theses to Aristotle and the Christian faith.

This controversy led Descartes to post two open letters against his enemies. The first is entitled Notes on a Program posted in 1642 in which Descartes refutes the theses of his recently estranged disciple, Henricus Regius, a professor of medicine at Utrecht. These Notes were intended not only to refute what Descartes understood to be Regius’ false theses but also to distance himself from his former disciple, who had started a ruckus at Utrecht by making unorthodox claims about the nature of human beings. The second is a long attack directed at the rector of Utrecht, Gisbertus Voetius in the Open Letter to Voetiusposted in 1643. This was in response to a pamphlet anonymously circulated by some of Voetius’ friends at the University of Leiden further attacking Descartes’ philosophy. Descartes’ Open Letter led Voetius to have him summoned before the council of Utrecht, who threatened him with expulsion and the public burning of his books. Descartes, however, was able to flee to the Hague and convince the Prince of Orange to intervene on his behalf.

In the following year (1643), Descartes began an affectionate and philosophically fruitful correspondence with Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia, who was known for her acute intellect and had read the Discourse on Method. Yet, as this correspondence with Elizabeth was beginning, Descartes was already in the midst of writing a textbook version of his philosophy entitled Principles of Philosophy, which he ultimately dedicated to her. Although it was originally supposed to have six parts, he published it in 1644 with only four completed: The Principles of Human Knowledge, The Principles of Material Things, The Visible Universe, and The Earth. The other two parts were to be on plant and animal life and on human beings, but he decided it would be impossible for him to conduct all the experiments necessary for writing them. Elizabeth probed Descartes about issues that he had not dealt with in much detail before, including free will, the passions and morals. This eventually inspired Descartes to write a treatise entitled The Passions of the Soul, which was published just before his departure to Sweden in 1649. Also, during these later years, the Meditations and Principles were translated from Latin into French for a wider, more popular audience and were published in 1647.

In late 1646, Queen Christina of Sweden initiated a correspondence with Descartes through a French diplomat and friend of Descartes’ named Chanut. Christina pressed Descartes on moral issues and a discussion of the absolute good. This correspondence eventually led to an invitation for Descartes to join the Queen’s court in Stockholm in February 1649. Although he had his reservations about going, Descartes finally accepted Christina’s invitation in July of that year. He arrived in Sweden in September 1649 where he was asked to rise at 5:00am to meet the Queen to discuss philosophy, contrary to his usual habit, developed at La Fleche, of sleeping in late,. His decision to go to Sweden, however, was ill-fated, for Descartes caught pneumonia and died on February 11, 1650.

2. The Modern Turn

a. Against Scholasticism

Descartes is often called the “Father of Modern Philosophy,” implying that he provided the seed for a new philosophy that broke away from the old in important ways. This “old” philosophy is Aristotle’s as it was appropriated and interpreted throughout the later medieval period. In fact, Aristotelianism was so entrenched in the intellectual institutions of Descartes’ time that commentators argued that evidence for its the truth could be found in the Bible. Accordingly, if someone were to try to refute some main Aristotelian tenet, then he could be accused of holding a position contrary to the word of God and be punished. However, by Descartes’ time, many had come out in some way against one Scholastic-Aristotelian thesis or other. So, when Descartes argued for the implementation of his modern system of philosophy, breaks with the Scholastic tradition were not unprecedented.

Descartes broke with this tradition in at least two fundamental ways. The first was his rejection of substantial forms as explanatory principles in physics. A substantial form was thought to be an immaterial principle of material organization that resulted in a particular thing of a certain kind. The main principle of substantial forms was the final cause or purpose of being that kind of thing. For example, the bird called the swallow. The substantial form of “swallowness” unites with matter so as to organize it for the sake of being a swallow kind of thing. This also means that any dispositions or faculties the swallow has by virtue of being that kind of thing is ultimately explained by the goal or final cause of being a swallow. So, for instance, the goal of being a swallow is the cause of the swallow’s ability to fly. Hence, on this account, a swallow flies for the sake of being a swallow. Although this might be true, it does not say anything new or useful about swallows, and so it seemed to Descartes that Scholastic philosophy and science was incapable of discovering any new or useful knowledge.

Descartes rejected the use of substantial forms and their concomitant final causes in physics precisely for this reason. Indeed, his essay Meteorology, that appeared alongside the Discourse on Method, was intended to show that clearer and more fruitful explanations can be obtained without reference to substantial forms but only by way of deductions from the configuration and motion of parts. Hence, his point was to show that mechanistic principles are better suited for making progress in the physical sciences. Another reason Descartes rejected substantial forms and final causes in physics was his belief that these notions were the result of the confusion of the idea of the body with that of the mind. In the Sixth Replies, Descartes uses the Scholastic conception of gravity in a stone, to make his point. On this account, a characteristic goal of being a stone was a tendency to move toward the center of the earth. This explanation implies that the stone has knowledge of this goal, of the center of the earth and of how to get there. But how can a stone know anything, since it does not think? So, it is a mistake to ascribe mental properties like knowledge to entirely physical things. This mistake should be avoided by clearly distinguishing the idea of the mind from the idea of the body. Descartes considered himself to be the first to do this. His expulsion of the metaphysical principles of substantial forms and final causes helped clear the way for Descartes’ new metaphysical principles on which his modern, mechanistic physics was based.

The second fundamental point of difference Descartes had with the Scholastics was his denial of the thesis that all knowledge must come from sensation. The Scholastics were devoted to the Aristotelian tenet that everyone is born with a clean slate, and that all material for intellectual understanding must be provided through sensation. Descartes, however, argued that since the senses sometimes deceive, they cannot be a reliable source for knowledge. Furthermore, the truth of propositions based on sensation is naturally probabilistic and the propositions, therefore, are doubtful premises when used in arguments. Descartes was deeply dissatisfied with such uncertain knowledge. He then replaced the uncertain premises derived from sensation with the absolute certainty of the clear and distinct ideas perceived by the mind alone, as will be explained below.

b. Descartes’ Project

In the preface to the French edition of the Principles of Philosophy, Descartes uses a tree as a metaphor for his holistic view of philosophy. “The roots are metaphysics, the trunk is physics, and the branches emerging from the trunk are all the other sciences, which may be reduced to three principal ones, namely medicine, mechanics and morals” (AT IXB 14: CSM I 186). Although Descartes does not expand much more on this image, a few other insights into his overall project can be discerned. First, notice that metaphysics constitutes the roots securing the rest of the tree. For it is in Descartes’ metaphysics where an absolutely certain and secure epistemological foundation is discovered. This, in turn, grounds knowledge of the geometrical properties of bodies, which is the basis for his physics. Second, physics constitutes the trunk of the tree, which grows up directly from the roots and provides the basis for the rest of the sciences. Third, the sciences of medicine, mechanics and morals grow out of the trunk of physics, which implies that these other sciences are just applications of his mechanistic science to particular subject areas. Finally, the fruits of the philosophy tree are mainly found on these three branches, which are the sciences most useful and beneficial to humankind. However, an endeavor this grand cannot be conducted haphazardly but should be carried out in an orderly and systematic way. Hence, before even attempting to plant this tree, Descartes must first figure out a method for doing so.

3. Method

Aristotle and subsequent medieval dialecticians set out a fairly large, though limited, set of acceptable argument forms known as “syllogisms” composed of a general or major premise, a particular or minor premise and a conclusion. Although Descartes recognized that these syllogistic forms preserve truth from premises to conclusion such that if the premises are true, then the conclusion must be true, he still found them faulty. First, these premises are supposed to be known when, in fact, they are merely believed, since they express only probabilities based on sensation. Accordingly, conclusions derived from merely probable premises can only be probable themselves, and, therefore, these probable syllogisms serve more to increase doubt rather than knowledge Moreover, the employment of this method by those steeped in the Scholastic tradition had led to such subtle conjectures and plausible arguments that counter-arguments were easily constructed, leading to profound confusion. As a result, the Scholastic tradition had become such a confusing web of arguments, counter-arguments and subtle distinctions that the truth often got lost in the cracks. (Rules for the Direction of the Mind, AT X 364, 405-406 & 430: CSM I 11-12, 36 & 51-52).

Descartes sought to avoid these difficulties through the clarity and absolute certainty of geometrical-style demonstration. In geometry, theorems are deduced from a set of self-evident axioms and universally agreed upon definitions. Accordingly, direct apprehension of clear, simple and indubitable truths (or axioms) by intuition and deductions from those truths can lead to new and indubitable knowledge. Descartes found this promising for several reasons. First, the ideas of geometry are clear and distinct, and therefore they are easily understood unlike the confused and obscure ideas of sensation. Second, the propositions constituting geometrical demonstrations are not probabilistic conjectures but are absolutely certain so as to be immune from doubt. This has the additional advantage that any proposition derived from some one or combination of these absolutely certain truths will itself be absolutely certain. Hence, geometry’s rules of inference preserve absolutely certain truth from simple, indubitable and intuitively grasped axioms to their deductive consequences unlike the probable syllogisms of the Scholastics.

The choice of geometrical method was obvious for Descartes given his previous success in applying this method to other disciplines like optics. Yet his application of this method to philosophy was not unproblematic due to a revival of ancient arguments for global or radical skepticism based on the doubtfulness of human reasoning. But Descartes wanted to show that truths both intuitively grasped and deduced are beyond this possibility of doubt. His tactic was to show that, despite the best skeptical arguments, there is at least one intuitive truth that is beyond all doubt and from which the rest of human knowledge can be deduced. This is precisely the project of Descartes’ seminal work, Meditations on First Philosophy.

In the First Meditation, Descartes lays out several arguments for doubting all of his previously held beliefs. He first observes that the senses sometimes deceive, for example, objects at a distance appear to be quite small, and surely it is not prudent to trust someone (or something) that has deceived us even once. However, although this may apply to sensations derived under certain circumstances, doesn’t it seem certain that “I am here, sitting by the fire, wearing a winter dressing gown, holding this piece of paper in my hands, and so on”? (AT VII 18: CSM II 13). Descartes’ point is that even though the senses deceive us some of the time, what basis for doubt exists for the immediate belief that, for example, you are reading this article? But maybe the belief of reading this article or of sitting by the fireplace is not based on true sensations at all but on the false sensations found in dreams. If such sensations are just dreams, then it is not really the case that you are reading this article but in fact you are in bed asleep. Since there is no principled way of distinguishing waking life from dreams, any belief based on sensation has been shown to be doubtful. This includes not only the mundane beliefs about reading articles or sitting by the fire but even the beliefs of experimental science are doubtful, because the observations upon which they are based may not be true but mere dream images. Therefore, all beliefs based on sensation have been called into doubt, because it might all be a dream.

This, however, does not pertain to mathematical beliefs, since they are not based on sensation but on reason. For even though one is dreaming, for example, that, 2 + 3 = 5, the certainty of this proposition is not called into doubt, because 2 + 3 = 5 whether the one believing it is awake or dreaming. Descartes continues to wonder about whether or not God could make him believe there is an earth, sky and other extended things when, in fact, these things do not exist at all. In fact, people sometimes make mistakes about things they think are most certain such as mathematical calculations. But maybe people are not mistaken just some of the time but all of the time such that believing that 2 + 3 = 5 is some kind of persistent and collective mistake, and so the sum of 2 + 3 is really something other than 5. However, such universal deception seems inconsistent with God’s supreme goodness. Indeed, even the occasional deception of mathematical miscalculation also seems inconsistent with God’s goodness, yet people do sometimes make mistakes. Then, in line with the skeptics, Descartes supposes, for the sake of his method, that God does not exist, but instead there is an evil demon with supreme power and cunning that puts all his efforts into deceiving him so that he is always mistaken about everything, including mathematics.

In this way, Descartes called all of his previous beliefs into doubt through some of the best skeptical arguments of his day But he was still not satisfied and decided to go a step further by considering false any belief that falls prey to even the slightest doubt. So, by the end of the First Meditation, Descartes finds himself in a whirlpool of false beliefs. However, it is important to realize that these doubts and the supposed falsehood of all his beliefs are for the sake of his method: he does not really believe that he is dreaming or is being deceived by an evil demon; he recognizes that his doubt is merely hyperbolic. But the point of this “methodological” or ‘hyperbolic” doubt is to clear the mind of preconceived opinions that might obscure the truth. The goal then is to find something that cannot be doubted even though an evil demon is deceiving him and even though he is dreaming. This first indubitable truth will then serve as an intuitively grasped metaphysical “axiom” from which absolutely certain knowledge can be deduced. For more, see Cartesian skepticism.

4. The Mind

a. Cogito, ergo sum

In the Second Meditation, Descartes tries to establish absolute certainty in his famous reasoning: Cogito, ergo sum or “I think, therefore I am.” These Meditations are conducted from the first person perspective, from Descartes.’ However, he expects his reader to meditate along with him to see how his conclusions were reached. This is especially important in the Second Meditation where the intuitively grasped truth of “I exist” occurs. So the discussion here of this truth will take place from the first person or “I” perspective. All sensory beliefs had been found doubtful in the previous meditation, and therefore all such beliefs are now considered false. This includes the belief that I have a body endowed with sense organs. But does the supposed falsehood of this belief mean that I do not exist? No, for if I convinced myself that my beliefs are false, then surely there must be an “I” that was convinced. Moreover, even if I am being deceived by an evil demon, I must exist in order to be deceived at all. So “I must finally conclude that the proposition, ‘I am,’ ‘I exist,’ is necessarily true whenever it is put forward by me or conceived in my mind” (AT VII 25: CSM II 16-17). This just means that the mere fact that I am thinking, regardless of whether or not what I am thinking is true or false, implies that there must be something engaged in that activity, namely an “I.” Hence, “I exist” is an indubitable and, therefore, absolutely certain belief that serves as an axiom from which other, absolutely certain truths can be deduced.

b. The Nature of the Mind and its Ideas

The Second Meditation continues with Descartes asking, “What am I?” After discarding the traditional Scholastic-Aristotelian concept of a human being as a rational animal due to the inherent difficulties of defining “rational” and “animal,” he finally concludes that he is a thinking thing, a mind: “A thing that doubts, understands, affirms, denies, is willing, is unwilling, and also imagines and has sense perceptions” (AT VII 28: CSM II 19). In the Principles, part I, sections 32 and 48, Descartes distinguishes intellectual perception and volition as what properly belongs to the nature of the mind alone while imagination and sensation are, in some sense, faculties of the mind insofar as it is united with a body. So imagination and sensation are faculties of the mind in a weaker sense than intellect and will, since they require a body in order to perform their functions. Finally, in the Sixth Meditation, Descartes claims that the mind or “I” is a non-extended thing. Now, since extension is the nature of body, is a necessary feature of body, it follows that the mind is by its nature not a body but an immaterial thing. Therefore, what I am is an immaterial thinking thing with the faculties of intellect and will.

It is also important to notice that the mind is a substance and the modes of a thinking substance are its ideas. For Descartes a substance is a thing requiring nothing else in order to exist. Strictly speaking, this applies only to God whose existence is his essence, but the term “substance” can be applied to creatures in a qualified sense. Minds are substances in that they require nothing except God’s concurrence, in order to exist. But ideas are “modes” or “ways” of thinking, and, therefore, modes are not substances, since they must be the ideas of some mind or other. So, ideas require, in addition to God’s concurrence, some created thinking substance in order to exist (see Principles of Philosophy, part I, sections 51 & 52). Hence the mind is an immaterial thinking substance, while its ideas are its modes or ways of thinking.

Descartes continues on to distinguish three kinds of ideas at the beginning of the Third Meditation, namely those that are fabricated, adventitious, or innate. Fabricated ideas are mere inventions of the mind. Accordingly, the mind can control them so that they can be examined and set aside at will and their internal content can be changed. Adventitious ideas are sensations produced by some material thing existing externally to the mind. But, unlike fabrications, adventitious ideas cannot be examined and set aside at will nor can their internal content be manipulated by the mind. For example, no matter how hard one tries, if someone is standing next to a fire, she cannot help but feel the heat as heat. She cannot set aside the sensory idea of heat by merely willing it as we can do with our idea of Santa Claus, for example. She also cannot change its internal content so as to feel something other than heat–say, cold. Finally, innate ideas are placed in the mind by God at creation. These ideas can be examined and set aside at will but their internal content cannot be manipulated. Geometrical ideas are paradigm examples of innate ideas. For example, the idea of a triangle can be examined and set aside at will, but its internal content cannot be manipulated so as to cease being the idea of a three-sided figure. Other examples of innate ideas would be metaphysical principles like “what is done cannot be undone,” the idea of the mind, and the idea of God.

Descartes’ idea of God will be discussed momentarily, but let’s consider his claim that the mind is better known than the body. This is the main point of the wax example found in the Second Meditation. Here, Descartes pauses from his methodological doubt to examine a particular piece of wax fresh from the honeycomb:

It has not yet quite lost the taste of the honey; it retains some of the scent of flowers from which it was gathered; its color shape and size are plain to see; it is hard, cold and can be handled without difficulty; if you rap it with your knuckle it makes a sound. (AT VII 30: CSM II 20)

The point is that the senses perceive certain qualities of the wax like its hardness, smell, and so forth. But, as it is moved closer to the fire, all of these sensible qualities change. “Look: the residual taste is eliminated, the smell goes away, the color changes, the shape is lost, the size increases, it becomes liquid and hot” (AT VII 30: CSM II 20). However, despite these changes in what the senses perceive of the wax, it is still judged to be the same wax now as before. To warrant this judgment, something that does not change must have been perceived in the wax.

This reasoning establishes at least three important points. First, all sensation involves some sort of judgment, which is a mental mode. Accordingly, every sensation is, in some sense, a mental mode, and “the more attributes [that is, modes] we discover in the same thing or substance, the clearer is our knowledge of that substance” (AT VIIIA 8: CSM I 196). Based on this principle, the mind is better known than the body, because it has ideas about both extended and mental things and not just of extended things, and so it has discovered more modes in itself than in bodily substances. Second, this is also supposed to show that what is unchangeable in the wax is its extension in length, breadth and depth, which is not perceivable by the senses but by the mind alone. The shape and size of the wax are modes of this extension and can, therefore, change. But the extension constituting this wax remains the same and permits the judgment that the body with the modes existing in it after being moved by the fire is the same body as before even though all of its sensible qualities have changed. One final lesson is that Descartes is attempting to wean his reader from reliance on sense images as a source for, or an aid to, knowledge. Instead, people should become accustomed to thinking without images in order to clearly understand things not readily or accurately represented by them, for example, God and the mind. So, according to Descartes, immaterial, mental things are better known and, therefore, are better sources of knowledge than extended things.

5. God

a. The Causal Arguments

At the beginning of the Third Meditation only “I exist” and “I am a thinking thing” are beyond doubt and are, therefore, absolutely certain. From these intuitively grasped, absolutely certain truths, Descartes now goes on to deduce the existence of something other than himself, namely God. Descartes begins by considering what is necessary for something to be the adequate cause of its effect. This will be called the “Causal Adequacy Principle” and is expressed as follows: “there must be at least as much reality in the efficient and total cause as in the effect of that cause,” which in turn implies that something cannot come from nothing (AT VII 40: CSM II 28). Here Descartes is espousing a causal theory that implies whatever is possessed by an effect must have been given to it by its cause. For example, when a pot of water is heated to a boil, it must have received that heat from some cause that had at least that much heat. Moreover, something that is not hot enough cannot cause water to boil, because it does not have the requisite reality to bring about that effect. In other words, something cannot give what it does not have.

Descartes goes on to apply this principle to the cause of his ideas. This version of the Causal Adequacy Principle states that whatever is contained objectively in an idea must be contained either formally or eminently in the cause of that idea. Definitions of some key terms are now in order. First, the objective reality contained in an idea is just its representational content; in other words, it is the “object” of the idea or what that idea is about. The idea of the sun, for instance, contains the reality of the sun in it objectively. Second, the formal reality contained in something is a reality actually contained in that thing. For example, the sun itself has the formal reality of extension since it is actually an extended thing or body. Finally, a reality is contained in something eminently when that reality is contained in it in a higher form such that (1) the thing does not possess that reality formally, but (2) it has the ability to cause that reality formally in something else. For example, God is not formally an extended thing but solely a thinking thing; however, he is eminently the extended universe in that it exists in him in a higher form, and accordingly he has the ability to cause its existence. The main point is that the Causal Adequacy Principle also pertains to the causes of ideas so that, for instance, the idea of the sun must be caused by something that contains the reality of the sun either actually (formally) or in some higher form (eminently).

Once this principle is established, Descartes looks for an idea of which he could not be the cause. Based on this principle, he can be the cause of the objective reality of any idea that he has either formally or eminently. He is formally a finite substance, and so he can be the cause of any idea with the objective reality of a finite substance. Moreover, since finite substances require only God’s concurrence to exist and modes require a finite substance and God, finite substances are more real than modes. Accordingly, a finite substance is not formally but eminently a mode, and so he can be the cause of all his ideas of modes. But the idea of God is the idea of an infinite substance. Since a finite substance is less real than an infinite substance by virtue of the latter’s absolute independence, it follows that Descartes, a finite substance, cannot be the cause of his idea of an infinite substance. This is because a finite substance does not have enough reality to be the cause of this idea, for if a finite substance were the cause of this idea, then where would it have gotten the extra reality? But the idea must have come from something. So something that is actually an infinite substance, namely God, must be the cause of the idea of an infinite substance. Therefore, God exists as the only possible cause of this idea.

Notice that in this argument Descartes makes a direct inference from having the idea of an infinite substance to the actual existence of God. He provides another argument that is cosmological in nature in response to a possible objection to this first argument. This objection is that the cause of a finite substance with the idea of God could also be a finite substance with the idea of God. Yet what was the cause of that finite substance with the idea of God? Well, another finite substance with the idea of God. But what was the cause of that finite substance with the idea of God? Well, another finite substance . . . and so on to infinity. Eventually an ultimate cause of the idea of God must be reached in order to provide an adequate explanation of its existence in the first place and thereby stop the infinite regress. That ultimate cause must be God, because only he has enough reality to cause it. So, in the end, Descartes claims to have deduced God’s existence from the intuitions of his own existence as a finite substance with the idea of God and the Causal Adequacy Principle, which is “manifest by the natural light,” thereby indicating that it is supposed to be an absolutely certain intuition as well.

b. The Ontological Argument

The ontological argument is found in the Fifth Meditation and follows a more straightforwardly geometrical line of reasoning. Here Descartes argues that God’s existence is deducible from the idea of his nature just as the fact that the sum of the interior angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles is deducible from the idea of the nature of a triangle. The point is that this property is contained in the nature of a triangle, and so it is inseparable from that nature. Accordingly, the nature of a triangle without this property is unintelligible. Similarly, it is apparent that the idea of God is that of a supremely perfect being, that is, a being with all perfections to the highest degree. Moreover, actual existence is a perfection, at least insofar as most would agree that it is better to actually exist than not. Now, if the idea of God did not contain actual existence, then it would lack a perfection. Accordingly, it would no longer be the idea of a supremely perfect being but the idea of something with an imperfection, namely non-existence, and, therefore, it would no longer be the idea of God. Hence, the idea of a supremely perfect being or God without existence is unintelligible. This means that existence is contained in the essence of an infinite substance, and therefore God must exist by his very nature. Indeed, any attempt to conceive of God as not existing would be like trying to conceive of a mountain without a valley – it just cannot be done.

6. The Epistemological Foundation

a. Absolute Certainty and the Cartesian Circle

Recall that in the First Meditation Descartes supposed that an evil demon was deceiving him. So as long as this supposition remains in place, there is no hope of gaining any absolutely certain knowledge. But he was able to demonstrate God’s existence from intuitively grasped premises, thereby providing, a glimmer of hope of extricating himself from the evil demon scenario. The next step is to demonstrate that God cannot be a deceiver. At the beginning of the Fourth Meditation, Descartes claims that the will to deceive is “undoubtedly evidence of malice or weakness” so as to be an imperfection. But, since God has all perfections and no imperfections, it follows that God cannot be a deceiver. For to conceive of God with the will to deceive would be to conceive him to be both having no imperfections and having one imperfection, which is impossible; it would be like trying to conceive of a mountain without a valley. This conclusion, in addition to God’s existence, provides the absolutely certain foundation Descartes was seeking from the outset of the Meditations. It is absolutely certain because both conclusions (namely that God exists and that God cannot be a deceiver) have themselves been demonstrated from immediately grasped and absolutely certain intuitive truths.

This means that God cannot be the cause of human error, since he did not create humans with a faculty for generating them, nor could God create some being, like an evil demon, who is bent on deception. Rather, humans are the cause of their own errors when they do not use their faculty of judgment correctly. Second, God’s non-deceiving nature also serves to guarantee the truth of all clear and distinct ideas. So God would be a deceiver, if there were a clear and distinct idea that was false, since the mind cannot help but believe them to be true. Hence, clear and distinct ideas must be true on pain of contradiction. This also implies that knowledge of God’s existence is required for having any absolutely certain knowledge. Accordingly, atheists, who are ignorant of God’s existence, cannot have absolutely certain knowledge of any kind, including scientific knowledge.

But this veridical guarantee gives rise to a serious problem within the Meditations, stemming from the claim that all clear and distinct ideas are ultimately guaranteed by God’s existence, which is not established until the Third Meditation. This means that those truths reached in the Second Meditation, such as “I exist” and “I am a thinking thing,” and those principles used in the Third Meditation to conclude that God exists, are not clearly and distinctly understood, and so they cannot be absolutely certain. Hence, since the premises of the argument for God’s existence are not absolutely certain, the conclusion that God exists cannot be certain either. This is what is known as the “Cartesian Circle,” because Descartes’ reasoning seems to go in a circle in that he needs God’s existence for the absolute certainty of the earlier truths and yet he needs the absolute certainty of these earlier truths to demonstrate God’s existence with absolute certainty.

Descartes’ response to this concern is found in the Second Replies. There he argues that God’s veridical guarantee only pertains to the recollection of arguments and not the immediate awaRenéss of an argument’s clarity and distinctness currently under consideration. Hence, those truths reached before the demonstration of God’s existence are clear and distinct when they are being attended to but cannot be relied upon as absolutely certain when those arguments are recalled later on. But once God’s existence has been demonstrated, the recollection of the clear and distinct perception of the premises is sufficient for absolutely certain and, therefore, perfect knowledge of its conclusion (see also the Fifth Meditation at AT VII 69-70: CSM II XXX).

b. How to Avoid Error

In the Third Meditation, Descartes argues that only those ideas called “judgments” can, strictly speaking, be true or false, because it is only in making a judgment that the resemblance, conformity or correspondence of the idea to things themselves is affirmed or denied. So if one affirms that an idea corresponds to a thing itself when it really does not, then an error has occurred. This faculty of judging is described in more detail in the Fourth Meditation. Here judgment is described as a faculty of the mind resulting from the interaction of the faculties of intellect and will. Here Descartes observes that the intellect is finite in that humans do not know everything, and so their understanding of things is limited. But the will or faculty of choice is seemingly infinite in that it can be applied to just about anything whatsoever. The finitude of the intellect along with this seeming infinitude of the will is the source of human error. For errors arise when the will exceeds the understanding such that something laying beyond the limits of the understanding is voluntarily affirmed or denied. To put it more simply: people make mistakes when they choose to pass judgment on things they do not fully understand. So the will should be restrained within the bounds of what the mind understands in order to avoid error. Indeed, Descartes maintains that judgments should only be made about things that are clearly and distinctly understood, since their truth is guaranteed by God’s non-deceiving nature. If one only makes judgments about what is clearly and distinctly understood and abstains from making judgments about things that are not, then error would be avoided altogether. In fact, it would be impossible to go wrong if this rule were unwaveringly followed.

7. Mind-Body Relation

a. The Real Distinction

One of Descartes’ main conclusions is that the mind is really distinct from the body. But what is a “real distinction”? Descartes explains it best at Principles, part 1, section 60. Here he first states that it is a distinction between two or more substances. Second, a real distinction is perceived when one substance can be clearly and distinctly understood without the other and vice versa. Third, this clear and distinct understanding shows that God can bring about anything understood in this way. Hence, in arguing for the real distinction between mind and body, Descartes is arguing that 1) the mind is a substance, 2) it can be clearly and distinctly understood without any other substance, including bodies, and 3) that God could create a mental substance all by itself without any other created substance. So Descartes is ultimately arguing for the possibility of minds or souls existing without bodies.

Descartes argues that mind and body are really distinct in two places in the Sixth Meditation. The first argument is that he has a clear and distinct understanding of the mind as a thinking, non-extended thing and of the body as an extended, non-thinking thing. So these respective ideas are clearly and distinctly understood to be opposite from one another and, therefore, each can be understood all by itself without the other. Two points should be mentioned here. First, Descartes’ claim that these perceptions are clear and distinct indicates that the mind cannot help but believe them true, and so they must be true for otherwise God would be a deceiver, which is impossible. So the premises of this argument are firmly rooted in his foundation for absolutely certain knowledge. Second, this indicates further that he knows that God can create mind and body in the way that they are being clearly and distinctly understood. Therefore, the mind can exist without the body and vice versa.

The second version is found later in the Sixth Meditation where Descartes claims to understand the nature of body or extension to be divisible into parts, while the nature of the mind is understood to be “something quite simple and complete” so as not to be composed of parts and is, therefore, indivisible. From this it follows that mind and body cannot have the same nature, for if this were true, then the same thing would be both divisible and not divisible, which is impossible. Hence, mind and body must have two completely different natures in order for each to be able to be understood all by itself without the other. Although Descartes does not make the further inference here to the conclusion that mind and body are two really distinct substances, it nevertheless follows from their respective abilities to be clearly and distinctly understood without each other that God could create one without the other.

b. The Mind-Body Problem

The famous mind-body problem has its origins in Descartes’ conclusion that mind and body are really distinct. The crux of the difficulty lies in the claim that the respective natures of mind and body are completely different and, in some way, opposite from one another. On this account, the mind is an entirely immaterial thing without any extension in it whatsoever; and, conversely, the body is an entirely material thing without any thinking in it at all. This also means that each substance can have only its kind of modes. For instance, the mind can only have modes of understanding, will and, in some sense, sensation, while the body can only have modes of size, shape, motion, and quantity. But bodies cannot have modes of understanding or willing, since these are not ways of being extended; and minds cannot have modes of shape or motion, since these are not ways of thinking.

The difficulty arises when it is noticed that sometimes the will moves the body, for example, the intention to ask a question in class causes the raising of your arm, and certain motions in the body cause the mind to have sensations. But how can two substances with completely different natures causally interact? Pierre Gassendi in the Fifth Objections and Princess Elizabeth in her correspondence with Descartes both noted this problem and explained it in terms of contact and motion. The main thrust of their concern is that the mind must be able to come into contact with the body in order to cause it to move. Yet contact must occur between two or more surfaces, and, since having a surface is a mode of extension, minds cannot have surfaces. Therefore, minds cannot come into contact with bodies in order to cause some of their limbs to move. Furthermore, although Gassendi and Elizabeth were concerned with how a mental substance can cause motion in a bodily substance, a similar problem can be found going the other way: how can the motion of particles in the eye, for example, traveling through the optic nerve to the brain cause visual sensations in the mind, if no contact or transfer of motion is possible between the two?

This could be a serious problem for Descartes, because the actual existence of modes of sensation and voluntary bodily movement indicates that mind and body do causally interact. But the completely different natures of mind and body seem to preclude the possibility of this interaction. Hence, if this problem cannot be resolved, then it could be used to imply that mind and body are not completely different but they must have something in common in order to facilitate this interaction. Given Elizabeth’s and Gassendi’s concerns, it would suggest that the mind is an extended thing capable of having a surface and motion. Therefore, Descartes could not really come to a clear and distinct understanding of mind and body independently of one another, because the nature of the mind would have to include extension or body in it.

Descartes, however, never seemed very concerned about this problem. The reason for this lack of concern is his conviction expressed to both Gassendi and Elizabeth that the problem rests upon a misunderstanding about the union between mind and body. Though he does not elaborate to Gassendi, Descartes does provide some insight in a 21 May 1643 letter to Elizabeth. In that letter, Descartes distinguishes between various primitive notions. The first is the notion of the body, which entails the notions of shape and motion. The second is the notion of the mind or soul, which includes the perceptions of the intellect and the inclinations of the will. The third is the notion of the union of the soul with the body, on which depend the notion of the soul’s power to move the body and the body’s power to cause sensations and passions in the soul.

The notions entailed by or included in the primitive notions of body and soul just are the notions of their respective modes. This suggests that the notions depending on the primitive notion of the union of soul and body are the modes of the entity resulting from this union. This would also mean that a human being is one thing instead of two things that causally interact through contact and motion as Elizabeth and Gassendi supposed. Instead, a human being, that is, a soul united with a body, would be a whole that is more than the sum of its parts. Accordingly, the mind or soul is a part with its own capacity for modes of intellect and will; the body is a part with its own capacity for modes of size, shape, motion and quantity; and the union of mind and body or human being, has a capacity for its own set of modes over and above the capacities possessed by the parts alone. On this account, modes of voluntary bodily movement would not be modes of the body alone resulting from its mechanistic causal interaction with a mental substance, but rather they would be modes of the whole human being. The explanation of, for example, raising the arm would be found in a principle of choice internal to human nature and similarly sensations would be modes of the whole human being. Hence, the human being would be causing itself to move and would have sensations and, therefore, the problem of causal interaction between mind and body is avoided altogether. Finally, on the account sketched here, Descartes’ human being is actually one, whole thing, while mind and body are its parts that God could make exist independently of one another.

However, a final point should be made before closing this section. The position sketched in the previous couple of paragraphs is not the prevalent view among scholars and requires more justification than can be provided here. Most scholars understand Descartes’ doctrine of the real distinction between mind and body in much the same way as Elizabeth and Gassendi did such that Descartes’ human being is believed to be not one, whole thing but two substances that somehow mechanistically interact. This also means that they find the mind-body problem to be a serious, if not fatal, flaw of Descartes’ entire philosophy. But the benefit of the brief account provided here is that it helps explain Descartes’ lack of concern for this issue and his persistent claims that an understanding of the union of mind and body would put to rest people’s concerns about causal interaction via contact and motion.

8. Body and the Physical Sciences

a. Existence of the External World

In the Sixth Meditation, Descartes recognizes that sensation is a passive faculty that receives sensory ideas from something else. But what is this “something else”? According to the Causal Adequacy Principle of the Third Meditation, this cause must have at least as much reality either formally or eminently as is contained objectively in the produced sensory idea. It, therefore, must be either Descartes himself, a body or extended thing that actually has what is contained objectively in the sensory idea, or God or some creature more noble than a body, who would possess that reality eminently. It cannot be Descartes, since he has no control over these ideas. It cannot be God or some other creature more noble than a body, for if this were so, then God would be a deceiver, because the very strong inclination to believe that bodies are the cause of sensory ideas would then be wrong; and if it is wrong, there is no faculty that could discover the error. Accordingly, God would be the source of the mistake and not human beings, which means that he would be a deceiver. So bodies must be the cause of the ideas of them, and therefore bodies exist externally to the mind.

b. The Nature of Body

In part II of the Principles, Descartes argues that the entire physical universe is corporeal substance indefinitely extended in length, breadth, and depth. This means that the extension constituting bodies and the extension constituting the space in which those bodies are said to be located are the same. Here Descartes is rejecting the claim held by some that bodies have something over and above extension as part of their nature, namely impenetrability, while space is just penetrable extension in which impenetrable bodies are located. Therefore, body and space have the same extension in that body is not impenetrable extension and space penetrable extension, but rather there is only one kind of extension. Descartes maintains further that extension entails impenetrability, and hence there is only impenetrable extension. He goes on to state that: “The terms ‘place’ and ‘space,’ then, do not signify anything different from the body which is said to be in a place . . .” (AT VIIIA 47: CSM I 228). Hence, it is not that bodies are in space but that the extended universe is composed of a plurality or plenum of impenetrable bodies. On this account, there is no place in which a particular body is located, but rather what is called a “place” is just a particular body’s relation to other bodies. However, when a body is said to change its place, it merely has changed its relation to these other bodies, but it does not leave an “empty” space behind to be filled by another body. Rather, another body takes the place of the first such that a new part of extension now constitutes that place or space.

Here an example should prove helpful. Consider the example of a full wine bottle. The wine is said to occupy that place within the bottle. Once the wine is finished, this place is now constituted by the quantity of air now occupying it. Notice that the extension of the wine and that of the air are two different sets of bodies, and so the place inside the wine bottle was constituted by two different pieces of extension. But, since these two pieces of extension have the same size, shape and relation to the body surrounding it, that is, the bottle, it is called one and the same “place” even though, strictly speaking, it is made up of two different pieces of extension. Therefore, so long as bodies of the same shape, size and position continue to replace each other, it is considered one and the same place.

This assimilation of a place or space with the body constituting it gives rise to an interesting philosophical problem. Since a place is identical with the body constituting it, how does a place retain its identity and, therefore, remain the “same” place when it is replaced by another body that now constitutes it? A return to the wine bottle example will help to illustrate this point. Recall that first the extension of the wine constituted the place inside the bottle and then, after the wine was finished, that place inside the body was constituted by the extension of the air now occupying it. So, since the wine’s extension is different from the air’s extension, it seems to follow that the place inside the wine bottle is not the exactly same place but two different places at two different times. It is difficult to see how Descartes would address this issue.

Another important consequence of Descartes’ assimilation of bodies and space is that a vacuum or an empty space is unintelligible. This is because an empty space, according to Descartes, would just be a non-extended space, which is impossible. A return to the wine bottle will further illustrate this point. Notice that the place inside the wine bottle was first constituted by the wine and then by air. These are two different kinds of extended things, but they are extended things nonetheless. Accordingly, the place inside the bottle is constituted first by one body (the wine) and then by another (air). But suppose that all extension is removed from the bottle so that there is an “empty space.” Now, distance is a mode requiring extension to exist, for it makes no sense to speak of spatial distance without space or extension. So, under these circumstances, no mode of distance could exist inside the bottle. That is, no distance would exist between the bottle’s sides, and therefore the sides would touch. Therefore, an empty space cannot exist between two or more bodies.

Descartes’ close assimilation of body and space, his rejection of the vacuum, and some textual issues have lead many to infer an asymmetry in his metaphysics of thinking and extended things. This asymmetry is found in the claim that particular minds are substances for Descartes but not particular bodies. Rather, these considerations indicate to some that only the whole, physical universe is a substance, while particular bodies, for example, the wine bottle, are modes of that substance. Though the textual issues are many, the main philosophical problem stems from the rejection of the vacuum. The argument goes like this: particular bodies are not really distinct substances, because two or more particular bodies cannot be clearly and distinctly understood with an empty space between them; that is, they are not separable from each other, even by the power of God. Hence, particular bodies are not substances, and therefore they must be modes. However, this line of reasoning is a result of misunderstanding the criterion for a real distinction. Instead of trying to understand two bodies with an empty space between them, one body should be understood all by itself so that God could have created a world with that body, for example, the wine bottle, as its only existent. Hence, since it requires only God’s concurrence to exist, it is a substance that is really distinct from all other thinking and extended substances. Although difficulties also arise for this argument from Descartes’ account of bodily surfaces as a mode shared between bodies, these are too complex to address here. But, suffice it to say that the textual evidence is also in favor of the claim that Descartes, despite the unforeseen problem about surfaces, maintained that particular bodies are substances. The most telling piece of textual evidence is found in a 1642 letter to Gibeuf:

From the simple fact that I consider two halves of a part of matter, however small it may be, as two complete substances . . . I conclude with certainty that they are really divisible. (AT III 477: CSMK 202-203

These considerations in general, and this quotation in particular, lead to another distinct feature of Cartesian body, namely that extension is infinitely divisible. The point is that no matter how small a piece of matter, it can always be divided in half, and then each half can itself be divided in half, and so on to infinity. These considerations about the vacuum and the infinite divisibility of extension amount to a rejection of atomism. Atomism is a school of thought going back to the ancients, which received a revival in the 17th century most notably in the philosophy and science of Pierre Gassendi. On this account, all change in the universe could be explained by the movements of very small, indivisible particles called “atoms” in a void or empty space. But, if Descartes’ arguments for rejecting the vacuum and the infinite divisibility of matter are sound, then atomism must be false, since the existence of indivisible atoms and an empty space would both be unintelligible.

c. Physics

Descartes devised a non-atomistic, mechanistic physics in which all physical phenomena were to be explain by the configuration and motion of a body’s miniscule parts. This mechanistic physics is also a point of fundamental difference between the Cartesian and Scholastic-Aristotelian schools of thought. For the latter (as Descartes understood them), the regular behavior of inanimate bodies was explained by certain ends towards which those bodies strive. Descartes, on the other hand, thought human effort is better directed toward the discovery of the mechanistic causes of things given the uselessness of final causal explanations and how it is vain to seek God’s purposes. Furthermore, Descartes maintained that the geometric method should also be applied to physics so that results are deduced from the clear and distinct perceptions of the geometrical or quantifiable properties found in bodies, that is, size, shape, motion, determination (or direction), quantity, and so forth.

Perhaps the most concise summary of Descartes’ general view of the physical universe is found in part III, section 46 of the Principles:

From what has already been said we have established that all the bodies in the universe are composed of one and the same matter, which is divisible into indefinitely many parts, and is in fact divided into a large number of parts which move in different directions and have a sort of circular motion; moreover, the same quantity of motion is always preserved in the universe. (AT VIIIA 100: CSM I 256)

Since the matter constituting the physical universe and its divisibility were previously discussed, a brief explanation of the circular motion of bodies and the preservation of motion is in order. The first thesis is derived from God’s immutability and implies that no quantity of motion is ever added to or subtracted from the universe, but rather quantities of motion are merely passed from one body to another. God’s immutability is also used to support the first law of motion, which is that “each and everything, in so far as it can, always continues in the same state; and thus what is once in motion always continues in motion” (AT VIIIA 62-63: CSM I 241). This principle indicates that something will remain in a given state as long as it is not being affected by some external cause. So a body moving at a certain speed will continue to move at that speed indefinitely unless something comes along to change it. The second thesis about the circular motion of bodies is discussed at Principles, part II, section 33. This claim is based on the earlier thesis that the physical universe is a plenum of contiguous bodies. On this account, one moving body must collide with and replace another body, which, in turn, is set in motion and collides with another body, replacing it and so on. But, at the end of this series of collisions and replacements, the last body moved must then collide with and replace the first body in the sequence. To illustrate: suppose that body A collides with and replaces body B, B replaces C, C replaces D, and then D replaces A. This is known as a Cartesian vortex.

Descartes’ second law of motion is that “all motion is in itself rectilinear; and hence any body moving in a circle always tends to move away from the center of the circle which it describes” (AT VIIIA 63-64: CSM I 241-242). This is justified by God’s immutability and simplicity in that he will preserve a quantity of motion in the exact form in which it is occurring until some created things comes along to change it. The principle expressed here is that any body considered all by itself tends to move in a straight line unless it collides with another body, which deflects it. Notice that this is a thesis about any body left all by itself, and so only lone bodies will continue to move in a straight line. However, since the physical world is a plenum, bodies are not all by themselves but constantly colliding with one another, which gives rise to Cartesian vortices as explained above.

The third general law of motion, in turn, governs the collision and deflection of bodies in motion. This third law is that “if a body collides with another body that is stronger than itself, it loses none of its motion; but if it collides with a weaker body, it loses a quantity of motion” (AT VIIIA 65: CSM I 242). This law expresses the principle that if a body’s movement in a straight line is less resistant than a stronger body with which it collides, then it won’t lose any of its motion but its direction will be changed. But if the body collides with a weaker body, then the first body loses a quantity of motion equal to that given in the second. Notice that all three of these principles doe not employ the goals or purposes (that is, final causes) utilized in Scholastic-Aristotelian physics as Descartes understood it but only the most general laws of the mechanisms of bodies by means of their contact and motion.

d. Animal and Human Bodies

In part five of the Discourse on Method, Descartes examines the nature of animals and how they are to be distinguished from human beings. Here Descartes argues that if a machine were made with the outward appearance of some animal lacking reason, like a monkey, it would be indistinguishable from a real specimen of that animal found in nature. But if such a machine of a human being were made, it would be readily distinguishable from a real human being due to its inability to use language. Descartes’ point is that the use of language is a sign of rationality and only things endowed with minds or souls are rational. Hence, it follows that no animal has an immaterial mind or soul. For Descartes this also means that animals do not, strictly speaking, have sensations like hunger, thirst and pain. Rather, squeals of pain, for instance, are mere mechanical reactions to external stimuli without any sensation of pain. In other words, hitting a dog with a stick, for example, is a kind of input and the squeal that follows would be merely output, but the dog did not feel anything at all and could not feel pain unless it was endowed with a mind. Humans, however, are endowed with minds or rational souls, and therefore they can use language and feel sensations like hunger, thirst, and pain. Indeed, this Cartesian “fact” is at the heart of Descartes’ argument for the union of the mind with the body summarized near the end of part five of the Discourseand laid out in full in the Sixth Meditation.

Yet Descartes still admits that both animal and human bodies can be best understood to be “machine[s] made of earth, which God forms.” (AT XI 120: CSM I 99). The point is that just as the workings of a clock can be best understood by means of the configuration and motion of its parts so also with animal and human bodies. Indeed, the heart of an animal and that of a human being are so much alike that he advises the reader unversed in anatomy “to have the heart of some large animal with lungs dissected before him (for such a heart is in all respects sufficiently like that of a man), and be shown the two chambers or cavities which are present in it” (AT VI 47: CSM I 134). He then goes on to describe in some detail the motion of the blood through the heart in order to explain that when the heart hardens it is not contracting but really swelling in such a way as to allow more blood into a given cavity. Although this account goes contrary to the (more correct) observation made by William Harvey, an Englishman who published a book on the circulation of the blood in 1628, Descartes argues that his explanation has the force of geometrical demonstration. Accordingly, the physiology and biology of human bodies, considered without regard for those functions requiring the soul to operate, should be conducted in the same way as the physiology and biology of animal bodies, namely via the application of the geometrical method to the configuration and motion of parts.

9. Sensations and Passions

In his last published work, Passions of the Soul, Descartes provides accounts of how various motions in the body cause sensations and passions to arise in the soul. He begins by making several observations about the mind-body relation. The whole mind is in the whole body and the whole in each of its parts but yet its primary seat is in a little gland at the center of the brain now known as the “pineal gland.” Descartes is not explicit about what he means by “the whole mind in the whole body and the whole in each of its parts.” But this was not an uncommon way of characterizing how the soul is united to the body at Descartes’ time. The main point was that the soul makes a human body truly human; that is, makes it a living human body and not merely a corpse. Given Descartes’ unexplained use of this phrase, it is reasonable to suppose that he used it in the way his contemporaries would have understood it. So the mind is united to the whole body and the whole in each of its parts insofar as it is a soul or principle of life. Accordingly, the body’s union with the soul makes it a living human body or a human body, strictly speaking (see letter to Mersenne dated 9 February 1645). But, the “primary seat”, that is, the place where the soul performs its primary functions, is the point where the mind is, in some sense, affected by the body, namely the pineal gland.

Descartes maintains further that all sensations depend on the nerves, which extend from the brain to the body’s extremities in the form of tiny fibers encased by tube-like membranes. These fibers float in a very fine matter known as the “animal spirits.” This allows these fibers to float freely so that anything causing the slightest motion anywhere in the body will cause movement in that part of the brain where the fiber is attached. The variety of different movements of the animals spirits cause a variety of different sensations not in the part of the body originally affected but only in the brain and ultimately in the pineal gland. So, strictly speaking, pain does not occur in the foot when a toe is stubbed but only in the brain. This, in turn, may cause the widening or narrowing of pores in the brain so as to direct the animals spirits to various muscles and make them move. For example, the sensation of heat is produced by the imperceptible particles in the pot of boiling water, which caused the movement of the animal spirits in the nerves terminating at the end of the hand. These animal spirits then move the fibers extending to the brain through the tube of nerves causing the sensation of pain. This then causes various pores to widen or narrow in the brain so as to direct the animals spirits to the muscles of the arm and cause it to quickly move the hand away from the heat in order to remove it from harm. This is the model for how all sensations occur.

These sensations may also cause certain emotions or passions in the mind. However, different sensations do not give rise to different passions because of the difference in objects but only in regards to the various ways these things are beneficial, harmful or important for us. Accordingly, the function of the passions is to dispose the soul to want things that are useful and to persist in this desire Moreover, the same animal spirits causing these passions also dispose the body to move in order to attain them. For example, the sight of an ice cream parlor, caused by the movement of the animal spirits in the eye and through the nerves to the brain and pineal gland, might also cause the passion of desire to arise. These same animal spirits would then dispose the body to move (for example, toward the ice cream parlor) in order to attain the goal of eating ice cream thereby satisfying this desire. Descartes goes on to argue that there are only six primitive passions, namely wonder, love, hatred, desire, joy and sadness. All other passions are either composed of some combination of these primitives or are species of one of these six genera. Much of the rest of parts 2 and 3 of the Passions of the Soul is devoted to detailed explications of these six primitive passions and their respective species.

10. Morality

a. The Provisional Moral Code

In Part 3 of the Discourse on Method, Descartes lays out a provisional moral code by which he plans to live while engaged in his methodological doubt in search of absolute certainty. This code of “three or four” rules or maxims is established so that he is not frozen by uncertainty in the practical affairs of life. These maxims can be paraphrased as follows:

  1. To obey the laws and customs of my country, holding constantly to the Catholic religion, and governing myself in all other matters according to the most moderate opinions accepted in practice by the most sensible people.
  2. To be as firm and decisive in action as possible and to follow even the most doubtful opinions once they have been adopted.
  3. Try to master myself rather than fortune, and change my desires rather than the order of the world.
  4. Review the various professions and chose the best (AT VI 23-28: CSM I 122-125).

The main thrust of the first maxim is to live a moderate and sensible life while his previously held beliefs have been discarded due to their uncertainty. Accordingly, it makes sense to defer judgment about such matters until certainty is found. Presumably Descartes defers to the laws and customs of the country in which he lives because of the improbability of them leading him onto the wrong path while his own moral beliefs have been suspended. Also, the actions of sensible people, who avoid the extremes and take the middle road, can provide a temporary guide to action until his moral beliefs have been established with absolute certainty. Moreover, although Descartes does seems to bring his religious beliefs into doubt in the Meditations, he does not do so in the Discourse. Since religious beliefs can be accepted on faith without absolutely certain rational justification, they are not subject to methodological doubt as employed in the Discourse. Accordingly, his religious beliefs can also serve as guides for moral conduct during this period of doubt. Therefore, the first maxim is intended to provide Descartes with guides or touchstones that will most likely lead to the performance of morally good actions.

The second maxim expresses a firmness of action so as to avoid the inaction produced by hesitation and uncertainty. Descartes uses the example of a traveler lost in a forest. This traveler should not wander about or even stand still for then he will never find his way. Instead, he should keep walking in a straight line and should never change his direction for slight reasons. Hence, although the traveler may not end up where he wants, at least he will be better off than in the middle of a forest. Similarly, since practical action must usually be performed without delay, there usually is not time to discover the truest or most certain course of action, but one must follow the most probable route. Moreover, even if no route seems most probable, some route must be chosen and resolutely acted upon and treated as the most true and certain. By following this maxim, Descartes hopes to avoid the regrets experienced by those who set out on a supposedly good course that they later judge to be bad.

The third maxim enjoins Descartes to master himself and not fortune. This is based on the realization that all that is in his control are his own thoughts and nothing else. Hence, most things are out of his control. This has several implications. First, if he has done his best but fails to achieve something, then it follows that it was not within his power to achieve it. This is because his own best efforts were not sufficient to achieve that end, and so whatever effort would be sufficient is beyond his abilities. The second implication is that he should desire only those things that are within his power to obtain, and so he should control his desires rather than try to master things beyond his control. In this way, Descartes hopes to avoid the regret experienced by those who have desires that cannot be satisfied, because this satisfaction lies beyond their grasp so that one should not desire health when ill nor freedom when imprisoned.

It is difficult to see why the fourth maxim is included. Indeed, Descartes himself seems hesitant about including it when he states at the outset that his provisional moral code consists of “three or four maxims.” Although he does not examine other occupations, Descartes is content with his current work because of the pleasure he receives from discovering new and not widely known truths. This seems to imply the correct choice of occupation can ensure a degree of contentedness that could not be otherwise achieved if one is engaged in an occupation for which one is not suited. Descartes also claims that his current occupation is the basis of the other three maxims, because it is his current plan to continue his instruction that gave rise to them. He concludes with a brief discussion of how his occupational path leads to the acquisition of knowledge, which, in turn, will lead to all the true goods within his grasp. His final point is that learning how best to judge what is good and bad makes it possible to act well and achieve all attainable virtues and goods. Happiness is assured when this point is reached with certainty.

b. Generosity

After the Discourse of 1637, Descartes did not take up the issue of morality in any significant way again until his correspondence with Princess Elizabeth in 1643, which culminated in his remarks about generosity in part 3 of the Passions of the Soul. Given the temporal distance between his main reflections on morality, it is easy to attribute to Descartes two moral systems – the provisional moral code and the ethics of generosity. But Descartes’ later moral thinking retains versions of the second and third maxim without much mention of the first and fourth. This indicates that Descartes’ later moral theory is really an extension of his earlier thought with the second and third maxims at its core. At Passions, part 3, section 153, Descartes claims that the virtue of generosity “causes a person’s self-esteem to be as great as it may legitimately be” and has two components. First is knowing that only the freedom to dispose volitions is in anyone’s power. Accordingly, people should only be praised or blamed for using one’s freedom either well or poorly. The second component is the feeling of a “firm and constant resolution” to use one’s freedom well such that one can never lack the will to carry out whatever has been judged to be best.

Notice that both components of generosity relate to the second and third maxim of the earlier provisional moral code. The first component is reminiscent of the third maxim in its acknowledgment of people’s freedom of choice and the control they have over the disposition of their will or desire, and therefore they should be praised and blamed only for those things that are within their grasp. The second component relates to the second maxim in that both pertain to firm and resolute action. Generosity requires a resolute conviction to use free will correctly, while the second maxim is a resolution to stick to the judgment most likely to lead to a good action absent a significant reason for changing course. However, a difference between these two moral codes is that the provisional moral code of the Discourse focuses on the correct use and resolute enactment of probable judgments, while the later ethics of generosity emphasizes a firm resolution to use free will correctly. Hence, in both moral systems, the correct use of mental faculties, namely judgment and free will, and the resolute pursuit of what is judged to be good is to be enacted. This, in turn, should lead us to a true state of generosity so as to legitimately esteem ourselves as having correctly used those faculties through which humans are most in the likeness of God.

11. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Descartes, René, Oeuvres de Descartes, eds. Charles Adam and Paul Tannery, Paris: Vrin, originally published 1987-1913.
    • This is still the standard edition of all of Descartes’ works and correspondence in their original languages. Cited in the text as AT volume, page.
  • Descartes, René, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch and Anthony Kenny, Cambridge: Cambridge Universiety Press, 3 vols.1984-1991.
    • This is the standard English translation of Descartes philosophical works and correspondence. Cited in the text as CSM or CSMK volume, page.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Ariew, Roger, Marjorie GRené, eds., Descartes and His Contemporaries: Meditations, Objections, and Replies, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995.
    • This is a collection of essays by prominent scholars about various issues raised in the Meditations, objections to them and the adequacy or inadequacy of Descartes’ replies.
  • Broughton, Janet, Descartes’s Method of Doubt, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003.
    • A study of Descartes’ method and its results.
  • Dicker, Georges, Descartes: An Analytical and Historical Introduction, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.
    • A clear and concise introduction to Descartes’ philosophy.
  • Frankfurt, Harry, Demons, Dreamers and Madmen: the Defense of Reason in Descartes’ Meditations, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1970.
    • A classic examination of Descartes’ Meditations.
  • Garber, Daniel, Descartes’ Metaphysical Physics, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1992.
    • Provides a detailed account of Cartesian science and its metaphysical foundations.
  • Gaukroger, Stephen, Descartes: An Intellectual Biography, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995.
    • Though somewhat technical, this is a very good biography of Descartes’ intellectual development emphasizing his early years and his interests in mathematics and science.
  • Kenny, Anthony, Descartes: A Study of His Philosophy, New York: Random House, 1968.
    • A classic study of Descartes’ philosophy through the Meditations.
  • Marshall, John, Descartes’s Moral Theory, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1998.
    • One of the few book length explications of Descartes’ moral theory.
  • Rodis-Lewis, Genevieve, Descartes: His Life and Thought, trans. Jane Marie Todd, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1998
    • This is a very readable and enjoyable biography.
  • Rozemond, Marleen, Descartes’s Dualism, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998.
    • Provides an interpretation of the real distinction between mind and body, their causal interaction and theory of sensation within the context of late Scholastic theories of soul-body union and sensation.
  • Secada, Jorge, Cartesian Metaphysics: The Late Scholastic Origins of Modern Philosophy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
    • An at times technical, though readable, account of the whole of Descartes’ metaphysics from within the context of late Scholasticism.
  • Skirry, Justin, Descartes and the Metaphysics of Human Nature, London: Thoemmes-Continuum Press, 2005.
    • Provides an account of Descartes’ theory of mind-body union and how it helps him to avoid the mind-body problem.
  • Verbeek, Theo, Descartes and the Dutch: Early Reactions to Cartesian Philosophy 1637-1650,Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1994.
    • Provides a history and account of the controversies at Utrecht and Leiden.
  • Williston, Byron and Andre Gomby, eds., Passion and Virtue in Descartes, New York: Humanity Books, 2003.
    • An anthology of essays by many noted scholars on Descartes’ theory of the passions and aspects of his later moral theory.
  • Williams, Bernard, Descartes: The Project of Pure Enquiry, Sussex: Harvester Press, 1978.
    • Classic account of Descartes’ philosophy in general.
  • Wilson, Margaret, Descartes, London and Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978.
    • A classic in Descartes scholarship covering the whole of his philosophy as expressed in the Meditations.

Author Information

Justin Skirry
Email: jskirry@yahoo.com
Nebraska-Wesleyan University
U. S. A.

Russian Philosophy

RussiaThis article provides a historical survey of Russian philosophers and thinkers. It emphasizes Russian epistemological concerns rather than ontological and ethical concerns, hopefully without neglecting or disparaging them. After all, much work in ethics, at least during the Soviet period, strictly supported the state, such that what is taken to be good is often that which helps secure the goals of Soviet society. Unlike most other major nations, political events in Russia’s history played large roles in shaping its periods of philosophical development.

Various conceptions of Russian philosophy have led scholars to locate its start at different moments in history and with different individuals. However, few would dispute that there was a religious orientation to Russian thought prior to Peter the Great (around 1700) and that professional, secular philosophy—in which philosophical issues are considered on their own terms without explicit appeal to their utility—arose comparatively recently in the country’s history.

Despite the difficulties, we can distinguish five major periods in Russian philosophy. In the first period (The Period of Philosophical Remarks), there is a clear emergence of something resembling what we would now characterize as philosophy. However, religious and political conservativism imposed many restrictions on the dissemination of philosophy during this time. The second period (The Philosophical Dark Age) was marked by much forced silence of the Russian philosophical community. Many subsumed philosophy under the scope of religion or politics, and the discipline was evaluated primarily by whether it was of any utility. The third period (The Emergence of Professional Philosophy) showed an increase in many major Russian thinkers, many of which were influenced by philosophers of the West, such as Plato, Kant, Spinoza, Hegel, and Husserl. The rise of Russian philosophy that was not beholden to religion and politics also began in this period. In the fourth period (The Soviet Era), there were significant concerns about the primacy of the natural sciences. This spawned, for example, the debate between those who thought all philosophical problems would be resolved by the natural sciences (the mechanists) and those who defended the existence of philosophy as a separate discipline (the Deborinists). The fifth period (The Post-Soviet Era) is surely too recent to fully describe. However, there has certainly been a rediscovery of the works of the religious philosophers that were strictly forbidden in the past.

Table of Contents

  1. Overview of the Problem
    1. Masaryk
    2. Lossky and Zenkovsky
    3. Shpet
    4. Concluding Remarks
  2. Historical Periods
    1. The Period of Philosophical Remarks (c.1755-1825)
    2. The Philosophical Dark Age (c. 1825-1860)
    3. The Emergence of Professional Philosophy (c. 1860-1917)
    4. The Soviet Era (1917-1991)
    5. The Post-Soviet Era (1991-)
  3. Concluding Remarks
  4. References and Further Reading

1. Overview of the Problem

The very notion of Russian philosophy poses a cultural-historical problem. No consensus exists on which works it encompasses and which authors made decisive contributions. To a large degree, a particular ideological conception of Russian philosophy, of what constitutes its essential traits, has driven the choice of inclusions. In turn, the various conceptions have led scholars to locate the start of Russian philosophy at different moments and with different individuals.

a. Masaryk

Among the first to deal with this issue was T. Masaryk (1850-1937), a student of Franz Brentano’s and later the first president of the newly formed Czechoslovakia. Masaryk, following the lead of a pioneering Russian scholar E. Radlov (1854-1928), held that Russian thinkers have historically given short shrift to epistemological issues in favor of ethical and political discussions. For Masaryk, even those who were indebted to the ethical teachings of Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), scarcely understood and appreciated his epistemological criticism, which they viewed as essentially subjectivistic. True, Masaryk does comment that the Russian mind is “more inclined” to mythology than the Western European—a position that could lead us to conclude that he viewed the Russian mind as in some way innately different from others. However, he makes clear that the Russian predilection for unequivocal acceptance or total negation of a viewpoint stems, at least to a large degree, from the native Orthodox faith. Church teachings had “accustomed” the Russian mind to accept doctrinaire revelation without criticism. For this reason, Masaryk certainly placed the start of Russian philosophy no earlier than the 19th century with the historiosophical musings of P. Chaadaev (1794-1856), who not surprisingly also pinned blame for the country’s position in world affairs on its Orthodox faith.

b. Lossky and Zenkovsky

Others, particularly ethnic Russians, alarmed by what they took to be Masaryk’s implicit denigration of their intellectual character, have denied that Russian philosophy suffered from a veritable absence of epistemological inquiry. For N. Lossky (1870-1965), Russian philosophers admittedly have, as a rule, sought to relate their investigations, regardless of the specific concern, to ethical problems. This, together with a prevalent epistemological view that externality is knowable—and indeed through an immediate grasping or intuition—has given Russian philosophy a form distinct from much of modern Western philosophy. Nevertheless, the relatively late emergence of independent Russian philosophical thought was a result of the medieval “Tatar yoke” and of the subsequent cultural isolation of Russia until Peter the Great’s opening to the West. Even then, Russian thought remained heavily indebted to developments in Germany until the emergence of 19th century Slavophilism with I. Kireyevsky (1806-56) and A. Khomiakov (1804-60).

Even more emphatically than Lossky, V. Zenkovsky (1881-1962) denied the absence of epistemological inquiry in Russian thought. In his eyes, Russian philosophy rejected the primacy accorded, at least since Kant, to the theory of knowledge over ethical and ontological issues. A widespread, though not unanimous, view among Russian philosophers, according to Zenkovsky, is ontologism (that is, that knowledge plays but a secondary role in human existential affairs). Yet, whereas many Russians historically have advocated such an ontologism, it is by no means unique to that nation. More characteristic of Russian philosophy, for Zenkovsky, is its anthropocentrism (that is, a concern with the human condition and humanity’s ultimate fate). For this reason, philosophy in Russia has historically been expressed in terms noticeably different from those in the West. Furthermore, like Lossky, Zenkovsky saw the comparatively late development of Russian philosophy as a result of the country’s isolation and subsequent infatuation with Western modes of thought until the 19th century. Thus, although Zenkovsky placed Kireyevsky only at the “threshold” of a mature, independent “Russian philosophy” (understood as a system), the former believed it possible to trace the first independent stirrings back to G. Skovoroda (1722-94), who, strictly speaking, was the first Russian philosopher.

Largely as a result of rejecting the primacy of epistemology and the Cartesian model of methodological inquiry, Lossky (and Zenkovsky even more) included within “Russian philosophy” figures whose views would hardly qualify for inclusion within contemporary Western treatises in the history of philosophy. During the Soviet period, Russian scholars appealed to the Marxist doctrine linking intellectual thought to the socio-economic base for their own rather broad notion of philosophy. Any attempt at confining their history to what passes for professionalism today in the West was simply dismissed as “bourgeois.” In this way, such literary figures as Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy were routinely included in texts, though just as routinely condemned for their own supposedly bourgeois mentality. Western studies devoted to the history of Russian philosophy have largely since their emergence acquiesced in this acceptance of a broad understanding of philosophy. F. Copleston, for example, conceded that “for historical reasons” philosophy in Russia tended to be informed by a socio-political orientation. Such an apology for his book-length study can be seen as somewhat self-serving, since he recognizes that philosophy as a theoretical discipline never flourished in Russia. Likewise, A. Walicki fears viewing the history of Russian philosophy from the contemporary Western technical standpoint would result in an impoverished picture populated with wholly unoriginal authors. Obviously, one cannot write a history of some discipline if that discipline lacks content!

c. Shpet

Of those seemingly unafraid to admit the historical poverty of philosophical thought in Russia, Gustav Shpet (1879-1937) stands out not only for his vast historical erudition but also because of his own original philosophical contributions. Shpet, almost defiantly, characterized the intellectual life of Russia as rooted in an “elemental ignorance.” Unlike Masaryk, however, Shpet did not view this dearth as stemming from Russia’s Orthodox faith but from his country’s linguistic isolation. The adopted language of the Bulgars lacked a cultural and intellectual tradition. Without a heritage by which to appreciate ideas, intellectual endeavors were valued for their utility alone. Although the government saw no practical benefit in it, the Church initially found philosophy useful as a weapon to safeguard its position. This toleration extended no further, and certainly the clerical authorities countenanced no divergence or independent creativity. With Peter the Great’s governmental reforms, the state saw the utility of education and championed those and only those disciplines that served a bureaucratic and apologetic function. After the successful military campaign against Napoleon, many young Russian officers had their first experience of Western European culture and returned to Russia with incipient revolutionary ideas that, in a relatively short time, found expression in the abortive Decembrist Uprising of 1825. Finally, towards the end of the 1830s a new group, a “nihilistic intelligentsia,” appeared that preached a toleration of cultural forms, including philosophy, but only insofar as they served the “people.” Such was the fate of philosophy in Russia that it was virtually never viewed as anything but a tool or weapon and had to incessantly demonstrate this utility on fear of losing its legitimacy. Shpet concludes that philosophy as knowledge, as being of value for its own sake, was never given a chance.

d. Concluding Remarks

Regardless of the date from which we place the start of Russian philosophy and its first practitioner—and we will have more to say on this topic as we go—few would dispute the religious orientation of Russian thought prior to Peter the Great and that professional secular philosophy arose comparatively recently in the country’s history. If we are to avoid a double standard, one for “Western” thought and another for Russian, which is not merely self-serving but also condescending, then we must examine the historical record for indisputable instances of philosophical thought that would be recognized as such regardless of where they originated. Although, on the whole, our inclusions, omissions, and evaluations may more closely resemble those of Shpet than, say, Lossky, we thereby need not invoke any metaphysical historical scheme to justify them.

How precisely to subdivide the history of Russian philosophy has also been a subject of some controversy. In his pioneering study from 1898, A. Vvedensky (see below), Russia’s foremost neo-Kantian, found three periods up to his time. Of course, in light of 20th century events his list must be revisited, reexamined, and expanded. We can readily discern five periods in Russian philosophy, the last of which is still too recent to characterize. Unlike most major nations, specific extra-philosophical (namely, political) events clearly played a major role, if not the sole role, in terminating a period.

2. Historical Periods

a. The Period of Philosophical Remarks (c.1755-1825)

Although one can find scattered remarks of a philosophical nature in Russian writings before the mid-eighteenth century, these are at best of marginal interest to the professionally trained philosopher. For the most part, these remarks were not intended to stand as rational arguments in support of a position. Even in the ecclesiastic academies, the thin scholastic veneer of the accepted texts was merely a traditional schematic device, a relic from the time when the only appropriate texts available were Western. For whatever reason, only with the opening of the nation’s first university in Moscow in 1755 do we see the emergence of something resembling philosophy, as we use that term today. Even then, however, the floodgates did not burst wide open. The first occupant of the chair of philosophy, N. Popovsky (1730-1760), was more suited to the teaching of poetry and rhetoric, to which chair he was shunted after one brief year.

Sensing the dearth of adequately trained native personnel, the government invited two Germans to the university, thus initiating a practice that would continue well into the next century. The story of the first ethnic Russian to hold the professorship in philosophy for any significant length of time is itself indicative of the precarious existence of philosophy in Russia for much of its history. Having already obtained a magister’s degree in 1760 with a thesis entitled “Rassuzhdenie o bessmertii dushi chelovechoj” (“A Treatise on the Immortality of the Human Soul”), Dmitry Anichkov (1733-1788) submitted in 1769 a dissertation on natural religion. Anichkov’s dissertation was found to contain atheistic opinions and was subjected to a lengthy 18-year investigation. Legend has it that the dissertation was publicly burned, although there is no firm evidence for this. As was common at the time, Anichkov used Wolffian philosophy manuals and during his first years taught in Latin.

Another notable figure at this time was S. Desnitsky (~1740-1789), who taught jurisprudence at Moscow University. Desnitsky attended university in Glasgow, where he studied under Adam Smith (1723-1790) and became familiar with the works of David Hume (1711-1776). The influence of Smith and British thought in general is evident in memoranda from February 1768 that Desnitsky wrote on government and public finance. Some of these ideas, in turn, appeared virtually verbatim in a portion of Catherine the Great’s famous Nakaz, or Instruction, published in April of that year.

Also in 1768 appeared Ya. Kozelsky’s Filosoficheskie predlozhenija (Philosophical Propositions), an unoriginal but noteworthy collection of numbered statements on a host of topics, not all of which were philosophical in a technical, narrow sense. By his own admission, the material dealing with “theoretical philosophy” was drawn from the Wolffians, primarily Baumeister, and that dealing with “moral philosophy” from the French Enlightenment thinkers, primarily Rousseau, Montesquieu, and Helvetius. The most interesting feature of the treatise is its acceptance of a social contract, of an eight-hour workday, the explicit rejection of great disparities of wealth and its silence on religion as a source of morality. Nevertheless, in his “theoretical philosophy,” Kozelsky (1728-1795) rejected atomism and the Newtonian conception of the possibility of empty space.

During Catherine’s reign, plans were made to establish several universities in addition to that in Moscow. Of course, nothing came of these. Moscow University itself had a difficult time attracting a sufficient number of students, most of whom came from poorer families. Undoubtedly, given the state of the Russian economy and society, the virtually ubiquitous attitude was that the study of philosophy was a sheer luxury with no utilitarian value. In terms of general education, the government evidently concluded that sending students abroad offered a better investment than spending large sums at home where the infrastructure needed much work and time to develop. Unfortunately, although there were some who returned to Russia and played a role in the intellectual life of the country, many more failed to complete their studies for a variety of reasons, including falling into debt. Progress, however, skipped a beat in 1796 when Catherine’s son and successor, Paul, ordered the recall of all Russian students studying abroad.

Despite its relatively small number of educational institutions, Russia felt a need to invite foreign scholars to help staff these establishments. One of the scholars, J. Schaden (1731-1797), ran a private boarding school in Moscow in addition to teaching philosophy at the university. The most notorious incident from these early years, however, involves the German Ludwig Mellman, who in the 1790s introduced Kant’s thought into Russia. Mellman’s advocacy found little sympathy even among his colleagues at Moscow University, and in a report to the Tsar the public prosecutor charged Mellman with “mental illness.” Not only was Mellman dismissed from his position, but he was forced to leave Russia as well.

Under the initiative of the new Tsar, Alexander I, two new universities were opened in 1804. With them, the need for adequately trained professors again arose. Once more the government turned to Germany, and, with the dislocations caused by the Napoleonic Wars, Russia stood in an excellent position to reap an intellectual harvest. Unfortunately, many of these invited scholars left little lasting impact on Russian thought. For example, one of the most outstanding, Johann Buhle (1763-1821), had already written a number of works on the history of philosophy before taking up residence in Moscow. Yet, once in Russia, his literary output plummeted, and his ignorance of the local language certainly did nothing to extend his influence.

Nonetheless, the sudden influx of German scholars, many of whom were intimately familiar with the latest philosophical developments, acted as an intellectual tonic on others. The arrival of the Swiss physicist Franz Bronner (1758-1850) at the new University of Kazan may have introduced Kant’s epistemology to the young future mathematician Lobachevsky. The Serb physicist, A. Stoikovich (1773-1832), who taught at Kharkov University, prepared a text for class use in which the content was arranged in conformity with Kant’s categories. One of the earliest Russian treatments of a philosophical topic, however, was A. Lubkin’s two “Pis’ma o kriticheskoj filosofii” (“Letters on Critical Philosophy”) from 1805. Lubkin (1770/1-1815), who at the time taught at the Petersburg Military Academy, criticized Kant’s theory of space and time for its agnostic implications saying that we obtain our concepts of space and time from experience. Likewise, in 1807 a professor of mathematics at Kharkov University, T. Osipovsky (1765-1832), delivered a subsequently published speech “O prostranstve i vremeni” (“On Space and Time”), in which he questioned whether, given the various considerations, Kant’s position was the only logical conclusion possible. Assuming the Leibnizian notion of a preestablished harmony, we can uphold all of Kant’s specific observations concerning space and time without concluding that they exist solely within our cognitive faculty. Osipovsky went on to make a number of other perceptive criticisms of Kant’s position, though Kant’s German critics already voiced many of these during his lifetime.

In the realm of social and political philosophy, as understood today, the most interesting and arguably the most sophisticated document from the period of the Russian Enlightenment is A. Kunitsyn’s Pravo estestvennoe (Natural Law). In his summary text consisting of 590 sections, Kunitsyn (1783-1840) clearly demonstrated the influence of Kant and Rousseau, holding that rational dictates concerning human conduct form moral imperatives, which we feel as obligations. Since each of us possesses reason, we must always be treated morally as ends, never as means toward an end. In subsequent paragraphs, Kunitsyn elaborated his conception of natural rights, including his belief that among these rights is freedom of thought and expression. His outspoken condemnation of serfdom, however, is not one that the Russian authorities could either have missed or passed over. Shortly after the text reached their attention, all attainable copies were confiscated, and Kunitsyn himself was dismissed from his teaching duties at St. Petersburg University in March 1821.

Another scholar associated with St. Petersburg University was Aleksandr I. Galich (1783-1848). Sent to Germany for further education, he there became acquainted with the work of Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling (1775-1854). With his return to Russia in 1813, he was appointed adjunct professor of philosophy at the Pedagogical Institute in St. Petersburg; and in 1819, when the institute was transformed into a university, Galich was named to the chair of philosophy. His teaching career, however, was short-lived, for in 1821 Galich was charged with atheism and revolutionary sympathies. Although stripped of teaching duties, he continued to draw a full salary until 1837. Galich’s importance lays not so much in his own quasi-Schellingian views as his pioneering treatments of the history of philosophy, aesthetics and philosophical anthropology. His two-volume Istorija filosofskikh sistem (History of Philosophical Systems) from 1818-19 concluded with an exposition of Schelling’s position and contained quite probably the first discussion in Russian of G.W.F. Hegel (1770-1831) and, in particular, of his Science of Logic. Galich’s Opyt nauki izjashchnogo (An Attempt at a Science of the Beautiful) from 1825 is certainly among the first Russian treatises in aesthetics. For Galich, the beautiful is the sensuous manifestation of truth and as such is a sub-discipline within philosophy. His 1834 work, Kartina cheloveka (A Picture of Man), marked the first Russian foray into philosophical anthropology. For Galich all “scientific” disciplines, including theology, are in need of an anthropological foundation; and, moreover, such a foundation must recognize the unity of the human aspects and functions, be they corporeal or spiritual.

The increasing religious and political conservativism that marked Tsar Alexander’s later years imposed onerous restrictions on the dissemination of philosophy, both in the classroom and in print. By the time of the Tsar’s death in 1825, most reputable professors of philosophy had already been administratively silenced or cowed into compliance. At the end of that year, the aborted coup known as the “Decembrist Uprising”—many of whose leaders had been exposed to the infection of Western European thought—only hardened the basically anti-intellectual attitude of the new Tsar Nicholas. Shortly after I. Davydov (1792/4-1863), hardly either an original or a gifted thinker, had given his introductory lecture “O vozmozhnosti filosofii kak nauki” (“On the Possibility of Philosophy as Science”) in May 1826 as professor of philosophy at Moscow University, the chair was temporarily abolished and Davydov shifted to teaching mathematics.

b. The Philosophical Dark Age (c. 1825-1860)

The reign of Nicholas I (1825-1855) was marked by intellectual obscurantism and an enforced philosophical silence, unusual even by Russian standards. The Minister of Public Education, A. Shishkov, blamed the Decembrist Uprising explicitly on the contagion of foreign ideas. To prevent their spread, he and Nicholas’s other advisors restricted the access of non-noble youths to higher education and had the tsar enact a comprehensive censorship law that held publishers legally responsible even after the official censor’s approval of a manuscript. Yet the scope of this new “cast-iron statute” was conceived so broadly that even at the time it was remarked that the Lord’s Prayer could be interpreted as revolutionary speech. While prevented an outlet in a dedicated professional manner at the universities, philosophy found energetic, though amateurish, expression first in the faculties of medicine and physics and then later in fashionable salons and social gatherings—where discipline, rigor and precision were held of little value. During these years, those empowered to teach philosophy at the universities struggled with the task of justifying the very existence of their discipline, not in terms of a search for truth, but as having some social utility. Given the prevailing climate of opinion, this proved to be a hard sell. The news of revolutions in Western Europe in 1848 was the last straw. All talk of reform and social change was simply ruled impermissible, and travel beyond the Empire’s borders was forbidden. Finally, in 1850, the minister of education took the step that was thought too extreme in the 1820s: in order to protect Russia from the latest philosophical systems, and therefore intellectual infection, the teaching of philosophy in public universities was simply to be eliminated. Logic and psychology were permitted, but only in the safe hands of theology professors. This situation persisted until 1863, when, in the aftermath of the humiliating Crimean War, philosophy reentered the public academic arena. Even then, however, severe restrictions on its teaching persisted until 1889!

Nevertheless, despite the oppressive atmosphere, some independent philosophizing emerged during the Nicholas years. At first, Schelling’s influence dominated abstract discussions, particularly those concerning the natural sciences and their place with regard to the other academic disciplines. However, the two chief Schellingians of the era—D. Vellansky (1774-1847) and M. Pavlov (1793-1840)—both valued German Romanticism, more for its sweeping conclusions than for either its arguments or its being the logical outcome of a philosophical development that had begun with Kant. Though both Vellansky and Pavlov penned a considerable number of works, none of them would find a place within today’s philosophy curriculum. Slightly later, in the 1830s and ’40s, the discussion turned to Hegel’s system, again with great enthusiasm but with little understanding either with what Hegel actually meant or with the philosophical backdrop of his writings. Not surprisingly, Hegel’s own self-described “voyage of discovery,” the Phenomenology of Spirit, remained an unknown text. Suffice it to say that, but for the dearth of original competent investigations at this time, the mere mention of the Stankevich and the Petrashevsky circles, the Slavophiles and the Westernizers, etc. in a history of philosophy text would be regarded a travesty.

Nevertheless, amid the darkness of official obscurantism, there were a few brief glimmers of light. In his 1833 Vvedenie v nauku filosofii (Introduction to the Science of Philosophy), F. Sidonsky (1805-1873) treated philosophy as a rational discipline independent of theology. Although conterminous with theology, Sidonsky regarded philosophy as both a necessary and a natural searching of the human mind for answers that faith alone cannot adequately supply. By no means did he take this to mean that faith and reason conflict. Revelation provides the same truths, but the path taken, though dogmatic and therefore rationally unsatisfying, is considerably shorter. Much more could be said about Sidonsky’s introductory text, but both it and its author were quickly consigned to the margins of history. Notwithstanding his book’s desired recognition in some secular circles, Sidonsky soon after its publication was shifted first from philosophy to the teaching of French and then simply dismissed from the St. Petersburg Ecclesiastic Academy in 1835. This time it was the clerical authorities who found his book, it was said, insufficiently rigorous from the official religious standpoint. Sidonsky spent the next 30 years (until the re-introduction of philosophy in the universities) as a parish priest in the Russian capital.

Among those who most resolutely defended the autonomy of philosophy during this “Dark Age” were O. Novitsky (1806-1884) and I. Mikhnevich (1809-1885), both of whom taught for a period at the Kiev Ecclesiastic Academy. Although neither was a particularly outstanding thinker and left no enduring works on the perennial philosophical problems, both stand out for refusing simply to subsume philosophy to religion or politics. Novitsky in 1834 accepted the professorship in philosophy at the new Kiev University, where he taught until the government’s abolition of philosophy, after which he worked as a censor. Mikhnevich, on the other hand, became an administrator.

One of the most interesting pieces of philosophical analysis from this time came from another Kiev scholar, S. Gogotsky (1813-1889). In his undergraduate thesis “Kriticheskij vzgljad na filosofiju Kanta” (“A Critical Look at Kant’s Philosophy”) from 1847, Gogotsky approached his topic from a moderate and informed Hegelianism, unlike that of his more vocal but dilettantish contemporaries. For Gogotsky, Kant’s thought represented a distinct improvement over the positions of empiricism and rationalism. However, he demonstrated his own extremism through his advocacy of such ideas as that of the uncognizability of things in themselves, the rejection of the real existence of things in space and time, the sharp dichotomy between moral duty and happiness, and so on. During this “Dark Age,” Gogotsky continued at Kiev University but taught pedagogy and remained silent on philosophical issues.

From our standpoint today, one of the most important characteristics of the philosophizing of the early “Kiev School” is the stress placed on the history of Western philosophy and particularly on epistemology. Mikhnevich, for example, wrote, “philosophy is the Science of consciousness… of the subject and the nature of our consciousness.” Based on statements such as this, some (A.Vvedensky, A. Nikolsky) have seen the influence of Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762-1814).

The teaching of philosophy at this time was not eliminated from the ecclesiastic academies; the separate institutions of higher education were parallel to the secular universities for those from a clerical background. Largely with good reason, the government felt secure about their political and intellectual passivity. Among the most noteworthy of the professors at an ecclesiastic academy during the Nicholaevan years was F. Golubinsky (1798-1854), who taught in Moscow. Generally recognized as the founder of the “Moscow School of Theistic Philosophy,” his historical importance lies solely in his unabashed subordination of philosophy to theology and epistemology to ontology. For Golubinsky, humans seek knowledge in an attempt to recover an original diremption, a lost intimacy with the Infinite! Nevertheless, the idea of God is felt immediately within us. Owing to this immediacy, there is no need for and cannot be a proof of God’s existence. Such was the tenor of “philosophical” thought in the religious institutions of the time.

At the very end of the “Dark Age” one figure—the Owl of Minerva (or was it a phoenix?)—emerged who combined the scholarly erudition of his Kiev predecessors with the dominating “ontologism” of the theistic apologists, such as Golubinsky. P. Jurkevich (1826-1874) stood with one foot in the Russian philosophical past and one in the future. Serving as the bridge between the eras, he largely defined the contours along which philosophical discussions would be shaped for the next two generations.

c. The Emergence of Professional Philosophy (c. 1860-1917)

While a professor of philosophy at the Kiev Ecclesiastic Academy, Jurkevich in 1861 caught the attention of a well-connected publisher with a long essay in the obscure house organ of the Academy attacking Chernyshevsky’s materialism and anthropologism, which at the time were all the rage among Russia’s youth. Having decided to re-introduce philosophy to the universities, the government, nevertheless, worried, lest a limited and controlled measure of independent thought get out of hand. The decision to appoint Jurkevich to the professorship at Moscow University, it was hoped, would serve the government’s ends while yet combating fashionable radical trends.

In a spate of articles from his last three years in Kiev, Jurkevich forcefully argued in support of a number of seemingly disconnected theses but all of which demonstrated his own deep commitment to a Platonic idealism. His most familiar stance, his rejection of the popular materialism of the day, was directed not actually at metaphysical materialism but at a physicalist reductionism. Among the points Jurkevich made was that no physiological description could do justice to the revelations offered by introspective psychology and that the transformation of quantity into quality occurred not in the subject, as the materialists held, but in the interaction between the object and the subject. Jurkevich did not rule out the possibility that necessary forms conditioned this interaction, but, in keeping with the logic of this notion, he ruled out an uncognizable “thing in itself” conceived as an object without any possible subject.

Although Jurkevich already presented the scheme of his overall philosophical approach in his first article “Ideja” (“The Idea”) from 1859, his last, “Razum po ucheniju Platona i opyt po ucheniju Kanta” (“Plato’s Theory of Reason and Kant’s Theory of Experience”), written in Moscow, is today his most readable work. In it, he concluded (as did Spinoza and Hegel before him) that epistemology cannot serve as first philosophy—that is, that a body of knowledge need not and, indeed, cannot begin by asking for the conditions of its own possibility; in Jurkevich’s best-known expression: “In order to know it is unnecessary to have knowledge of knowledge itself.” Kant, he held, conceived knowledge not in the traditional, Platonic sense, as knowledge of what truly is, but in a radically different sense as knowledge of the universally valid. Hence, for Kant, the goal of science was to secure useful information, whereas for Plato science secured truth.

Unfortunately, Jurkevich’s style prevented a greater dissemination of his views. In his own day, his unfashionable views, cloaked as they were in scholastic language with frequent allusions to scripture, hardly endeared him to a young, secular audience. Jurkevich remained largely a figure of derision at the university. Today, it is these same qualities, together with his failure to elucidate his argument in distinctly rational terms, that make studying his writings both laborious and unsatisfying. In terms of immediate impact, he had only one student—V.Solovyov (see below). Yet, notwithstanding his meager direct impact, Jurkevic’s Christian Platonism proved deeply influential until at least the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917.

Unlike Jurkevich, P. Lavrov (1823-1900), a teacher of mathematics at the Petersburg Military Academy, actively aspired to a university chair in philosophy (namely, the one in the capital when the position was restored in the early 1860s). However, the government apparently already suspected Lavrov of questionable allegiance and, despite a recommendation from a widely respected scholar (K. Kavelin), awarded the position instead to Sidonsky.

In a series of lengthy essays written when he had university aspirations, Lavrov developed a position, which he termed “anthropologism,” that opposed metaphysical speculation, including the then-fashionable materialism of left-wing radicalism. Instead, he defended a simple epistemological phenomenalism that at many points bore a certain similarity to Kant’s position, though without the latter’s intricacies, nuances, and rigor. Essentially, Lavrov maintained that all claims regarding objects are translatable into statements about appearances or an aggregate of them. Additionally, he held that we have a collection of convictions concerning the external world, convictions whose basis lies in repeated experiential encounters with similar appearances. The indubitability of consciousness and our irresistible conviction in the reality of the external world are fundamental and irreducible. The error of both materialism and idealism, fundamentally, is the mistaken attempt to collapse one into the other. Since both are fundamental, the attempt to prove either is ill-conceived from the outset. Consistent with this skepticism, Lavrov argued that the study of “phenomena of consciousness,” a “phenomenology of spirit,” could be raised to a science only through introspection, a method he called “subjective.” Likewise, the natural sciences, built on our firm belief in the external world, need little support from philosophy. To question the law of causality, for example, is, in effect, to undermine the scientific standpoint.

Parallel to the two principles of theoretical philosophy, Lavrov spoke of two principles underlying practical philosophy. The first is that the individual is consciously free in his worldly activity. Unlike for Kant, however, this principle is not a postulate but a phenomenal fact; it carries no theoretical implications. For Lavrov, the moral sphere is quite autonomous from the theoretical. The second principle is that of “ideal creation.” Just as in the theoretical sphere we set ourselves against a real world, so in the practical sphere we set ourselves against ideals. Just as the real world is the source of knowledge, the world of our ideals serves as the motivation for action. In turning our own image of ourselves into an ideal, we create an ideal of personal dignity. Initially, the human individual conceives dignity along egoistic lines. In time, however, the individual’s interaction, including competition, with others gives rise to his conception of them as having equal claims to dignity and to rights. In linking rights to human dignity, Lavrov thereby denied that animals have rights.

Of a similar intellectual bent, N. Mikhailovsky (1842-1904) was even more of a popular writer than Lavrov. Nevertheless, Mikhailovsky’s importance in the history of Russian philosophy lies in his defense of the role of subjectivity in human studies. Unlike the natural sciences, the aim of which is the discovery of objective laws, the human sciences, according to Mikhailovsky, must take into account the epistemologically irreducible fact of conscious, goal-oriented activity. While not disclaiming the importance of objective laws, both Lavrov and Mikhailovsky held that social scientists must introduce a subjective, moral evaluation into their analyses. Unlike natural scientists, social scientists recognize the malleability of the laws under their investigation.

Comtean positivism, which for quite some years enjoyed considerable attention in 19th century Russia, found its most resolute and philosophically notable defender in V. Lesevich (1837-1905). Finding that it lacked a scientific grounding, Lesevich believed that positivism needed an inquiry into the principles that guide the attainment of knowledge. Such an inquiry must take for granted some body of knowledge without simply identifying itself with it. To the now-classic Hegelian charge that such a procedure amounted to not venturing into the water before learning how to swim, Lesevich replied that what was sought was not, so to speak, how to swim but, rather, the conditions that make swimming possible. In this vein, he consciously turned to the Kantian model while remaining highly critical of any talk of the a priori. In the end, Lesevich drew heavily upon psychology and empiricism for establishing the conditions of knowledge, thus leaving himself open to the charge of psychologism and relativism.

As the years passed, Lesevich moved from his early “critical realism,” which abhorred metaphysical speculation, to an appreciation for the positivism of Richard Avenarius and Ernst Mach. However, this very abhorrence, which was decidedly unfashionable, as well as his political involvement somewhat limited his influence.

Undoubtedly, of the philosophical figures to emerge in the 1870s, indeed arguably in any decade, the greatest was Vladimir Solovyov (1853-1900). In fact, if we view philosophy not as an abstract, independent inquiry but as a more or less sustained intellectual conversation, then we can precisely date the start of Russian secular philosophy: 24 November 1874, the day of Solovyov’s defense of his magister’s dissertation, Krizis zapadnoj filosofii (The Crisis of Western Philosophy). For only from that day forward do we find a sustained discussion within Russia of philosophical issues considered on their own terms, that is, without overt appeal to their extra-philosophical ramifications, such as their religious or political implications.

After completion and defense of his magister’s dissertation, Solovyov penned a highly metaphysical treatise entitled “Filosofskie nachala tsel’nogo znanija” (“Philosophical Principles of Integral Knowledge”), which he never completed. However, at approximately the same time, he also worked on what became his doctoral dissertation, Kritika otvlechennykh nachal (Critique of Abstract Principles)—the very title suggesting a Kantian influence. Although originally intended to consist of three parts, one each covering ethics, epistemology, and aesthetics, the completed work omitted the latter. For more than a decade, Solovyov remained silent on philosophical questions, preferring instead to concentrate on topical issues. When his interest was rekindled in the 1890s in preparing a second edition of his Kritika, a recognition of a fundamental shift in his views led him to recast their systemization in the form of an entirely new work, Opravdanie dobra (The Justification of the Good). Presumably, he intended to follow up his ethical investigations with respective treatises on epistemology and aesthetics. Unfortunately, Solovyov died having completed only three brief chapters of the “Theoretical Philosophy.”

Solovyov’s most relentless philosophical critic was B. Chicherin (1828-1904), certainly one of the most remarkable and versatile figures in Russian intellectual history. Despite his sharp differences with Solovyov, Chicherin himself accepted a modified Hegelian standpoint in metaphysics. Although viewing all of existence as rational, the rational process embodied in existence unfolds “dialectically.” Chicherin, however, parted with the traditional triadic schematization of the Hegelian dialectic, arguing that the first moment consists of an initial unity of the one and the many. The second and third moments, paths, or steps are antithetical and take various forms in different spheres, such as matter and reason or universal and particular. The final moment is a fusion of the two into a higher unity.

In the social and ethical realm, Chicherin placed great emphasis on individual human freedom. Social and political laws should strive for moral neutrality, permitting the flowering of individual self-determination. In this way, he remained a staunch advocate of economic liberalism, seeing essentially no role for government intervention. The government itself had no right to use its powers either to aim at a moral ideal or to force its citizens to seek an ideal. On the other hand, the government should not use its powers to prevent the citizenry from the exercise of private morality. Despite receiving less treatment than the negative conception of freedom, Chicherin nevertheless upheld the idealist conception of positive freedom as the striving for moral perfection and, in this way, reaching the Absolute.

Another figure to emerge in the late 1870s and 1880s was the neo-Leibnizian A. Kozlov (1831- 1901), who taught at Kiev University and who called his highly developed metaphysical stance “panpsychism.” As part of this stance, he, in contrast to Hume, argued for the substantial unity of the Self or I, which makes experience possible. This unity he held to be an obvious fact. Additionally, rejecting the independent existence of space and time, Kozlov held that they possessed being only in relation to thinking and sensing creatures. Like Augustine, however, Kozlov believed that God viewed time as a whole without our divisions into past, present, and future. To substantiate space and time, to attribute an objective existence to either, demands an answer to where and when to place them. Indeed, the very formulation of the problem presupposes a relation between a substantiated space or time and ourselves. Lastly, unlike Kant, Kozlov thought all judgments are analytic.

An unfortunately largely neglected figure to emerge in this period was M. Karinsky (1840- 1917), who taught philosophy at the St. Petersburg Ecclesiastic Academy. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Karinsky devoted much of his attention to logic and an analysis of arguments in Western philosophy, rather than metaphysical speculation. Unlike his contemporaries, Karinsky came to philosophy with an analytical bent rather than with a literary flair—a fact that made his writing style often decidedly torturous. True to those schooled in the Aristotleian tradition, Karinsky, like Brentano (to whom he has been compared) held that German Idealism was essentially irrationalist. Arguing against Kant, Karinsky believed that our inner states are not merely phenomenal, that the reflective self is not an appearance. Inner experience, unlike outer, yields no distinction between reality and appearance. In his general epistemology, Karinsky argued that knowledge was built on judgments, which were legitimate conclusions from premises. Knowledge, however, could be traced back to a set of ultimate unprovable, yet reliable, truths, which he called “self-evident.” Karinsky argued for a pragmatic interpretation of realism, saying that something exists in another room unperceived by me means I would perceive it if I were to go into that room. Additionally, he accepted an analogical argument for the existence of other minds similar to that of John Stuart Mill and Bertrand Russell.

In his two-volume magnum opus Polozhitel’nye zadachi filosofii (The Positive Tasks of Philosophy), L. Lopatin (1855-1920), who taught at Moscow University, defended the possibility of metaphysical knowledge. He claimed that empirical knowledge is limited to appearances, whereas metaphysics yields knowledge of the true nature of things. Although Lopatin saw Hegel and Spinoza as the definitive expositors of rationalistic idealism, he rejected both for their very transformation of concrete relations into rational or logical ones. Nevertheless, Lopatin affirmed the role of reason particularly in philosophy in conscious opposition to, as he saw it, Solovyov’s ultimate surrender to religion. In the first volume, he attacked materialism as itself a metaphysical doctrine that elevates matter to the status of an absolute that cannot explain the particular properties of individual things or the relation between things and consciousness. In his second volume, Lopatin distinguishes mechanical causality from “creative causality,” according to which one phenomenon follows another, though with something new added to it. Despite his wealth of metaphysical speculation, quite foreign to most contemporary readers, Lopatin’s observations on the self or ego derived from speculation that is not without some interest. Denying that the self has a purely empirical nature, Lopatin emphasized that the undeniable reality of time demonstrated the non-temporality of the self, for temporality could only be understood by that which is outside time. Since the self is extra-temporal, it cannot be destroyed, for that is an event in time. Likewise, in opposition to Solovyov, Lopatin held that the substantiality of the self is immediately evident in consciousness.

In the waning years of the 19th century, neo-Kantianism came to dominate German philosophy. Because of the increasing tendency to send young Russian graduate students to Germany for additional training, it should come as no surprise that that movement gained a foothold in Russia too. In one of the very few Russian works devoted to philosophy of science A. Vvedensky (1856-1925) presented, in his lengthy dissertation, a highly idealistic Kantian interpretation of the concept of matter as understood in the physics of his day. He tried therein to defend and update Kant’s own work as exemplified in the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science. Vvedensky’s book, however, attracted little attention and exerted even less influence. Much more widely recognized were his own attempts in subsequent years, while teaching at St. Petersburg University, to recast Kant’s transcendental idealism in, what he called, “logicism.” Without drawing any conclusions based upon the nature of space and time, Vvedensky believed it possible to prove the impossibility of metaphysical knowledge and, as a corollary so to speak, that everything we know, including our own self, is merely an appearance, not a thing in itself. Vvedensky was also willing to cede that the time and the space in which we experience everything in the world are also phenomenal. Although metaphysical knowledge is impossible, metaphysical hypotheses, being likewise irrefutable, can be brought into a world-view based on faith. Particularly useful are those demanded by our moral tenets such as the existence of other minds.

The next two decades saw a blossoming of academic philosophy on a scale hardly imaginable just a short time earlier. Most fashionable Western philosophies of the time found adherents within the increasingly professional Russian scene. Even Friedrich Nietzsche’s thought began to make inroads, particularly among certain segments of the artistic community and among the growing number of political radicals. Nonetheless, few, particularly during these formative years, adopted any Western system without significant qualifications. Even those who were most receptive to foreign ideas adapted them in line with traditional Russian concerns, interests, and attitudes. One of these traditional concerns was with Platonism in general. Some of Plato’s dialogues appeared in a Masonic journal as early as 1777, and we can easily discern an interest in Plato’s ideas as far back as the medieval period. Possibly the Catholic assimilation of Aristotelianism had something to do with the Russian Orthodox Church’s emphasis on Plato. And again possibly this interest in Plato had something to do with the metaphysical and idealistic character of much classic Russian thought as against the decidedly more empirical character of many Western philosophies. We have already noted the Christian Platonism of Jurkevich, and his student Solovyov, who with his central concept of “vseedinstvo” (“total-unity”) can, in turn, also be seen as a modern neo-Platonist.

In the immediate decades preceding the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, a veritable legion of philosophers worked in Solovyov’s wide shadow. Among the most prominent of these was S. Trubetskoi (1862-1905). The Platonic strain of his thought is evident in the very topics Trubetskoi chose for his magister’s and doctoral theses: Metaphysics in Ancient Greece, 1890 and The History of the Doctrine of Logos, 1900, respectively. It is, however, in his programmatic essays “O prirode chelovecheskovo soznanija” (“The Nature of Human Consciousness”), 1889-1891 and “Osnovanija idealizma” (“The Foundations of Idealism”), 1896 that Trubetskoi elaborated his position with regard to modern philosophy. Holding that the basic problem of contemporary philosophy is whether human knowledge is of a personal nature, Trubetskoi maintained that modern Western philosophers relate personal knowledge to a personal consciousness. Herein lies their error. Human consciousness is not an individual consciousness, but, rather, an on-going universal process. Likewise, this process is a manifestation not of a personal mind but of a cosmic one. Personal consciousness, as he puts it, presupposes a collective consciousness, and the latter presupposes an absolute consciousness. Kant’s great error was in conceiving the transcendental consciousness as subjective. In the second of the essays mentioned above, Trubetskoi claims that there are three means of knowing reality: empirically through the senses, rationally through thought, and directly through faith. For him, faith is what convinces us that there is an external world, a world independent of my subjective consciousness. It is faith that underlies our accepting the information provided by our sense organs as reliable. Moreover, it is faith that leads me to think there are in the world other beings with a mental organization and capacity similar to mine. However, Trubetskoi rejects equating his notion of faith with the passive “intellectual intuition” of Schelling and Solovyov. For Trubetskoi, faith is intimately connected with the will, which is the basis of my individuality. My discovery of the other is grounded in my desire to reach out beyond myself, that is, to love.

Although generally characterized as a neo-Leibnizian, N. Lossky (1870-1965) was also greatly influenced by a host of Russian thinkers including Solovyov and Kozlov. In addition to his own views, Lossky, having studied at Bern and Goettingen among other places, is remembered for his pioneering studies of contemporary German philosophy. He referred to Edmund Husserl‘s Logical Investigations already as early as 1906, and in 1911 he gave a course on Husserl’s “intentionalism.” Despite this early interest in strict epistemological problems, Lossky in general drew ever closer to the ontological concerns and positions of Russian Orthodoxy. He termed his epistemological views “intuitivism,” believing that the cognitive subject apprehends the external world as it is in itself directly. Nevertheless, the object of cognition remains ontologically transcendent, while epistemologically immanent. This direct penetration into reality is possible, Lossky tells us, because all worldly entities are interconnected into an “organic whole.” Additionally, all sensory properties of an object (for example, its color, texture, temperature, and so on) are actual properties of the object, our sense stimulation serving merely to direct our mental attention to those properties. That different people see one object in different ways is explained as a result of different ways individuals have of getting their attention directly towards one of the object’s numerous properties. All entities, events, and relations that lack a temporal and spatial character possess “ideal being” and are the objects of “intellectual intuition.” Yet, there is another, a third, realm of being that transcends the laws of logic (here we see the influence of Lossky’s teacher, Vvedensky), which he calls “metalogical being” and is the object of mystical intuition.

Another kindred spirit was S. Frank (1877-1950), who in his early adult years was involved with Marxism and political activities. His magister’s thesis Predmet znanija (The Object of Knowledge), 1915, is notable as much for its masterful handling of current Western philosophy as for its overall metaphysical position. Demonstrating a grasp not only of German neo-Kantianism, Frank drew freely from, among many others, Husserl, Henri-Louis Bergson, and Max Scheler; he may even have been the first in Russian to refer to Gottlob Frege, whose Foundations of Arithmetic Frank calls “one of the rare genuinely philosophical works by a mathematician.” Frank contends that all logically determined objects are possible thanks to a metalogical unity, which is itself not subject to the laws of logic. Likewise, all logical knowledge is possible thanks solely to an “intuition,” an “integral intuition,” of this unity. Such intuition is possible because all of us are part of this unity or Absolute. In a subsequent book Nepostizhimoe (The Unknowable), 1939, Frank further elaborated his view stating that mystical experience reveals the supra-logical sphere in which we are immersed but which cannot be conceptually described. Although there is a great deal more to Frank’s thought, we see that we are quickly leaving behind the secular, philosophical sphere for the religious, if not mystical.

No survey, however brief, of Russian thinkers under Solovyov’s influence would be satisfactory without mention of the best known of these in the West, namely N. Berdjaev (1874-1948). Widely hailed as a Christian existentialist, he began his intellectual journey as a Marxist. However, by the time of his first publications he was attempting to unite a revolutionary political outlook with transcendental idealism, particularly a Kantian ethic. Within the next few years, Berdjaev’s thought evolved quickly and decisively away from Marxism and away from critical idealism to an outright Orthodox Christian idealism. On the issue of free will versus determinism, Berdjaev moved from an initial acceptance of soft determinism to a resolute incompatibilist. Morality, he claimed, demanded his stand. Certainly, Berdjaev was among the first, if not the first, philosopher of his era to diminish the importance of epistemology in place of ontology. In time, however, he himself made clear that the pivot of his thought was not the concept of Being, as it would be for some others, and even less that of knowledge, but, rather, the concept of freedom. Acknowledging his debt to Kant, Berdjaev too saw science as providing knowledge of phenomenal reality but not of actuality, of things as they are in themselves. However applicable the categories of logic and physics may be to appearances, they are assuredly inapplicable to the noumenal world and, in particular, to God. In this way Berdjaev does not object to the neo-Kantianism of Vvedensky, for whom the objectification of the world is a result of functioning of the human cognitive apparatus, but only that it does not go far enough. There is another world or realm, namely one characterized by freedom.

Just as all of the above figures drew inspiration from Christian neo-Platonism, so too did they all feel the need to address the Kantian heritage. Lossky’s dissertation Obosnovanie intuitivizma (The Foundations of Intuitivism), for example, is an extended engagement with Kant’s epistemology, Lossky himself having prepared a Russian translation of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason comparable in style and adequacy to Norman Kemp Smith’s famous rendering into English. Trubetskoi called Kant the “Copernicus of modern philosophy,” who “discovered that there is an a priori precondition of all possible experience.” Nevertheless, among the philosophers of this era, not all saw transcendental idealism as a springboard to religious and mystical thought. A student of Vvedensky’s, I. Lapshin (1870-1952) in his dissertation, Zakony myshlenija i formy poznanija (The Laws of Thought and the Forms of Cognition), 1906, attempted to show that, contrary to Kant’s stand, space and time were categories of cognition and that all thought, even logical, relies on a categorical synthesis. Consequently, the laws of logic are themselves synthetic, not analytic, as Kant had thought and are applicable only within the bounds of possible experience.

G. Chelpanov (1863-1936), who taught at Moscow University, was another with a broadly conceived Kantian stripe. Remembered as much, if not more so, for his work in experimental psychology as in philosophy, Chelpanov, unlike many others, wished to retain the concept of the thing-in-itself, seeing it as that which ultimately “evokes” a particular representation of an object. Without it, contended Chelpanov, we are left (as in Kant) without an explanation of why we perceive this, and not that, particular object. In much the same manner, we must appeal to some transcendent space in order to account for why we see an object in this spot and not another. For these reasons, Chelpanov called his position “critical realism” as opposed to the more usual construal of Kantianism as “transcendental idealism.” In psychology, Chelpanov upheld the psychophysical parallelism of Wilhelm Wundt.

As the years of the First World War approached, a new generation of scholars came to the fore who returned to Russia from graduate work in Germany broadly sympathetic to one or even an amalgam of the schools of neo-Kantianism. Among these young scholars, the works of B. Kistjakovsky (1868-1920) and P. Novgorodtsev (1866-1924) stand out as arguably the most accessible today for their analytic approach to questions of social-science methodology.

During this period, Husserlian phenomenology was introduced into Russia from a number of sources, but its first and, in a sense, only major propagandist was G. Shpet (1879-1937), whom we have referred to earlier. In any case, besides his historical studies Shpet did pioneering work in hermeneutics as early as 1918. Additionally, in two memorable essays he respectively argued, along the lines of the early Husserl and the late Solovyov, against the Husserlian view of the transcendental ego and in the other traced the Husserlian notion of philosophy as a rigorous science back to Parmenides.

Regrettably, Shpet was permanently silenced during the Stalinist era, but A. Losev (1893-1988), whose early works fruitfully employed some early phenomenological techniques, survived and blossomed in its aftermath. Concentrating on ancient Greek thought, particularly aesthetics, his numerous publications have yet to be assimilated into world literature, although during later years his enormous contributions were recognized within his homeland and by others to whom they were linguistically accessible. It must be said, nonetheless, that Losev’s personal pronouncements hark back to a neo-Platonism completely at odds with the modern temperament.

d. The Soviet Era (1917-1991)

The Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 ushered in a political regime with a set ideology that countenanced no intellectual competition. During the first few years of its existence, Bolshevik attention was directed towards consolidating political power, and the selection of university personnel in many cases was left an internal matter. In 1922, however, most explicitly non-Marxist philosophers who had not already fled were banished from the country. Many of them found employment, at least for a time, in the major cities of Europe and continued their personal intellectual agendas. None of them, however, during their lifetimes significantly influenced philosophical developments either in their homeland or in the West, and few, with the notable exception of Berdyaev, received wide recognition.

During the first decade of Bolshevik rule, the consuming philosophical question concerned the role of Marxism with regard to traditional academic disciplines, particularly those that had either emerged since Karl Marx’s death or had seen recent breathtaking developments that had reshaped the field. The best known dispute occurred between the “mechanists” and the “dialecticians” or “Deborinists,” after its principal advocate A. Deborin (1881-1963). Since a number of individuals composed both groups and the issues in dispute evolved over time, no simple statement of the respective stances can do complete justice to either. Nevertheless, the mechanists essentially held that philosophy as a separate discipline had no reason for being within the Soviet state. All philosophical problems could and would be resolved by the natural sciences. The hallowed dialectical method of Marxism was, in fact, just the scientific method. The Deborinists, on the other hand, defended the existence of philosophy as a separate discipline. Indeed, they viewed the natural sciences as built on a set of philosophical principles. Unlike the mechanists, they saw nature as fundamentally dialectical, which could not be reduced to simpler mechanical terms. Even human history and society proceeded dialectically in taking leaps that resulted in qualitatively different states. The specifics of the controversy, which raged until 1929, are of marginal philosophical importance now, but to some degree the basic issue of the relation of philosophy to the sciences, of the role of the former with regard to the latter, endures to this day. Regrettably, politics played as much of a role in the course of the dispute as abstract reasoning, and the outcome was a simple matter of a political fiat with the Deborinists gaining a temporary victory. Subsequent events over the next two decades, such as the defeat of the Deborinists, have nothing to do with philosophy. What philosophy did continue to be pursued during these years within Russia was kept a personal secret, any disclosure of which was at the expense of one’s life. To a certain degree, the issue of the role of philosophy arose again in the 1950s when the philosophical implications of relativity theory became a disputed subject. Again, the issue arose of whether philosophy or science had priority. This time, however, with atomic weapons securely in hand there could be no doubt as to the ultimate victor with little need for political intervention.

Another controversy, though less vociferous, concerned psychological methodology and the very retention of such common terms as “consciousness,” “psyche,” and “attention.” The introspective method, as we saw advocated by many of the idealistic philosophers, was seen by the new ideologues as subjective and unscientific in that it manifestly referred to private phenomena. I. Pavlov (1849-1936), already a star of Russian science at the time of the Revolution, was quickly seen as utilizing a method that subjected psychic activity to the objective methods of the natural sciences. The issue became, however, whether the use of objective methods would eliminate the need to invoke such traditional terms as “consciousness.” The central figure here was V. Bekhterev (1857-1927), who believed that since all mental processes eventually manifested themselves in objectively observable behavior, subjective terminology was superfluous. Again, the discussion was silenced through political means once a victory was secured over the introspectionists. Bekhterev’s behaviorism was itself found to be dangerously leftist.

As noted above, during the 1930s and ’40s, independent philosophizing virtually ceased to exist, and what little was published is of no more than historical interest. Indicative of the condition of Russian thought at this time is the fact that when in 1946 the government decided to introduce logic into the curriculum of secondary schools the only suitable text available was a slim book by Chelpanov dating from before the Revolution. After Joseph Stalin’s death, a relative relaxation or “thaw” in the harsh intellectual climate was permitted, of course within the strict bounds of the official state ideology. In addition to the re-surfacing of the old issue of the role of Marxism with respect to the natural sciences, Russian scholars sought a return to the traditional texts in hopes of understanding the original inspiration of the official philosophy. Some, such as the young A. Zinoviev (1922-2006) sought an understanding of “dialectical logic” in terms of the operations, procedures and techniques employed in political economics. Others, for example, V. Tugarinov, drew heavily on Hegel’s example in attempting to delineate a system of fundamental categories.

After the formal recognition in the validity of formal logic, it received significant attention in the ensuing years by Zinoviev, D. Gorsky, and E. Voishvillo, among many others. Their works have deservedly received international attention and made no use of the official ideology. What sense, if any, to make of “dialectical logic” was another matter that could not remain politically neutral. Until the last days of the Soviet period, there was no consensus as to what it is or its relation to formal logic. One of the most resolute defenders of dialectical logic was E. Ilyenkov, who has received attention even in the West. In epistemology too, surface agreement, demonstrated through use of an official vocabulary obscured (but did not quite hide) differences of opinion concerning precisely how to construe the official stand. It certainly now appears that little of enduring worth in this field was published during the Soviet years. However, some philosophers who were active at that time produced works that only recently have been published. Perhaps the most striking example is M. Mamardashvili (1930-1990), who during his lifetime was noted for his deep interest in the history of philosophy and his anti-Hegelian stands.

Most work in ethics in the Soviet period took a crude apologetic form of service to the state. In essence, the good is that which promotes the stated goals of Soviet society. Against such a backdrop, Ja. Mil’ner-Irinin’s study Etika ili printsy istinnoj chelovechnosti (Ethics or The Principles of a True Humanity) is all the more remarkable. Although only an excerpt appeared in print in the 1960s, the book-length manuscript, which as a whole was rejected for publication, was circulated and discussed. The author presented a normative system that he held to be universally valid and timeless. Harking back to the early days of German Idealism, Mil’ner-Irinin urged being true to one’s conscience as a moral principle. However, he claimed he deduced his deontology from human social nature rather than from the idea of rationality (as in Kant).

After the accession of L. Brezhnev to the position of General Secretary and particularly after the events that curtailed the Prague Spring in 1968, all signs of independent philosophizing beat a speedy retreat. The government anxiously launched a campaign for ideological vigilance, which a German scholar, H. Dahm, termed an “ideological counter-reformation,” that persisted until the “perestroika” of the Gorbachev years.

e. The Post-Soviet Era (1991-)

Clearly, the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the relegation of the Communist Party to the political opposition has also ushered in a new era in the history of Russian philosophy. What trends will emerge is still too early to tell. How Russian philosophers will eventually evaluate their own recent, as well as tsarist, past may turn to a large degree on the country’s political and economic fortunes. Not surprisingly, the 1990s saw, in particular, a “re-discovery” of the previously forbidden works of the religious philosophers active just prior to or at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution. Whether Russian philosophers will continue along these lines or approach a style resembling Western “analytical” trends remains an open question.

3. Concluding Remarks

In the above historical survey we have emphasized Russian epistemological over ontological and ethical concerns, hopefully without neglecting or disparaging them. Admittedly, doing so may reflect a certain “Western bias.” Nevertheless, such a survey, whatever its deficiencies, shows that questions regarding the possibility of knowledge have never been completely foreign to the Russian mind. This we can unequivocally state without dismissing Masaryk’s position, for indeed during the immediate decades preceding the 1917 Revolution epistemology was not accorded special attention, let alone priority. Certainly at the time when Masaryk formulated his position, Russian philosophy was relatively young. Nonetheless, were the non-critical features of Russian philosophy, which Masaryk so correctly observed, a reflection of the Russian mind as such or were they a reflection of the era observed? If one were to view 19th century German philosophy from the rise of Hegelianism to the emergence of neo-Kantianism, would one not see it as shortchanging epistemology? Could it not be that our error lay in focussing on a single period in Russian history, albeit the philosophically most fruitful one? In any case, the mere existence of divergent opinions during the Soviet era—however cautiously these had to be expressed—on recurring fundamental questions testifies to the tenacity of philosophy on the human mind.

Rather than ask for the general characteristics of Russian philosophy, should we not ask why philosophy arose so late in Russia compared to other nations? Was Vvedensky correct that the country lacked suitable educational institutions until relatively recently, or was he writing as a university professor who saw no viable alternative to make a living? Could it be that Shpet was right in thinking that no one found any utilitarian value in philosophy except in modest service to theology, or was he merely expressing his own fears for the future of philosophy in an overtly ideological state? Did Masaryk have grounds for linking the late emergence of philosophy in Russia to the perceived anti-intellectualism of Orthodox theology, or was he simply speaking as a Unitarian. Finally, intriguing as this question may be, are we not in searching for an answer guilty of what some would label the mistake of reductionism, that is, of trying to resolve a philosophical problem by appeal to non-philosophical means?

4. References and Further Reading

Secondary works in Western languages:

  • Copleston, Frederick C. Philosophy in Russia, From Herzen to Lenin and Berdyaev, Notre Dame, 1986.
  • Dahm, Helmut. Der gescheiterte Ausbruch: Entideologisierung und ideologische Gegenreformation in Osteuropa (1960-1980), Baden-Baden, 1982.
  • DeGeorge, Richard T. Patterns of Soviet Thought, Ann Arbor, 1966.
  • Goerdt, W. Russische Philosophie: Zugaenge und Durchblicke, Freiburg/Muenchen, 1984.
  • Joravsky, David. Soviet Marxism and Natural Science 1917-1932, NY, 1960.
  • Koyre, Alexandre. La philosophie et le probleme national en Russie au debut du XIXe siecle, Paris, 1929.
  • Lossky, Nicholas O. History of Russian Philosophy, New York, 1972.
  • Masaryk, Thomas Garrigue. The Spirit of Russia, trans. Eden & Cedar Paul, NY, 1955.
  • Scanlan, James P. Marxism in the USSR, A Critical Survey of Current Soviet Thought, Ithaca, 1985
  • Walicki, Andrzej. A History of Russian Thought from the Enlightenment to Marxism, Stanford, 1979.
  • Zenkovsky, V. V. A History of Russian Philosophy, trans. George L. Kline, London, 1967.

Author Information

Thomas Nemeth
Email: t_nemeth@yahoo.com
U. S. A.

Sablé, Madeleine de Souvré, Marquise De (1598—1678)

sableA prominent salonnière in seventeenth-century Paris, Madame de Sablé has long occupied the background of early modern French philosophy. She has survived in intellectual history as the patron of La Rochefoucauld, as the hostess of a theological salon, and as the correspondent of Blaise Pascal and Antoine Arnauld. These ancillary roles have obscured her original contributions to moral philosophy in her writings. In her maxims, Sablé develops a distinctive critique of moral virtue. She claims that virtue is a mask of vice; usually of pride, and that self-interest is the habitual motor behind altruistic actions. This critique of virtue is a social critique inasmuch as it unmasks the mechanism of self-aggrandizement under the cover of virtue in the court hierarchy of the period. With her characteristic moderation, Sablé insists that friendship constitutes an exception to the social charade of masked self-interest. In the intimacies of mutually sacrificial friendship, authentic virtue can flourish. Sablé’s dismissal of the claims of natural moral virtue, and her fideistic insistence that true moral order can only be grasped in the light of faith, reflect her adherence to Jansenism, the neo-Augustinian movement in Catholicism which she defended in both civil and ecclesiastical circles.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Philosophical Theses
    1. Virtue Theory
    2. Ethics of Love
    3. Moral Rigorism
    4. Epistemology and Skepticism
  4. Interpretation and Relevance
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Biography

Madeleine de Souvré was born in 1598 to an ancient aristocratic family in Le Perche, a region in western France. Prominent in court circles, her father Gilles de Souvré was a marshal of France and served as the governor of Louis XIII in his minority. Her mother was Françoise de Bailleul, dame de Renouard. In the political controversies of the period, the Souvré family sided with the parti dévot, a faction of militant Catholics who wanted France’s foreign policy to stress an international Catholic alliance (notably with Spain and Austria) against the Protestant, Orthodox, and Islamic powers. In 1610 Madeleine de Souvré was named lady-in-waiting to Queen Marie de Medicis, the mother of Louis XIII and the regent of France. Although little is known about Mademoiselle de Souvré’s education, it is clear that early in her education she acquired a knowledge of Spanish literature. Balthasar Gracián’s L’oraculo manual would prove especially influential in Sablé’s later reflections on the nature of virtue.

In 1614, Madeleine de Souvré married Philippe Emmanuel de Laval, marquis de Sablé. Although Madame de Sablé would bear nine children, only four survived childhood: Urbain, marquis de Bois-Dauphin; Henri, Bishop of La Rochelle; Guy, a military officer; and Marie, a cloistered nun. By all accounts, the marriage was an unhappy one, for both spouses conducted scarcely concealed romantic affairs as they led increasingly separate existences.

From the beginning of her marriage, Sablé frequented the literary salons of Paris. Three in particular developed her philosophical culture. In the celebrated chambre bleu of Madame de Rambouillet, Sablé became an ardent reader of the works of Montaigne and was introduced to the theories of Descartes. At the literary samedis of Mademoiselle de Scudéry, Sablé studied the gradations of love that were the central preoccupation of the salon’s literary production. At the salon of Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Sablé practiced the literary vogue of the portrait moral, in which the author sketched the characteristic vices and virtues of a prominent courtier presented under a pseudonym. This predilection for moral psychology and skepticism concerning the claims of knowledge helped shape the philosophical themes Sablé would treat in her writings of maturity.

The 1640s inaugurated a more somber period in Sablé’s life. In 1640, the death of her husband left her in a precarious financial situation, and a family quarrel over the inheritance provoked a lawsuit against her eldest son, Urbain. In 1646, the death of her son Guy at the battle of Dunkirk plunged her into prolonged mourning.

The period also marked a religious conversion. Sablé increasingly frequented the Parisian convent of Port-Royal, the citadel of the Jansenist movement. Jansenism stressed the depth of human depravity, complete reliance on grace for salvation, and the need to lead an austere moral life opposed to the amusements of the world. Sablé’s moral qualms about frequent reception of the sacraments occasioned Antoine Arnauld’s composition of On Frequent Communion (1642), a treatise attacking the alleged moral laxism of the Jesuits. By the 1650s Sablé would emerge as a partisan of Jansenism and as a prominent defender of the embattled convent of Port-Royal, but her continued participation in the salon culture of the capital would raise doubts as to the depth of her conversion to the cause’s moral rigorism.

By the end of the decade, Sablé emerged as the hostess of her own salon, first in the fashionable Place Royale (1648-1655) and then in the apartment she had constructed on the grounds of the Port-Royal convent (1655-1678). The salon specialized in the production of the literary genre of the maxime, a concise, epigrammatic phrase that explored the contradictions of human psychology. A salon member, François, duc de La Rochefoucauld, quickly emerged as the master of the genre. Sablé served as a critic and editor for La Rochefoucauld’s maxims, but she also composed her own maxims, which were published posthumously. Philosophical sessions included papers by Madame de Brégy on the Stoicism of Epictetus, Clausure on Cartesianism, Sourdis on the problem of the vacuum, and Arnauld d’Andilly on the limits of patriotism. As in other salons, the nature and varieties of love were the primary topic of debate. Leading philosophical members of the salon included Blaise Pascal, Gilberte Pascal Périer, Antoine Arnauld, Pierre Nicole, and Madame de Sévigné.

As she reemerged into Parisian high society, Sablé revealed her diplomatic skills. During the Fronde (1648-1653), the intermittent civil war that pitted aristocrats and parliamentarians against the throne, she managed to maintain close friendships with members of both sides. Despite her allegiance to Jansenism, she included Jesuits and anti-Jansenist laity among her salon guests. When the persecution of the Jansenists, especially the nuns of Port-Royal, intensified in the 1660s, she labored to affect the reconciliation of the warring factions. Pope Clement IX’s “Peace of the Church” (1669), which lifted the censures from the Port-Royal community, reflected in part her interventions at the papal court.

Madame de Sablé died in her Port-Royal apartment on January 16, 1678.

2. Works

Sablé’s extant writings fall into three categories: a collection of maxims, a treatise on friendship, and her letters.

Published posthumously in 1678 by Abbé Nicolas d’Ailly, Maximes de Mme la Marquise de Sablé constitutes Sablé’s most substantial contribution to moral philosophy. In this collection of maxims, Sablé analyzes the vices that mask themselves as virtues in the aristocratic society of the period. Unlike her colleague La Rochefoucauld, however, she insists that love constitutes an exception to the domination of vice. Although her maxims focus primarily on questions of virtue and vice, Sablé also studies epistemological questions, especially those surrounding the relationship between power and knowledge. In her skeptical study of virtue and power, Sablé is clearly influenced by Montaigne, Graci‡n, and La Rochefoucauld. She differs from her sources, however, in the characteristic moderation by which she judges the influence of self-interest in social relations.

The subsequent history of Sablé’s maximes constitutes a cautionary tale on the survival of works by women philosophers. Often published in anthologies featuring La Rochefoucauld’s maxims, Sablé’s maxims were often falsely attributed to her protégé. Sablé’s most extensive maxim, actually a miniature essay condemning attendance at theatrical performances (maxim no. 80), was attributed for centuries to Blaise Pascal. A passage in Pascal’s Pensées condemning the theater bears a striking resemblance to the phrases of Sablé. Critics concluded that it must have been Sablé who copied Pascal, given the literary preeminence of the latter. The influential Brunschvicg (1904) and Lafuma (1951) editions of Pascal in the early twentieth century continued this misattribution. Only at the end of the twentieth century was this critique of theater reattributed to Sablé herself. Sellier’s recent edition of the Pensées (1991, 2000) notes that it was clearly Pascal who copied and altered the critique of theater originally authored by Sablé.

First published by Victor Cousin in the nineteenth-century, Sablé’s brief treatise On Friendship argues that virtue can be experienced within the confines of intimate friendship. Unlike other social relationships, where motivations remain masked and vulnerable to misinterpretation, friendship permits one to discover the internal motivation behind the external action of one’s partner.

An extensive correspondence of Sablé also survives in the archives of the Bibliothèque nationale de France and in scattered biographical publications. Barthélemy’s scholarly study of Sablé’s salon associates (1865) provides an ample selection of the letters written by and to the marquise. Although most of the letters deal with practical affairs concerning Sablé’s person, family, and salon, some of the letters deal with philosophical issues related to the religious controversies of the period. Such issues include the relationship between grace and free will, the limits of civil and ecclesiastical authority in matters of conscience, and the immortality of the human soul. Philosophical correspondents include Blaise Pascal, Antoine Arnauld, Mère Angélique Arnauld, Mère Agnès Arnauld, Mère Angélique de Saint-Jean Arnauld d’Andilly, Pierre Nicole, Antoine Menjot, and Jean Domat.

3. Philosophical Theses

Sablé’s philosophical reflections are limited to the areas of ethics and epistemology. In moral philosophy, she focuses on the tendency of the vice of pride to disguise itself as virtue. In epistemology, she examines the relationship between power and the claims to truth. In both her moral theory and her theory of knowledge, she mitigates her skepticism. Despite the presence of vice behind many surface virtues, some apparently virtuous actions actually reflect authentic virtue in the agent. Although power has corrupted some claims to truth in court society, certain claims to truth – notably claims to religious truth based on obedience to divine revelation – are more than credible.

a. Virtue Theory

In many passages, Sablé condemns apparent exercises of virtue as expressions of vice. Altruism often masks the will to dominate the other. Self-aggrandizement is the motor of apparently charitable action. Her critique of virtue is a political critique, inasmuch as she examines the depredations of occulted egoism in the culture of the court.

Sablé analyzes how this masked vice operates within the polite society of the period. “Virtue is not always where one sees actions that appear virtuous. Sometimes one only recognizes a favor in order to establish one’s reputation or even to be more firmly ungrateful toward favors one does not wish to recognize” (Maxim no. 74). Rather than expressing spontaneous gratitude, public expressions of thanksgiving are a calculated expression of one’s desire to acquire social power or to elude the moral duty to recognize one’s actual debts. The pivot of salon culture, polite conversation, similarly turns on the self’s desire to remain the center of attention rather than on any concern to accommodate the needs of others. “Everyone is so busy with her interests and passions that she always wants to talk about them without entering into the interests and passions of those with whom she is speaking, although they have the same need to be heard and helped” (Maxim no. 29). Under the guise of charitable speech and action, high society’s conventions of politeness permit the individual to remain enclosed within selfish interests that refuse to recognize, let alone yield to, the more pressing claims of the neighbor.

Sablé’s moral critique of society is especially pronounced in her treatment of wealth. Genteel society’s surface claim to prize the acquisition of virtue is undercut by its emotional concentration on the vagaries of material fortune. It is social status, not moral status, that actually dominates human concern. “Good fortune almost always makes some change in the procedure, the tone, and the manner of conversation and action…if we esteemed virtue more than any other thing, then neither any favor nor any promotion would ever change the heart or the face of people” (Maxim no.32). Our emotional reaction to the slightest promotion or demotion in social status, contrasted with our emotional indifference to the commission of a vice, indicates that it is social power rather than perfection in virtue that constitutes our supreme good in the hierarchy of values. In particular, the acquisition of money focuses our desires. “It is quite a common fault never to be happy with one’s fortune and never unhappy with one’s soul” (Maxim no.67). Despite the insistence on the paramount value of religious and moral values in the political and educational rhetoric of the period, it is economic status that actually occupies pride of place. The hope of enhancement of that status and the fear of its erosion stubbornly poisons public virtuous action.

b. Ethics of Love

Despite the omnipresence of vice posing as virtue in the public arena, authentic virtue survives in the arena of interpersonal friendship. Sablé argues that in the experience of love, one acquires knowledge of the other’s moral motivation that cannot be doubted. It is here that altruism and self-sacrifice actually operate.

Unlike political exercises of altruism, love by its nature possesses an internal transparency that does not permit it to be mistaken for another disposition. “Love has a character so particular that one can neither hide it where it is nor pretend it exists where it is not” (Maxim no.80). Other virtues may be feigned if the agent has ulterior motives for dominating the other. In love, however, the external acts and the internal dispositions of the agent become one. “Love is to the soul of the one who loves what the soul is to the body of the one it animates” (Maxim no. 79).

Sablé insists that it is friendship rather than romance that constitutes the proper locus for the emergence of this virtuous love. Freed from passion, the mature experience of friendship permits one to appreciate the other moral virtues of one’s partner disclosed in the transparency of mutual love. “Friendship is a species of virtue which can only be founded upon the esteem of the person loved, that is, upon qualities of the soul, such as fidelity, generosity and discretion, and on good qualities of mind” (Of Friendship). This disclosure of the other person’s moral constitution through the experience of friendship requires a basic equality between the partners. “It is also necessary that friendship be reciprocal, because in friendship one cannot, as in romantic love, love without being loved” (On Friendship). Whereas romantic love can veil the moral motivations of the moral agent due to passion and the inequality of the partners, the sober, egalitarian relation of friendship permits a veridical disclosure of moral character through mutual respect and sacrifice.

Sablé’s praise of the virtue present in friendship contrasts sharply with the critique of love developed by her colleague La Rochefoucauld. In his own maxims, La Rochefoucald condemns friendship as only another outcropping of vicious self-centeredness. “What humanity has named friendship is only a business, a reciprocal arrangement of interests, only an exchange of services. At bottom, it is only a type of commerce where self-love is always designing to win something” (Maxim. No 83). For La Rochefoucauld, the egotism disguised as virtue permeates both the public and private spheres of human interaction. For Sablé, however, the empire of vice is more limited. In the intimate sphere of interpersonal love, authentic virtue can manifest itself and be properly interpreted by the beloved other. It is only in egalitarian friendship, however, that virtue can make such a rare and transparent manifestation, and not in the passion of romance nor in the hierarchy of marriage.

c. Moral Rigorism

In critiquing the predominant vices of her society, Sablé devotes particular attention to the theater. Her most famous maxim is an extended paragraph-long meditation on the dangers of attendance at theatrical performances. Her condemnation of the theater is categorical. “All the great diversions are dangerous for the Christian life, but among all those which the world has invented, there is none greater to fear than the theater” (Maxim no. 80). This censure of the theater is typical of the moral rigorism of the Jansenist movement. Pierre Nicole, a close friend and correspondent of Sablé, presented the most sustained Jansenist brief against theatrical performances in his Traité de la Comédie (1667).

Sablé’s argument against attendance at theatrical performances differs sensibly from the standard arguments used by Christian moralists of the period. The moral argument against Christian involvement in the theater usually appeared for two reasons. First, many of the pieces played upon the stage of the period were licentious in nature. As such, they could only constitute occasions of sin, which the upright Christian should scrupulously avoid. Second, the theaters themselves were venues for moral licentiousness. Several Parisian theaters were notorious for the prostitution openly practiced in their corridors. Such moral considerations had led both the Catholic and Protestant churches to ban actors from the sacraments and to deny church burial to them.

For Sablé, however, it is not the licentiousness of the theater that constitutes its greatest moral danger. The actual moral danger lies in the attractiveness with which the theater can present counterfeits of reasonable love among the characters on the stage. Imitating the romantic plays they watch, audience members can easily develop sentiments of affection that have been ripped out of their proper place in the sober cultivation of friendship in actual life. “”It [the theater] is so natural and so delicate a representation of the passions that it makes them come alive and makes them arise in our hearts. This is especially true of love when one presents a chaste and honest love, because the more it seems innocent to innocent souls, the more are those souls susceptible to theater’s effects” (Maxim no. 81). The temptation of obvious vice in licentious plays can be easily combated, but the seduction of a more innocent, sentimental love in decent plays is more difficult to resist. By a mimetic effect, such romantic idylls encourage the audience to cultivate loving relationships rooted in sentiment for phantom partners rather than in virtuous sacrifice for actual partners. The one social venue where authentic virtue has the greatest place to emerge, egalitarian friendship, has been distorted by the theater into a realm of fantasy untethered from moral endeavor. The primness of the sentiments celebrated by decent theatrical pieces does not diminish the moral dangers fostered by such an illusion of love.

d. Epistemology and Skepticism

Echoing Montaigne, whom she had studied during her early career as a salonnière, Sablé often confesses skepticism concerning the claims of human knowledge. Authentic science ultimately affirms the incertitude of its own propositions and the depth of human ignorance. To this Renaissance vein of skepticism, Sablé adds her own distinctive emphases. Human error is not due to the generic infirmity of the human mind alone; it is often induced by the manipulations of power practiced in cultivated society. Faithful to her Jansenist creed, Sablé insists that religious and moral knowledge grounded upon divine self-revelation is exempt from the dangers of self-deception.

In several passages, Sablé develops her own version of Socratic ignorance. The truly wise person acknowledges his or her lack of knowledge. “The greatest wisdom of humanity is to know its folly” (Maxim no. 8). Authentic pursuit of knowledge permits the seeker to affirm the utter lack of certain knowledge that is the lot of the human mind. “The study of and search for truth only make us see, by experience, the ignorance that is naturally ours” (Maxim no. 38).

If error is endemic to human noetic experience, due to the finitude and the fallibility of the human intellect, then contemporary society has increased the risk of error by the emphasis it places upon external rhetorical devices. The polite conversation of the salon is exemplary of the ease with which an inquiring subject can be seduced into error by the power of a seductive rhetoric that masks insubstantial or fallacious truth-claims. “The exterior and the circumstances often elicit greater respect than the interior and the reality. A poor manner spoils everything, even justice and reason. The how is the most important of things. The appearance we give gilds, trims, and sweetens even the most troubling things” (Maxim no. 48). In a society that prizes external ornament, persuasive rhetoric can easily make the false credible; conversely, threadbare rhetoric can easily make the truth appear implausible. The development of knowledge is not a serene adjudication of the conflicting evidence concerning a controverted issue; it is embedded in a network of power where the most attractive, rather than the most truthful, proposition wins adherence.

In this universe of human incertitude and error, there is one exception. While one must suspend judgment as much as possible concerning claims to truth by other human beings, one must surrender one’s judgments to what God himself has revealed for one’s salvation. Only in the realm of salvific truth, revealed by an omniscient God, can the human person discover a truth perfectly safeguarded from error. “As nothing is weaker and less reasonable than to submit one’s judgment to that of someone else, rather than using one’s own, nothing is greater and more intelligent than to blindly submit one’s judgment to God, by believing on His word everything that He says” (Maxim no. 1). This affirmation of the necessity of blind submission to God’s self-revelation bears the imprint of Jansenist fideism. Skeptical of the philosophical arguments for God’s existence proposed by neo-scholastic theologians as preambles to the act of faith, many Jansenist theologians argued that authentic knowledge of God’s existence and attributes can only be found through attentive reception of the scriptural portrait of God revealed by God himself. For Sablé, it is this revealed truth alone that bears the stamp of infallibility and that stands exempt from her skeptical scrutiny of claims to knowledge.

4. Interpretation and Relevance

The vagaries of the publication history of Madame de Sablé’s works indicate how easily the philosophical reflection developed by women in the early modern period can disappear. Frequently reprinted in the eighteenth century as part of anthologies, the maxims of Sablé were often ascribed to an anonymous author or to her two prestigious male colleagues, La Rochefoucauld and Pascal. Only in 1870 would Jouaust’s scholarly edition of the entirety of Sablé’s maxims correct the history of misattribution and properly restore the work to Sablé’s authorship. Victor Cousin, the preeminent French philosopher during the July Monarchy, championed a revival of interest in the marquise by the publication of his biography of Sablé (1859). This erudite work, based on archival research, featured the publication of previously unpublished Sablé writings, notably her treatise On Friendship and extracts from her correspondence. Cousin’s work, however, tends to dismiss the value of Sablé’s thought as it celebrates the personality of the paradigmatic salonnière. Cousin declined to publish the entirety of Sablé’s maxims on the grounds of their general mediocrity and their inferiority to the maxims produced by her protégé, La Rochefoucauld. A similar apologetic tone emerges in Jean Lafond’s commentary on the integral edition of Sablé’s maxims he presents in his popular edition of La Rochefoucauld’s Maximes et Réflexions diverses (1976). “If we present the maxims of Madame de Sablé here, it is not to suggest a comparison [with La Rochefoucauld] that would turn too often to the disadvantage of the marquise” (303).

The barbed remarks of Cousin and Lafond indicate a persistent problem in the interpretation of Sablé: the tendency to treat her as a La Rochefoucauld manqué. In this interpretation, Sablé’s piety, sentimental defense of love, and moderation in her critique of masked vice make her a pale version of the more radical critique of virtue and knowledge developed by La Rochefoucauld. This interpretation occults the originality of Sablé’s philosophical argument, however. It is disagreement, not timidity, that leads her to argue that mature friendship can be a locus for the exercise of authentic virtue and that La Rochefoucauld’s dismissal of all public virtues as hidden vices is wrong. Her claim that certain moral and religious knowledge can be obtained from divine self-revelation does not derive from a certain religious conventionality in the face of La Rochefoucauld’s skeptical dismissal of all claims to noetic certitude. Rather, it springs from her conviction, well honed through her Jansenist associations, that only such revelation-based propositions concerning God and the moral order can claim the unreserved assent of the noetic subject.

Only recently has Sablé emerged as a subject of philosophical, rather than literary, interest. Like other moralistes of early French modernity, the study of her works has been confined to literature rather than philosophy departments. But as with her fellow moralistes Montaigne and Pascal, the epigrammatic writings of Sablé treat issues of enduring philosophical interest. Her maxims develop concise arguments on the illusion of virtue, the nature of love, the sources of authentic religious knowledge, the relationship between power and knowledge, and the vices typical of a status-centered society. Her correspondence pursues philosophical questions central to a theology of grace in the company of preeminent philosophers of the period, such as Pascal and Arnauld. In her writings, the salon (the era’s central venue for the philosophical formation of women) becomes the subject of ethical analysis. It is the salon’s rituals of power, codes of politeness, and quest for scientific knowledge that provide the principal data for Madame de Sablé’s critique of the human pretension to virtue and to certitude.

5. References and Futher Reading

All French to English translations above are by the author.

a. Primary Sources

  • Sablé, Madeleine de Souvré, marquise de. Maximes de Madame de Sablé in La Rochefoucauld. Maximes et Réflexions diverses, ed. Jean Lafond. Paris: Gallimard, 1976. Pp 227-247.
  • Sablé, Madeleine de Souvré, marquise de. Maximes de Mme de Sablé 1678, ed. Damase Jouaust. Paris: Librairie des bibliophiles, 1870. (Available online at the Projet Gallica on the webpage of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.)

b. Secondary Sources

  • Barthélemy, Édouard de. Les amis de la marquise de Sablé: recueil de lettres des principaux habitués de son salon. Paris: E. Dentu, 1865.
  • Conley, John J. The Suspicion of Virtue: Women Philosophers in Neoclassical France Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002. Pp 20-44.
  • Conley, John J. “Madame de Sablé’s Moral Philosophy: A Jansenist Salon” in Presenting Women Philosophers, ed. Cecile T. Tougas. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000. Pp 201-211.
  • Cousin, Victor. Madame de Sablé: études sur les femmes illustres et la société du XVIIe siècle. Paris: Didier, 1859.
  • Ivanoff, Nicolas. La Marquise de Sablé et son salon. Paris: Les Presses Modernes, 1927.
  • Van Delft, Louis. “Madame de Sablé et Gracián,” Saggi e Ricerche di Letteratura Francese, 1983. 22: 265-285.

Author Information

John J. Conley
Email: jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola University
U. S. A.

Carl Gustav Hempel (1905—1997)

Carl Hempel, a German-born philosopher who immigrated to the United States, was one of the prominent philosophers of science in the twentieth century. His paradox of the ravens—as an illustration of the paradoxes of confirmation—has been a constant challenge for theories of confirmation. Together with Paul Oppenheim, he proposed a quantitative account of degrees of confirmation of hypotheses by evidence. His deductive-nomological model of scientific explanation put explanations on the same logical footing as predictions; they are both deductive arguments. The difference is a matter of pragmatics, namely that in an explanation the argument’s conclusion is intended to be assumed true whereas in a prediction the intention is make a convincing case for the conclusion. Hempel also proposed a quantitative measure of the power of a theory to systematize its data.Later in his life, Hempel abandoned the project of an inductive logic. He also emphasized the problems with logical positivism (logical empiricism), especially those concerning the verifiability criterion. Hempel eventually turned away from the logical positivists’ analysis of science to a more empirical analysis in terms of the sociology of science.

Hempel studied mathematics, physics, and philosophy in Gottingen, Heidelberg, Vienna, and Berlin. In Vienna, he attended some of the meetings of the Vienna Circle. With the help of Rudolf Carnap , he managed to leave Europe before the Second World War, and he came to Chicago on a research grant secured by Carnap. He later taught at the City University of New York, Yale University and Princeton University.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Scientific Explanation
  3. Paradoxes of Confirmation
  4. Concept Formation in Empirical Science
  5. The Late Hempel
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Life

One of the leading members of logical positivism, he was born in Oranienburg, Germany, in 1905. Between March 17 and 24, 1982, Hempel gave an interview to Richard Nolan; the text of that interview was published for the first time in 1988 in Italian translation (Hempel, “Autobiografia intellettuale” in Oltre il positivismo logico, Armando: Rome, Italy, 1988). This interview is the main source of the following biographical notes.

Hempel studied at the Realgymnasium at Berlin and, in 1923, he was admitted at the University of Gottingen where he studied mathematics with David Hilbert and Edmund Landau and symbolic logic with Heinrich Behmann. Hempel was very impressed with Hilbert’s program of proving the consistency of mathematics by means of elementary methods; he also studied philosophy, but he found mathematical logic more interesting than traditional logic. The same year he moved to the University of Heidelberg, where he studied mathematics, physics, and philosophy. From 1924, Hempel studied at Berlin, where he met Reichenbach who introduced him to the Berlin Circle. Hempel attended Reichenbach’s courses on mathematical logic, the philosophy of space and time, and the theory of probability. He studied physics with Max Planck and logic with von Neumann.

In 1929, Hempel took part in the first congress on scientific philosophy organized by logical positivists. He meet Carnap and—very impressed by Carnap—moved to Vienna where he attended three courses with Carnap, Schlick, and Waismann, and took part in the meetings of the Vienna Circle. In the same years, Hempel qualified as teacher in the secondary school and eventually, in 1934, he gained the doctorate in philosophy at Berlin, with a dissertation on the theory of probability. In the same year, he immigrated to Belgium, with the help of a friend of Reichenbach, Paul Oppenheim (Reichenbach introduced Hempel to Oppenheim in 1930). Two years later, Hempel and Oppenheim published the book Der Typusbegriff im Lichte der neuen Logik on the logical theory of classifier, comparative and metric scientific concepts.

In 1937, Hempel was invited—with the help of Carnap—to the University of Chicago as Research Associate in Philosophy. After another brief period in Belgium, Hempel immigrated to the United States in 1939. He taught in New York, at City College (1939-1940) and at Queens College (1940-1948). In those years, he was interested in the theory of confirmation and explanation, and published several articles on that subject: “A Purely Syntactical Definition of Confirmation,” in The Journal of Symbolic Logic, 8, 1943; “Studies in the Logic of Confirmation” in Mind, 54, 1945; “A Definition of Degree of Confirmation” (with P. Oppenheim) in Philosophy of Science, 12, 1945; “A Note on the Paradoxes of Confirmation” in Mind, 55, 1946; “Studies in the Logic of Explanation” (with P. Oppenheim) in Philosophy of Science, 15, 1948.

Between 1948 and 1955, Hempel taught at Yale University. His work Fundamentals of Concept Formation in Empirical Science was published in 1952 in the International Encyclopedia of Unified Science. From 1955, he taught at the University of Princeton. Aspects of Scientific Explanation and Philosophy of Natural Science were published in 1965 and 1966 respectively. After the pensionable age, he continued teaching at Berkley, Irvine, Jerusalem, and, from 1976 to 1985, at Pittsburgh. In the meantime, his philosophical perspective was changing and he detached from logical positivism: “The Meaning of Theoretical Terms: A Critique of the Standard Empiricist Construal” in Logic, Methodology and Philosophy of Science IV (ed. by Patrick Suppes), 1973; “Valuation and Objectivity in Science” in Physics, Philosophy and Psychoanalysis (ed. by R. S. Cohen and L. Laudan), 1983; “Provisoes: A Problem Concerning the Inferential Function of Scientific Theories” in Erkenntnis, 28, 1988. However, he remained affectionately joined to logical positivism. In 1975, he undertook the editorship (with W. Stegmüller and W. K. Essler) of the new series of the journal Erkenntnis. Hempel died November 9, 1997, in Princeton Township, New Jersey.

2. Scientific Explanation

Hempel and Oppenheim’s essay “Studies in the Logic of Explanation,” published in volume 15 of the journal Philosophy of Science, gave an account of the deductive-nomological explanation. A scientific explanation of a fact is a deduction of a statement (called the explanandum) that describes the fact we want to explain; the premises (called the explanans) are scientific laws and suitable initial conditions. For an explanation to be acceptable, the explanans must be true.

According to the deductive-nomological model, the explanation of a fact is thus reduced to a logical relationship between statements: the explanandum is a consequence of the explanans. This is a common method in the philosophy of logical positivism. Pragmatic aspects of explanation are not taken into consideration. Another feature is that an explanation requires scientific laws; facts are explained when they are subsumed under laws. So the question arises about the nature of a scientific law. According to Hempel and Oppenheim, a fundamental theory is defined as a true statement whose quantifiers are not removable (that is, a fundamental theory is not equivalent to a statement without quantifiers), and which do not contain individual constants. Every generalized statement which is a logical consequence of a fundamental theory is a derived theory. The underlying idea for this definition is that a scientific theory deals with general properties expressed by universal statements. References to specific space-time regions or to individual things are not allowed. For example, Newton’s laws are true for all bodies in every time and in every space. But there are laws (e.g., the original Kepler laws) that are valid under limited conditions and refer to specific objects, like the Sun and its planets. Therefore, there is a distinction between a fundamental theory, which is universal without restrictions, and a derived theory that can contain a reference to individual objects. Note that it is required that theories are true; implicitly, this means that scientific laws are not tools to make predictions, but they are genuine statements that describe the world—a realistic point of view.

There is another intriguing characteristic of the Hempel-Oppenheim model, which is that explanation and prediction have exactly the same logical structure: an explanation can be used to forecast and a forecast is a valid explanation. Finally, the deductive-nomological model accounts also for the explanation of laws; in that case, the explanandum is a scientific law and can be proved with the help of other scientific laws.

Aspects of Scientific Explanation, published in 1965, faces the problem of inductive explanation, in which the explanans include statistical laws. According to Hempel, in such kind of explanation the explanans give only a high degree of probability to the explanandum, which is not a logical consequence of the premises. The following is a very simple example.

The relative frequency of P with respect to Q is r
The object a belongs to P
————————————————–
Thus, a belongs to Q

The conclusion “a belongs to Q” is not certain, for it is not a logical consequence of the two premises. According to Hempel, this explanation gives a degree of probability r to the conclusion. Note that the inductive explanation requires a covering law: the fact is explained by means of scientific laws. But now the laws are not deterministic; statistical laws are admissible. However, in many respects the inductive explanation is similar to the deductive explanation.

  • Both deductive and inductive explanation are nomological ones (that is, they require universal laws).
  • The relevant fact is the logical relation between explanans and explanandum: in deductive explanation, the latter is a logical consequence of the former, whereas in inductive explanation, the relationship is an inductive one. But in either model, only logical aspects are relevant; pragmatic features are not taken in account.
  • The symmetry between explanation and prediction is preserved.
  • The explanans must be true.

3. Paradoxes of Confirmation

During his research on confirmation, Hempel formulated the so-called paradoxes of confirmation. Hempel’s paradoxes are a straightforward consequence of the following apparently harmless principles:

  • The statement (x)(Rx → Bx) is supported by the statement (Ra & Ba)
  • If P1 and P2 are logically equivalent statements and O1 confirms P1, then O1 also supports P2.

Hence, (~Ra & ~Ba), which confirms (x)(~Bx → ~Rx), also supports (x)(Rx → Bx). Now suppose Rx means “x is a raven” and Bx means “x is black.” Therefore, “a isn’t a raven and isn’t black” confirms “all ravens are black.” That is, the observation of a red fish supports the hypothesis that all ravens are black.

Note also that the statement (x)((~Rx ∨ Rx) → (~Rx ∨ Bx)) is equivalent to (x)(Rx → Bx). Thus, (~Ra ∨ Ba) supports “all ravens are black” and hence the observation of whatever thing which is not a raven (tennis-ball, paper, elephant, red herring) supports “all ravens are black.”

4. Concept Formation in Empirical Science

In his monograph Fundamentals of Concept Formation in Empirical Science (1952), Hempel describes the methods according to which physical quantities are defined. Hempel uses the example of the measurement of mass.

An equal-armed balance is used to determine when two bodies have the same mass and when the mass of a body is greater than the mass of the other. Two bodies have the same mass if, when they are on the pans, the balance remains in equilibrium. If a pan goes down and the other up, then the body in the lowest pan has a greater mass. From a logical point of view, this procedure defines two relations, say E and G, so that:

  • E(a,b) if and only if a and b have the same mass;
  • G(a,b) if and only if the mass of a is greater that the mass of b.

The relations E and G satisfy the following conditions:

  1. E is a reflexive, symmetric and transitive relation.
  2. G is an irreflexive, asymmetric and transitive relation.
  3. E and G are mutually exclusive—that is, if E(a,b), then not G(a,b).
  4. For every a and b, one and only one of the following assertions is true:
E(a,b) G(a,b) G(b,a)

Relations E and G thus define a partial order.

The second step consists in defining a function m which satisfies the following three conditions:

  1. A suitable prototype is chosen, whose mass is one kilogram.
  2. If E(a,b) then m(a)=m(b).
  3. There is an operation, say ©, which combines two bodies a and b, so that

    m(a © b) = m(a) + m(b)

Conditions (1)-(7) describe the measurement not only of mass but also of length, of time and of every extensive physical quantity. (A quantity is extensive if there is an operation which combines the objects according to condition 7, otherwise it is intensive; temperature, for example, is intensive.)

5. The Late Hempel

In “The Meaning of Theoretical Terms” (1973), Hempel criticizes an aspect of logical positivism’s theory of science: the distinction between observational and theoretical terms and the related problem about the meaning of theoretical terms. According to Hempel, there is an implicit assumption in neopositivist analysis of science, namely that the meaning of theoretical terms can be explained by means of linguistic methods. Therefore, the very problem is how can a set of statements be determined that gives a meaning to theoretical terms. Hempel analyzes the various theories proposed by logical positivism.

According to Schlick, the meaning of theoretical concepts is determined by the axioms of the theory; the axioms thus play the role of implicit definitions. Therefore, theoretical terms must be interpreted in a way that makes the theory true. But according to such interpretation—Hempel objects—a scientific theory is always true, for it is true by convention, and thus every scientific theory is a priori true. This is a proof—Hempel says—that Schlick’s interpretation of the meaning of theoretical terms is not tenable. Also the thesis which asserts that the meaning of a theoretical term depends on the theory in which that term is used is, according to Hempel, untenable.

Another solution to the problem of the meaning of theoretical terms is based on the rules of correspondence (also known as meaning postulates). They are statements in which observational and theoretical terms occur. Theoretical terms thus gain a partial interpretation by means of observational terms. Hempel raises two objections to this theory. First, he asserts that observational concepts do not exist. When a scientific theory introduces new theoretical terms, they are linked with other old theoretical terms that usually belong to another already consolidated scientific theory. Therefore, the interpretation of new theoretical terms is not based on observational terms but it is given by other theoretical terms that, in a sense, are more familiar than the new ones. The second objection is about the conventional nature of rules of correspondence. A meaning postulate defines the meaning of a concept and therefore, from a logical point of view, it must be true. But every statement in a scientific theory is falsifiable, and thus there is no scientific statement which is beyond the jurisdiction of experience. So, a meaning postulate can be false as well; hence, it is not conventional and thus it does not define the meaning of a concept but it is a genuine physical hypothesis. Meaning postulates do not exist.

“Provisoes: A Problem concerning the Inferential Function of Scientific Theories,” published in Erkenntnis (1988), criticizes another aspect of logical positivism’s theory of science: the deductive nature of scientific theories. It is very interesting that a philosopher who is famous for his deductive model of scientific explanation criticized the deductive model of science. At least this fact shows the open views of Hempel. He argues that it is impossible to derive observational statements from a scientific theory. For example, Newton’s theory of gravitation cannot determine the position of planets, even if the initial conditions are known, for Newton’s theory deals with the gravitational force, and thus the theory cannot forecast the influences exerted by other kinds of force. In other words, Newton’s theory requires an explicit assumption—a provisoe, according to Hempel—which assures that the planets are subjected only to the gravitational force. Without such hypothesis, it is impossible to apply the theory to the study of planetary motion. But this assumption does not belong to the theory. Therefore, the position of planets is not determined by the theory, but it is implied by the theory plus appropriate assumptions. Accordingly, not only observational statements are not entailed by the theory, but also there are no deductive links between observational statements. Hence, it is impossible that an observational statement is a logical consequence of a theory (unless the statement is logically true). This fact has very important consequences.

One of them is that the empirical content of a theory does not exist. Neopositivists defined it as the class of observational statements implied by the theory; but this class is an empty set.

Another consequence is that theoretical terms are not removable from a scientific theory. Known methods employed to accomplish this task assert that, for every theory T, it is possible to find a theory T* without theoretical terms so that an observational statement O is a consequence of T* if and only if it is a consequence of T. Thus, it is possible to eliminate theoretical terms from T without loss of deductive power. But—Hempel argues—no observational statement O is derivable from T, so that T* lacks empirical consequence.

Suppose T is a falsifiable theory; therefore, there is an observational statement O so that ~O → ~T. Hence, T → ~O; so T entails an observational statement ~O. But no observational statement is a consequence of T. Thus, the theory T is not falsifiable. The consequence is that every theory is not falsifiable. (Note: Hempel’s argument is evidently wrong, for according to Popper the negation of an observational statement usually is not an observational statement).

Finally, the interpretation of science due to instrumentalism is not tenable. According to such interpretation, scientific theories are rules of inference, that is, they are prescriptions according to which observational statements are derived. Hempel’s analysis shows that these alleged rules of inference are indeed void.

6. References and Further Reading

  • Essler, W. K., Putnam, H., & Stegmuller, W. (Eds.). (1985). Epistemology, Methodology, and Philosophy of Science: Essays in Honour of Carl G. Hempel on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday, January 8th, 1985. Dordrecht, Holland: D. Reidel Pub. Co.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1934). Beitrage zur logischen analyse des wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs. Universitats-buchdruckerei G. Neuenhahn, Jena.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1937). “Le problème de la vérité.” Theoria, 3.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1942). “The Function of General Laws in Hystory.” The Journal of Philosophy, 39.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1943). “A Purely Syntactical Definition of Confirmation.” The Journal of Symbolic Logic, 8.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1945). “Studies in the Logic of Confirmation.” Mind, 54.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1952). Fundamentals of Concept Formation in Empirical Science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1958). “The Theoretician’s Dilemma.” In H. Feigl, M. Scriven & G. Maxwell (Eds.), Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science (Vol. 2). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1962). “Deductive-Nomological vs. Statistical Explanation.” In H. Feigl & G. Maxwell (Eds.), Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science (Vol. 3). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1965). Aspects of Scientific Explanation and other Essays in the Philosophy of Science. New York: Free Press.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1966). Philosophy of Natural Science. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1973). “The Meaning of Theoretical Terms: A Critique to the Standard Empiricist Construal.” In Logic, Methodology and Philosophy of Science (Vol. IV): North Holland Publishing Company.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1981). “Turns in the Evolution of the Problem of Induction.” Synthese (46).
  • Hempel, C. G. (1983). “Valutation and Objectivity in Science.” In R. S. Cohen & L. Laudan (Eds.), Physics, Philosophy and Psychoanalysis. Dordrecth, Holland: D. Reidel Pub. Co.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1985). “Thoughts on the Limitation of Discovery by Computer.” In K. F. Schaffner (Ed.), Logic of Discovery and Diagnosis in Medicine: University of California Press.
  • Hempel, C. G. (1988). “Provisoes: A Problem concerning the Inferential Function of Scientific Theories.” Erkenntnis, 28.
  • Hempel, C. G., & Oppenheim, P. (1936). Der Typusbegriff im Lichte der neuen Logik. Leiden: A. W. Sijthoff.
  • Hempel, C. G., & Oppenheim, P. (1945). “A Definition of Degree of Confirmation.” Philosophy of Science, 12.
  • Hempel, C. G., & Oppenheim, P. (1948). “Studies in the Logic of Explanation.” Philosophy of Science, 15.
  • Rescher, N. (Ed.). (1970). Essays in Honor of Carl G. Hempel: A Tribute on the Occasion of his Sixty-fifth Birthday. Dordrecht, Holland: D. Reidel Pub. Co.
  • Salmon, W. C. (1989). Four Decades of Scientific Explanation: Regents of the University of Minnesota.
  • Scheffler, I. (1963). The Anatomy of Inquiry. New York: Knopf.

Author Information

Mauro Murzi
Email: murzim@yahoo.com
Italy

Bertrand Russell: Metaphysics

russellMetaphysics is not a school or tradition but rather a sub-discipline within philosophy, as are ethics, logic and epistemology. Like many philosophical terms, “metaphysics” can be understood in a variety of ways, so any discussion of Bertrand Russell’s metaphysics must select from among the various possible ways of understanding the notion, for example, as the study of being qua being, the study of the first principles or grounds of being, the study of God, and so forth. The primary sense of “metaphysics” examined here in connection to Russell is the study of the ultimate nature and constituents of reality.

Since what we know, if anything, is assumed to be real, doctrines in metaphysics typically dovetail with doctrines in epistemology. But in this article, discussion of Russell’s epistemology is kept to a minimum in order to better canvas his metaphysics, beginning with his earliest adult views in 1897 and ending shortly before his death in 1970. Russell revises his conception of the nature of reality in both large and small ways throughout his career. Still, there are positions that he never abandons; particularly, the belief that reality is knowable, that it is many, that there are entities – universals – that do not exist in space and time, and that there are truths that cannot be known by direct experience or inference but are known a priori.

The word “metaphysics” sometimes is used to describe questions or doctrines that are a priori, that is, that purport to concern what transcends experience, and particularly sense-experience. Thus, a system may be called metaphysical if it contains doctrines, such as claims about the nature of the good or the nature of human reason, whose truth is supposed to be known independently of (sense) experience. Such claims have characterized philosophy from its beginnings, as has the belief that they are meaningful and valuable. However, from the modern period on, and especially in Russell’s own lifetime, various schools of philosophy began to deny the legitimacy and desirability of a priori metaphysical theorizing. In fact, Russell’s life begins in a period sympathetic to this traditional philosophical project, and ends in a period which is not. Concerning these “meta-metaphysical” issues (that is, doctrines not in metaphysics but about it and its feasibility), Russell remained emphatically a metaphysician throughout his life. In fact, in his later work, it is this strand more than doctrines about the nature of reality per se that justify his being considered as one of the last, great metaphysicians.

Table of Contents

  1. The 1890s: Idealism
    1. Neo-Hegelianism
    2. F. H. Bradley and Internal Relations
    3. Neo-Kantianism and A Priori Knowledge
    4. Russell’s Turn from Idealism to Realism
      1. His Rejection of Psychologism
      2. His Rejection of Internal Relations
  2. 1901-1904: Platonist Realism
    1. What has Being
    2. Propositions as Objects
    3. Analysis and Classes
    4. Concepts’ Dual Role in Propositions
    5. Meaning versus Denoting
    6. The Relation of Logic to Epistemology and Psychology
  3. 1905-1912: Logical Realism
    1. Acquaintance and Descriptive Psychology
    2. Eliminating Classes as Objects
      1. “On Denoting” (1905)
      2. Impact on Analysis
    3. Eliminating Propositions as Objects
    4. Facts versus Complexes
    5. Universals and Particulars
    6. Logic as the Study of Forms of Complexes and Facts
    7. Sense Data and the Problem of Matter
  4. 1913-1918: Occam’s Razor and Logical Atomism
    1. The Nature of Logic
    2. The Nature of Matter
    3. Logical Atomism
      1. The Atoms of Experience and the Misleading Nature of Language
      2. The Forms of Facts and Theory of Truth
      3. Belief as a New Form of Fact
      4. Neutral Monism
  5. 1919-1927: Neutral Monism, Science, and Language
    1. Mind, Matter, and Meaning
    2. Private versus Public Data
    3. Language, Facts, and Psychology
    4. Universals
    5. The Syntactical View
  6. 1930-1970: Anti-positivist Naturalism
    1. Logical Truths
    2. Empirical Truths
    3. A Priori Principles
    4. Universals
    5. The Study of Language
  7. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
      1. Monographs
      2. Collections of Essays
      3. Articles
      4. The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell
      5. Autobiographies and Letters
    2. Secondary Sources
      1. General Surveys
      2. History of Analytic Philosophy
      3. Logic and Metaphysics
      4. Meaning and Metaphysics
      5. Beliefs and Facts
      6. Constructions
      7. Logical Atomism
      8. Naturalism and Psychology
      9. Biographies

1. The 1890s: Idealism

Russell’s earliest work in metaphysics is marked by the sympathies of his teachers and his era for a particular tradition known as idealism. Idealism is broadly understood as the contention that ultimate reality is immaterial or dependent on mind, so that matter is in some sense derivative, emergent, and at best conditionally real. Idealism flourished in Britain in the last third of the nineteenth century and first two decades of the twentieth. British idealists such as Bernard Bosanquet, T.H. Green, Harold Joachim, J.M.E. McTaggart and F.H. Bradley – some of whom were Russell’s teachers – were most influenced by Hegel’s form of absolute idealism, though influences of Immanuel Kant’s transcendental idealism can also be found in their work. This section will explore British Idealism’s influence on the young Bertrand Russell.

a. Neo-Hegelianism

Until 1898, Russell’s work a variety of subjects (like geometry or space and time) is marked by the presumption that any area of study contains contradictions that move the mind into other, related, areas that enrich and complete it. This is similar to Hegel’s dialectical framework. However, in Hegel’s work this so-called “dialectic” is a central part of his metaphysical worldview, characterizing the movement of “absolute spirit” as it unfolds into history. Russell is relatively uninfluenced by Hegel’s broader theory, and adopts merely the general dialectical approach. He argues, for example, that the sciences are incomplete and contain contradictions, that one passes over into the other, as number into geometry and geometry into physics. The goal of a system of the sciences, he thinks, is to reveal the basic postulates of each science, their relations to each other, and to eliminate all inconsistencies but those that are integral to the science as such. (“Note on the Logic of the Sciences,” Papers 2) In this way, Russell’s early work is dialectical and holistic rather than monistic. On this point, Russell’s thinking was probably influenced by his tutors John McTaggart and James Ward, who were both British idealists unsympathetic to Bradley’s monism.

b. F. H. Bradley and Internal Relations

Bradley, most famous for his book Appearance and Reality, defines what is ultimately real as what is wholly unconditioned or independent. Put another way, on Bradley’s view what is real must be complete and self-sufficient. Bradley also thinks that the relations a thing stands in, such as being to the left of something else, are internal to it, that is, grounded in its intrinsic properties, and therefore inseparable from those properties. It follows from these two views that the subjects of relations, considered in themselves, are incomplete and dependent, and therefore ultimately unreal. For instance, if my bookcase is to the left of my desk, and if the relation being to the left of is internal to my bookcase, then being to the left of my desk contributes to the identity or being of my bookcase just as being six feet tall and being brown do. Consequently, it is not unconditioned or independent, since its identity is bound up with my desk’s. Since the truly real is independent, it follows that my bookcase is not truly real. This sort of argument can be given for every object that we could conceivably encounter in experience: everything stands in some relation or other to something else, thus everything is partially dependent on something else for its identity; but since it is dependent, it is not truly real.

The only thing truly real, Bradley thinks, is the whole network of interrelated objects that constitutes what we might call “the whole world.” Thus he embraces a species of monism: the doctrine that, despite appearances to the contrary, no plurality of substances exists and that only one thing exits: the whole. What prevents us from apprehending this, he believes, is our tendency to confuse the limited reality of things in our experience (and the truths based on that limited perspective)- with the unconditioned reality of the whole, the Absolute or One. Hence, Bradley is unsympathetic to the activity of analysis, for by breaking wholes into parts it disguises rather than reveals the nature of reality.

The early Russell, who was familiar with Bradley’s work through his teachers at Cambridge, was only partly sympathetic to F. H. Bradley’s views. Russell accepts the doctrine that relations are internal but, unlike Bradley, he does not deny that there is a plurality of things or subjects. Thus Russell’s holism, for example, his view of the interconnectedness of the sciences, does not require the denial of plurality or the rejection of analysis as a falsification of reality, both of which doctrines are antithetic to him early on.

c. Neo-Kantianism and A Priori Knowledge

Russell’s early views are also influenced by Kant. Kant argued that the mind imposes categories (like being in space and time) that shape what we experience. Since Kant defines a priori propositions as those we know to be true independently of (logically prior to) experience, and a posteriori propositions as those whose truth we know only through experience, it follows that propositions about these categories are a priori, since the conditions of any possible experience must be independent of experience. Thus for Kant, geometry contains a priori propositions about categories of space that condition our experience of things as spatial.

Russell largely agrees with Kant in his 1898 Foundations of Geometry, which is based on his dissertation. Other indications of a Kantian approach can be seen, for example, in his 1897 claim that what is essential to matter is schematization under the form of space (“On Matter,” Papers 2).

d. Russell’s Turn from Idealism to Realism

There are several points on which Russell’s views eventually turn against idealism and towards realism. The transition is not sudden but gradual, growing out of discomfort with what he comes to see as an undue psychologism in his work, and out of growing awareness of the importance of asymmetrical (ordering) relations in mathematics. The first issue concerns knowledge and opposes neo-Kantianism; the second issue concerns the nature of relations and the validity of analysis and opposes Neo-Hegelianism and Monism. The former lends itself to realism and mind/matter dualism, that is, to a view of matter as independent of minds, which apprehend it without shaping it. The latter lends itself to a view of the radical plurality of what exists. Both contribute to a marked preference for analysis over synthesis, as the mind’s way of apprehending the basic constituents of reality. By the time these developments are complete, Russell’s work no longer refers to the dialectic of thought or to the form of space or to other marks of his early infatuation with idealism. Yet throughout Russell’s life there remains a desire to give a complete account of the sciences, as a kind of vestige of his earlier views.

i. His Rejection of Psychologism

When Russell begins to question idealism, he does so in part because of the idealist perspective on the status of truths of mathematics. In his first completely anti-idealist work, The Principles of Mathematics (1903), Russell does not reject Kant’s general conception of the distinction between a priori and a posteriori knowledge, but he rejects Kant’s idealism, that is, Kant’s doctrine that the nature of thought determines what is a priori. On Russell’s view, human nature could change, and those truths would then be destroyed, which he thinks is absurd. Moreover, Russell objects that the Kantian notion of a priori truth is conditional, that is, that Kant must hold that 2 + 2 equals 4 only on condition that the mind always thinks it so (Principles, p. 40.) On Russell’s view, in contrast, mathematical and logical truths must be true unconditionally; thus 2 + 2 equals 4 even if there are no intelligences or minds. Thus Russell’s attack on Kant’s notion of the a priori focuses on what he sees as Kant’s psychologism, that is, his tendency to confuse what is objectively true even if no one thinks it, with what we are so psychologically constructed as to have to think. In general, Russell begins to sharply distinguish questions of logic, conceived as closely related to metaphysics, from questions of knowledge and psychology. Thus in his 1904 paper “Meinong’s Theory of Complexes and Assumptions” (Essays in Analysis, pp. 21-22), he writes, “The theory of knowledge is often regarded as identical with logic. This view results from confounding psychical states with their objects; for, when it is admitted that the proposition known is not the identical with the knowledge of it, it becomes plain that the question as to the nature of propositions is distinct from all questions of knowledge…. The theory of knowledge is in fact distinct from psychology, but is more complex: for it involves not only what psychology has to say about belief, but also the distinction of truth and falsehood, since knowledge is only belief in what is true.”

ii. His Rejection of Internal Relations

In his early defense of pluralism, external relations ( relations which cannot be reduced to properties) play an important role. The monist asserts that all relations within a complex or whole are less real than that whole, so that analysis of a whole into its parts is a misrepresentation or falsification of reality, which is one. It is consonant with this view, Russell argues, to try to reduce propositions that express relations to propositions asserting a property of something, that is, some subject-term (Principles, p. 221.) The monist therefore denies or ignores the existence of relations. But some relations must be irreducible to properties of terms, in particular the transitive and asymmetrical relations that order series, as the quality of imposing order among terms is lost if the relation is reduced to a property of a term. In rejecting monism, Russell argues that at least some relations are irreducible to properties of terms, hence they are external to those terms (Principles, p. 224); and on the basis of this doctrine of external relations, he describes reality as not one but many, that is, composed of diverse entities, bound but not dissolved into wholes by external relations. Since monism tends to reduce relations to properties, and to take these as intrinsic to substances (and ultimately to only one substance), Russell’s emphasis on external relations is explicitly anti-monistic.

2. 1901-1904: Platonist Realism

When Russell rebelled against idealism (with his friend G.E. Moore) he adopted metaphysical doctrines that were realist and dualist as well as Platonist and pluralist. As noted above, his realism and dualism entails that there is an external reality distinct from the inner mental reality of ideas and perceptions, repudiating the idealist belief that ultimate reality consists of ideas and the materialist view that everything is matter, and his pluralism consists in assuming there are many entities bound by external relations. Equally important, however, is his Platonism.

a. What has Being

Russell’s Platonism involves a belief that there are mind-independent entities that need not exist to be real, that is, to subsist and have being. Entities, or what has being (and may or may not exist) are called terms, and terms include anything that can be thought. In Principles of Mathematics (1903) he therefore writes, “Whatever may be an object of thought,…, or can be counted as one, I call a term. …I shall use it as synonymous with the words unit, individual, and entity. … [E]very term has being, that is, is in some sense. A man, a moment, a number, a class, a relation, a chimera, or anything else that can be mentioned, is sure to be a term….” (Principles, p. 43) Russell links his metaphysical Platonism to a theory of meaning as well as a theory of knowledge. Thus, all words that possess meaning do so by denoting complex or simple, abstract or concrete objects, which we apprehend by a kind of knowledge called acquaintance.

b. Propositions as Objects

Since for Russell words mean objects (terms), and since sentences are built up out of several words, it follows that what a sentence means, a proposition, is also an entity — a unity of those entities meant by the words in the sentence, namely, things (particulars, or those entities denoted by names) and concepts (entities denoted by words other than names). Propositions are thus complex objects that either exist and are true or subsist and are false. So, both true and false propositions have being (Principles, p. 35). A proposition is about the things it contains; for example, the proposition meant by the sentence “the cat is on the mat” is composed of and is about the cat, the mat, and the concept on. As Russell writes to Gottlob Frege in 1904: ‘I believe that in spite of all of its snowfields Mount Blanc itself is a component part of what is actually asserted in the proposition “Mount Blanc is more than 40,000 meters high.” We do not assert the thought, for that is a private psychological matter; we assert the object of the thought, and this is, to my mind, a certain complex (an objective proposition, one might say) in which Mount Blanc is itself a component part.’ (From Frege to Gödel, pp. 124-125)

This Platonist view of propositions as objects bears, furthermore, on Russell’s conception of logical propositions. In terms of the degree of abstractness in the entities making them up, the propositions of logic and those of a particular science sit at different points on a spectrum, with logical propositions representing the point of maximum generality and abstraction (Principles, p. 7). Thus, logical propositions are not different in kind from propositions of other sciences, and by a process of analysis we can come to their basic constituents, the objects (constants) of logic.

c. Analysis and Classes

Russell sometimes compares philosophical analysis to a kind of mental chemistry, since, as in chemical analysis, it involves resolving complexes into their simpler elements (Principles, p. xv). But in philosophical analyses, the process of decomposing a complex is entirely intellectual, a matter of seeing with the mind’s eye the simples involved in some complex concept. To have reached the end of such an intellectual analysis is to have reached the simple entities that cannot be further analyzed but must be immediately perceived. Reaching the end of an analysis – that is, arriving at the mental perception of a simple entity, a concept – then provides the means for definition, in the philosophical sense, since the meaning of the term being analyzed is defined in terms of the simple entities grasped at the end of the process of analysis. Yet in this period Russell is confronted with several logical and metaphysical problems. We see from his admission in the Principles that he has been unable to grasp the concept class which, he sees, leads to contradictions, for example, to Russell’s paradox (Principles, pp. xv-xvi).

Russell’s extreme Platonist realism involves him in several difficulties besides the fact that class appears to be a paradoxical (unthinkable) entity or concept. These additional concerns, which he sees even in the Principles, along with his difficulty handling the notion of a class and the paradoxes surrounding it, help determine the course of his later metaphysical (and logical) doctrines.

d. Concepts’ Dual Role in Propositions

One difficulty concerns the status of concepts within the entity called a proposition, and this arises from his doctrine that any quality or absence of quality presupposes being. On Russell’s view the difference between a concept occurring as such and occurring as a subject term in a proposition is merely a matter of their external relations and not an intrinsic or essential difference in entities (Principles, p. 46). Hence a concept can occur either predicatively or as a subject term. He therefore views with suspicion Frege’s doctrine that concepts are essentially predicative and cannot occur as objects, that is, as the subject terms of a proposition (Principles, Appendix A). As Frege acknowledges, to say that concepts cannot occur as objects is a doctrine that defies exact expression, for we cannot say “a concept is not an object” without seemingly treating a concept as an object, since it appears to be the referent of the subject term in our sentence. Frege shows little distress over this problem of inexpressibility, but for Russell such a state of affairs is self-contradictory and paradoxical since the concept is an object in any sentence that says it is not. Yet, as he discovers, to allow concepts a dual role opens the way to other contradictions (such as Russell’s paradox), since makes it possible for a predicate to be predicated of itself. Faced with paradoxes on either side, Russell chooses to risk the paradox he initially sees as arising from Frege’s distinction between concepts and objects in order to avoid more serious logical paradoxes arising from his own assumption of concepts’ dual role. (See Principles, Chapter X and Appendix B.) This issue contributes to his emerging attempt to eliminate problematic concepts and propositions from the domain of what has being. In doing so he implicitly draws away from his original belief that what is thinkable has being, as it is not clear how he can say that items he earlier entertained are unthinkable.

e. Meaning versus Denoting

Another difficulty with Russell’s Platonist realism concerns the way concepts are said to contribute to the meaning of propositions in which they occur. As noted earlier, propositions are supposed to contain what they are about, but the situation is more complex when these constituent entities include denoting concepts, either indefinite ones like a man or definite ones like the last man. The word “human” denotes an extra-mental concept human, but the concept human denotes the set of humans: Adam, Benjamin, Cain, and so on. As a result, denoting concepts have a peculiar role in objective propositions: when a denoting phrase occurs in a sentence, a denoting concept occurs in the corresponding proposition, but the proposition is not about the denoting concept but about the entities falling under the concept. Thus the proposition corresponding to the sentence “all humans are mortal” contains the concept human but is not about the concept per se – it is not attributing mortality to a concept – but is about individual humans. As a result, it is difficult to see how we can ever talk about the concept itself (as in the sentence “human is a concept”), for when we attempt to do so what we denote is not what we mean. In unpublished work from the period immediately following the publication of Principles (for example, “On Fundamentals,” Papers 4) Russell struggles to explain the connection between meaning and denoting, which he insists is a logical and not a merely psychological or linguistic connection.

f. The Relation of Logic to Epistemology and Psychology

In his early work, Russell treats logical questions quite like metaphysical ones and as distinct from epistemological and psychological issues bearing on how we know. As we saw (in section 1.d.i above), in his 1904 “Meinong’s Theory of Complexes and Assumptions” (Papers 4), Russell objects to what he sees as the idealist tendency to equate epistemology (that is, theory of knowledge) with logic, the study of propositions, by wrongly identifying states of knowing with the objects of those states (for example, judging with what is judged, the proposition). We must, he says, clearly distinguish a proposition from our knowledge of a proposition, and in this way it becomes clear that the study of the nature of a proposition, which falls within logic, in no sense involves the study of knowledge. Epistemology is also distinct from and more inclusive than psychology, for in studying knowledge we need to look at psychological phenomena like belief, but since “knowledge” refers not merely to belief but to true belief, the study of knowledge involves investigation into the distinction between true and false and in that way goes farther than psychology.

3. 1905-1912: Logical Realism

Even as these problems are emerging, Russell is becoming acquainted with Alexius Meinong’s psychologically oriented philosophical concerns. At the same time, he is adopting an eliminative approach towards classes and other putative entities by means of a logical analysis of sentences containing words that appear to refer to such entities. These forces together shape much of his metaphysics in this early period. By 1912, these changes have resulted in a metaphysic preoccupied with the nature and forms of facts and complexes.

a. Acquaintance and Descriptive Psychology

Russell becomes aware of the work of Alexius Meinong, an Austrian philosopher who studied with Franz Brentano and founded a school of experimental psychology. Meinong’s most famous work, Über Gegenstandstheorie (1904), or Theory of Objects, develops the concept of intentionality, that is, the idea that consciousness is always of objects, arguing, further, that non-existent as well as existent objects lay claim to a kind of being – a view to which Russell is already sympathetic. Russell’s 1904 essay “Meinong’s Theory of Complexes and Assumptions” (Papers 4) illustrates his growing fascination with descriptive psychology, which brings questions concerning the nature of cognition to the foreground. After 1904, Russell’s doctrine of the constituents of propositions is increasingly allied to epistemological and psychological investigations. For example, he begins to specify various kinds of acquaintance – sensed objects, abstract objects, introspected ones, logical ones, and so forth. Out of this discourse comes the more familiar terminology of universals and particulars absent from his Principles.

b. Eliminating Classes as Objects

Classes, as Russell discovers, give rise to contradictions, and their presence among the basic entities assumed by his logical system therefore impedes the goal, sketched in the Principles, of showing mathematics to be a branch of logic. The general idea of eliminating classes predates the discovery of the techniques enabling him to do so, and it is not until 1905, in “On Denoting,” that Russell discovers how to analyze sentences containing denoting phrases so as to deny that he is committed to the existence of corresponding entities. It is this general technique that he then employs to show that classes need not be assumed to exist, since sentences appearing to refer to classes can be rewritten in terms of properties.

i. “On Denoting” (1905)

For Russell in 1903, the meaning of a word is an entity, and the meaning of a sentence is therefore a complex entity (the proposition) composed of the entities that are the meanings of the words in the sentence. (See Principles, Chapter IV.) The words and phrases appearing in a sentence (like the words “I” and “met” and “man” in “I met a man”) are assumed to be those that have meaning (that is, that denote entities). In “On Denoting” (1905) Russell attempts to solve the problem of how indefinite and definite descriptive phrases like “a man” and “the present King of France,” which denote no single entities, have meaning. From this point on, Russell begins to believe that a process of logical analysis is necessary to locate the words and phrases that really give the sentence meaning and that these may be different than the words and phrases that appear at first glance to comprise the sentence. Despite advocating a deeper analysis of sentences and acknowledging that the words that contribute to their meaning may not be those that superficially appear in the sentence, Russell continues to believe (even after 1905), that a word of phrase has meaning only by denoting an entity.

ii. Impact on Analysis

This has a marked impact on his conception of analysis, which makes it a kind of discovery of entities. Thus Russell sometimes means by “analysis” a process of devising new ways of conveying what a particular word or phrase means, thereby eliminating the need for the original word. Sometimes the result of this kind of analysis or construction is to show that there can be no successful analysis in the first sense with respect to a particular purported entity. It is not uncommon for Russell to employ both kinds of analysis in the same work. This discovery, interwoven with his attempts to eliminate classes, emerges as a tactic that eventually eliminates a great many of the entities he admitted in 1903.

c. Eliminating Propositions as Objects

In 1903, Russell believed subsistence and existence were modalities of those objects called propositions. By 1906, Russell’s attempt to eliminate propositions testifies to his movement away from this view of propositions. (See “On the Nature of Truth, Proc. Arist. Soc., 1906, pp. 28-49.) Russell is already aware in 1903 that his conception of propositions as single (complex) entities is amenable to contradictions. In 1906, his worries about propositions and paradox lead him to reject objective false propositions, that is, false subsisting propositions that have being as much as true ones.

In seeking to eliminate propositions Russell is influenced by his success in “On Denoting,” as well as by Meinong. As he adopts the latter’s epistemological and psychological interests, he becomes interested in cognitive acts of believing, supposing, and so on, which in 1905 he already calls ‘propositional attitudes’ (“Meinong’s Theory of Complexes and Assumptions,” Papers 4) and which he hopes can be used to replace his doctrine of objective propositions. He therefore experiments with ways of eliminating propositions as single entities by accounting for them in terms of psychological acts of judgment that give unity to the various parts of the proposition, drawing them together into a meaningful whole. Yet the attempts do not go far, and the elimination of propositions only becomes official with the theory of belief he espouses in 1910 in “On the Nature of Truth and Falsehood” (Papers 6), which eliminates propositions and explains the meaning of sentences in terms of a person’s belief that various objects are unified in a fact.

d. Facts versus Complexes

By 1910 the emergence of the so-called multiple relation theory of belief brings the notion of a fact into the foreground. On this theory, a belief is true if things are related in fact as they are in the judgment, and false if they are not so related.

In this period, though Russell sometimes asks whether a complex is indeed the same as a fact (for example, in the 1913 unpublished manuscript Theory of Knowledge (Papers 7, p. 79)), he does not yet draw the sharp distinction between them that he later does in the 1918 lectures published as the Philosophy of Logical Atomism (Papers 8), and they are treated as interchangeable. That is, no distinction is yet drawn between what we perceive (a complex object, such as the shining sun) and what it is that makes a judgment based on perception true (a fact, such as that the sun is shining). He does, however, distinguish between a complex and a simple object (Principia, p. 44). A simple object is irreducible, while a complex object can be analyzed into other complex or simple constituents. Every complex contains one or more particulars and at least one universal, typically a relation, with the simplest kind of complex being a dyadic relation between two terms, as when this amber patch is to the right of that brown patch. Both complexes and facts are classified into various forms of increasing complication.

e. Universals and Particulars

In this period, largely through Meinong’s influence, Russell also begins to distinguish types of acquaintance – the acquaintance we have with particulars, with universals, and so on. He also begins to relinquish the idea of possible or subsisting particulars (for example, propositions), confining that notion to universals.

The 1911 “On the Relations of Universals and Particulars” (Papers 6) presents a full-blown doctrine of universals. Here Russell argues for the existence of diverse particulars – that is, things like tables, chairs, and the material particles that make them up that can exist in one and only one place at any given time. But he also argues for the existence of universals, that is, entities like redness that exist in more than one place at any time. Having argued that properties are universals, he cannot rely on properties to individuate particulars, since it is possible for there to be multiple particulars with all the same properties. In order to ground the numerical diversity of particulars even in cases where they share properties, Russell relies on spatial location. It is place or location, not any difference in properties, that most fundamentally distinguishes any two particulars.

Finally, he argues that our perceived space consists of asymmetrical relations such as left and right, that is, relations that order space. As he sees it, universals alone can’t account for the asymmetrical relations given in perception – particulars are needed. Hence, wherever a spatial relation holds, it must hold of numerically diverse terms, that is, of diverse particulars. Of course, there is also need for universals, since numerically diverse particulars cannot explain what is common to several particulars, that is, what occurs in more than one place.

f. Logic as the Study of Forms of Complexes and Facts

Though he eliminates propositions, Russell continues to view logic in a metaphysically realist way, treating its propositions as objects of a particularly formal, abstract kind. Since Russell thinks that logic must deal with what is objective, but he now denies that propositions are entities, he has come to view logic as the study of forms of complexes. The notion of the form of a complex is linked with the concept of substituting certain entities for others in a complex so as to arrive at a different complex of the same form. Since there can be no such substitution of entities when the complex doesn’t exist, Russell struggles to define the notions of form and substitution in a complex in a way that doesn’t rule out the existence of forms in cases of non-existent complexes. Russell raises this issue in a short manuscript called “What is Logic?” written in September and October of 1912 (Papers 6, pp. 54-56). After considering and rejecting various solutions Russell admits his inability to solve difficulties having to do with forms of non-existent complexes, but this and related difficulties plague his analysis of belief, that is, the analysis given to avoid commitment to objective false propositions.

g. Sense Data and the Problem of Matter

An interest in questions of what we can know about the world – about objects or matter – is a theme that begins to color Russell’s work by the end of this period. In 1912 Russell asks whether there is anything that is beyond doubt (Problems of Philosophy, p. 7). His investigation implies a particular view of what exists, based on what it is we can believe with greatest certainty.

Acknowledging that visible properties, like color, are variable from person to person as well as within one person’s experience and are a function of light’s interaction with our visual apparatus (eyes, and so forth), Russell concludes that we do not directly experience what we would normally describe as colored – or more broadly, visible – objects. Rather, we infer the existence of such objects from what we are directly acquainted with, namely, our sense experiences. The same holds for other sense-modalities, and the sorts of objects that we would normally describe as audible, scented, and so forth. For instance, in seeing and smelling a flower, we are not directly acquainted with a flower, but with the sense-data of color, shape, aroma, and so on. These sense-data are what are immediately and certainly known in sensation, while material objects (like the flower) that we normally think of as producing these experiences via the properties they bear (color, shape, aroma) are merely inferred.

These epistemological doctrines have latent metaphysical implications: because they are inferred rather than known directly, ordinary sense objects (like flowers) have the status of hypothetical or theoretical entities, and therefore may not exist. And since many ordinary sense objects are material, this calls the nature and existence of matter into question. Like Berkeley, Russell thinks it is possible that what we call “the material world” may be constructed out of elements of experience – not ideas, as Berkeley thought, but sense-data. That is, sense-data may be the ultimate reality. However, although Russell thought this was possible, he did not at this time embrace such a view. Instead, he continued to think of material objects as real, but as known only indirectly, via inferences from sense-data. This type of view is sometimes called “indirect realism.”

Although Russell is at this point willing to doubt the existence of physical objects and replace them with inferences from sense-data, he is unwilling to doubt the existence of universals, since even sense-data seem to have sharable properties. For instance, in Problems, he argues that, aside from sense data and inferred physical objects, there must also be qualities and relations (that is, universals), since in “I am in my room,” the word “in” has meaning and denotes something real, namely, a relation between me and my room (Problems, p. 80). Thus he concludes that knowledge involves acquaintance with universals.

4. 1913-1918: Occam’s Razor and Logical Atomism

In 1911 Ludwig Wittgenstein, a wealthy young Austrian, came to study logic with Russell, evidently at Frege’s urging. Russell quickly came to regard his student as a peer, and the two became friends (although their friendship did not last long). During this period, Wittgenstein came to disagree with Russell’s views on logic, meaning, and metaphysics, and began to develop his own alternatives. Surprisingly, Russell became convinced that Wittgenstein was correct both in his criticisms and in his alternative views. Consequently, during the period in question, Wittgenstein had considerable impact on the formation of Russell’s thought.

Besides Wittgenstein, another influence in this period was A.N. Whitehead, Russell’s collaborator on the Principia Mathematica, which is finally completed during this period after many years’ work.

The main strands of Russell’s development in this period concern the nature of logic and the nature of matter or physical reality. His work in and after 1914 is parsimonious about what exists while remaining wedded to metaphysical realism and Platonism. By the end of this period Russell has combined these strands in a metaphysical position called logical atomism.

a. The Nature of Logic

By 1913 the nature of form is prominent in Russell’s discussion of logical propositions, alongside his discussion of forms of facts. Russell describes logical propositions as constituted by nothing but form, saying in Theory of Knowledge that they do not have forms but are forms, that is, abstract entities (Papers 7, p. 98). He says in the same period that the study of philosophical logic is in great part the study of such forms. Under Ludwig Wittgenstein’s influence, Russell begins to conceive of the relations of metaphysics to logic, epistemology and psychology in a new way. Thus in the Theory of Knowledge (as revised in 1914) Russell admits that any sentence of belief must have a different logical form from any he has hitherto examined (Papers 7, p. 46), and, since he thinks that logic examines forms, he concludes, contra his earlier view (in “Meinong’s Theory of Complexes and Assumptions,” Papers 4), that the study of forms can’t be kept wholly separate from the theory of knowledge or from psychology.

In Our Knowledge of the External World (1914) the nature of logic plays a muted role, in large part because of Russell’s difficulties with the nature of propositions and the forms of non-existent complexes and facts. Russell argues that logic has two branches: mathematical and philosophical (Our Knowledge, pp. 49-52; 67). Mathematical logic contains completely general and a priori axioms and theorems as well as definitions such as the definition of number and the techniques of construction used, for example, in his theory of descriptions. Philosophical logic, which Russell sometimes simply calls logic, consists of the study of forms of propositions and the facts corresponding to them. The term ‘philosophical logic’ does not mean merely a study of grammar or a meta-level study of a logical language; rather, Russell has in mind the metaphysical and ontological examination of what there is. He further argues, following Wittgenstein, that belief facts are unlike other forms of facts in so far as they contain propositions as components (Our Knowledge, p, 63).

b. The Nature of Matter

In 1914 -1915, Russell rejects the indirect realism that he had embraced in 1912. He now sees material objects as constructed out of, rather than inferred from, sense-data. Crediting Alfred North Whitehead for his turn to this “method of construction,” in Our Knowledge of the External World (1914) and various related papers Russell shows how the language of logic can be used to interpret material objects in terms of classes of sense-data like colors or sounds. Even though we begin with something ultimately private – sense-data viewed from the space of our unique perspective – it is possible to relate that to the perspective of other observers or potential observers and to arrive at a class of classes of sense data. These “logical constructions” can be shown to have all the properties supposed to belong to the objects of which they are constructions. And by Occam’s Razor – the principle not to multiply entities unnecessarily – whenever it is possible to create a construction of an object with all the properties of the object, it is unnecessary to assume the existence of the object itself. Thus Russell equates his maxim “wherever possible, to substitute constructions for inferences” (“On the Relation of Sense Data to Physics, Papers 8) with Occam’s razor.

c. Logical Atomism

In the 1918 lectures published as Philosophy of Logical Atomism (Papers 8) Russell describes his philosophical views as a kind of logical atomism, as the view that reality consists of a great many ultimate constituents or ‘atoms’. In describing his position as “logical” atomism, he understands logic in the sense of “philosophical logic” rather than “technical logic,” that is, as an attempt to arrive through reason at what must be the ultimate constituents and forms constituting reality. Since it is by a process of a priori philosophical analysis that we reach the ultimate constituents of reality – sense data and universals – such constituents might equally have been called “philosophical” atoms: they are the entities we reach in thought when we consider what sorts of things must make up the world. Yet Russell’s metaphysical views are not determined solely a priori. They are constrained by science in so far as he believes he must take into account the best available scientific knowledge, as demonstrated in his attempt to show the relation between sense-data and the “space, time and matter” of physics (Our Knowledge, p. 10).

i. The Atoms of Experience and the Misleading Nature of Language

Russell believed that we cannot move directly from the words making up sentences to metaphysical views about which things or relations exist, for not all words and phrases really denote entities. It is only after the process of analysis that we can decide which words really denote things and thus, which things really exist. Analysis shows that many purported denoting phrases – such as words for ordinary objects like tables and chairs – can be replaced by logical constructions that, used in sentences, play the role of these words but denote other entities, such as sense-data (like patches of color) and universals, which can be included among the things that really exist.

Regarding linguistics, Russell believed that analysis results in a logically perfect language consisting only of words that denote the data of immediate experience (sense data and universals) and logical constants, that is, words like “or” and “not” (Papers 8, p. 176).

ii. The Forms of Facts and Theory of Truth

These objects (that is, logical constructions) in their relations or with their qualities constitute the various forms of facts. Assuming that what makes a sentence true is a fact, what sorts of facts must exist to explain the truth of the kinds of sentences there are? In 1918, Russell answers this question by accounting for the truth of several different kinds of sentences: atomic and molecular sentences, general sentences, and those expressing propositional attitudes like belief.

So-called atomic sentences like “Andrew is taller than Bob” contain two names (Andrew, Bob) and one symbol for a relation (is taller than). When true, an atomic sentence corresponds to an atomic fact containing two particulars and one universal (the relation).

Molecular sentences join atomic sentences into what are often called “compound sentences” by using words like “and” or “or.” When true, molecular sentences do not correspond to a single conjunctive or disjunctive fact, but to multiple atomic facts (Papers 8, pp. 185-86). Thus, we can account for the truth of molecular propositions like “Andrew is kind or he is young” simply in terms of the atomic facts (if any) corresponding to “Andrew is kind” and “Andrew is young,” and the meaning of the word “or.” It follows that “or” is not a name for a thing, and Russell denies the existence of molecular facts.

Yet to account for negation (for example, “Andrew is not kind”) Russell thinks that we require more than just atomic facts. We require negative facts; for if there were no negative facts, there would be nothing to verify a negative sentence and falsify its opposite, the corresponding positive atomic sentence (Papers 8, pp. 187-90).

Moreover, no list of atomic facts can tell us that it is all the facts; to convey the information expressed by sentences like “everything fair is good” requires the existence of general facts.

iii. Belief as a New Form of Fact

Russell describes Wittgenstein as having persuaded him that a belief fact is a new form of fact, belonging to a different series of facts than the series of atomic, molecular, and general facts. Russell acknowledges that belief-sentences pose a difficulty for his attempt (following Wittgenstein) to explain how the truth of the atomic sentences fully determines the truth or falsity of all other types of sentences, and he therefore considers the possibility of explaining-away belief facts. Though he concedes that expressions of propositional attitudes, that is, sentences of the form “Andrew believes that Carole loves Bob,” might, by adopting a behaviorist analysis of belief, be explained without the need of belief facts (Papers 8, pp. 191-96), he stops short of that analysis and accepts beliefs as facts containing at least two relations (in the example, belief and loves).

iv. Neutral Monism

By 1918, Russell is conscious that his arguments for mind/matter dualism and against neutral monism are open to dispute. Neutral monism opposes both materialism (the doctrine that what exists is material) and British and Kantian idealism (the doctrine that only thought or mind is ultimately real), arguing that reality is more fundamental than the categories of mind (or consciousness) and matter, and that these are simply names we give to one and the same neutral reality. The proponents of neutral monism include John Dewey and William James (who are sometimes referred to as American Realists), and Ernst Mach. Given the early Russell’s commitment to mind/matter dualism, neutral monism is to him at first alien and incredible. Still, he admits being drawn to the ontological simplicity it allows, which fits neatly with his preference for constructions over inferences and his increasing respect for Occam’s razor, the principle of not positing unnecessary entities in one’s ontology (Papers 8, p. 195).

5. 1919-1927: Neutral Monism, Science, and Language

During this period, Russell’s interests shift increasingly to questions belonging to the philosophy of science, particularly to questions about the kind of language necessary for a complete description of the world. Many distinct strands feed into Russell’s thought in this period.

First, in 1919 he finally breaks away from his longstanding dualism and shifts to a kind of neutral monism. This is the view that what we call “mental” and what we call “material” are really at bottom the same “stuff,” which is neither mental nor material but neutral. By entering into classes and series of classes in different ways, neutral stuff gives rise to what we mistakenly think of distinct categories, the mental and the material (Analysis of Mind, p. 105).

Second, Russell rather idiosyncratically interweaves his new monist ideas with elements of behaviorism, especially in advancing a view of language that moves some of what he formerly took to be abstract entities into the domain of stimuli or events studied by psychology and physiology. In neither case is his allegiance complete or unqualified. For example, he rejects a fully behaviorist account of language by accepting that meaning is grounded in mental images available to introspection but not to external observation. Clearly, this is incompatible with behaviorism. Moreover, this seems to commit Russell to intrinsically mental particulars. This would stand in opposition to neutral monism, which denies there are any intrinsically mental (or physical) particulars. (See Analysis of Mind, Lecture X.)

Third, he begins in this same period to accept Ludwig Wittgenstein’s conception (in the Tractatus Logico Philosophicus) of logical propositions as tautologies that say nothing about the world.

Though these developments give Russell’s work the appearance of a retreat from metaphysical realism, his conception of language and logic remains rooted in realist, metaphysical assumptions.

a. Mind, Matter, and Meaning

Because of his neutral monism, Russell can no longer maintain the distinction between a mental sensation and a material sense-datum, which was crucial to his earlier constructive work. Constructions are now carried out in terms that do not suppose mind and matter (sensations and sense-data) to be ultimately distinct. Consciousness is no longer seen as a relation between something psychical, a subject of consciousness, and something physical, a sense datum (Analysis of Mind, pp. 142-43). Instead, the so-called mental and so-called physical dimensions are both constructed out of classes of classes of perceived events, between which there exist – or may exist – correlations.

Meaning receives a similar treatment: instead of a conception of minds in a relation to things that are the meanings of words, Russell describes meaning in terms of classes of events stimulated or caused by certain other events (Analysis of Mind, Chapter X). Assertions that a complex exists hereafter reduce to assertions of some fact about classes, namely that the constituents of classes are related in a certain way.

His constructions also become more complex to accommodate Einstein’s theory of relativity. This work is carried out in particular both in his 1921 Analysis of Mind, which is occupied in part with explaining mind and consciousness in non-mental terms, and in his 1927 Analysis of Matter, which returns to the analysis of so-called material objects, that in 1914 were constructed out of classes of sense-data.

b. Private versus Public Data

Despite his monism, Russell continues to distinguish psychological and physical laws (“On Propositions,” Papers 8, p. 289), but this dualist element is mitigated by his belief that whether an experience exists in and obeys the laws of physical space is a matter of degree. Some sensations are localized in space to a very high degree, others are less so, and some aren’t at all. For example, when we have an idea of forming the word “orange” in our mouth, our throat constricts just a tiny bit as if to mouth, “orange.” In this case there exists no clear distinction between the image we have of words in the mouth and our mouth-and-lip sensations (Papers 8, p. 286). Depending on your choice of context the sensation can be labeled either mental or material.

Moreover, tactile images of words in the mouth do not violate the laws of physics when seen as material events located in the body, specifically, in the mouth or jaw. In contrast, visual images have no location in a body; for instance, the image of your friend seated in a chair is located neither in your mouth, jaw, nor anywhere else in your body. Moreover, many visual images cannot be construed as bodily sensations, as images of words can, since, no relevant physical event corresponding to the visual image occurs. His admission that visual images are always configured under psychological laws seems to commit Russell to a doctrine of mental particulars. For this reason, Russell appears not so much to adopt neutral monism, which rejects such entities, as to adapt it to his purposes.

c. Language, Facts, and Psychology

Immediately after the lectures conclude, while in prison writing up notes eventually published in the 1921 Analysis of Mind (Papers 8, p. 247), Russell introduces a distinction between what a proposition expresses and what it asserts or states. Among the things that are expressed in sentences are logical concepts, words like “not” and “or,” which derive meaning from psychological experiences of rejection and choice. In these notes and later writings, belief is explained in terms of having experiences like these about image propositions (Analysis of Mind, p. 251). Thus what we believe when we believe a true negative proposition is explained psychologically as a state of disbelief towards a positive image proposition (Analysis of Mind, p. 276). Despite this analysis of the meaning of words for negation, Russell continues to think that negative facts account for what a negative belief asserts, that is, for what makes it true. The psychological account doesn’t do away with the need for them, Russell explains, because the truth or falsity of a proposition is due to some fact, not to a subjective belief or state.

d. Universals

Russell continues to analyze truth in terms of relation to facts, and to characterize facts as atomic, negative, and so on. Moreover, he continues to assume that we can talk about the constituents of facts in terms of particulars and universals. He does not abandon his belief that there are universals; indeed, in the 1920s he argues that we have no images of universals but can intend or will that an image, which is always a particular, ‘mean’ a universal (“On Propositions,” Papers 8, p. 293). This approach is opposed by those like Frank P. Ramsey, for whom notions like “atomic fact” are analogous to “spoken word”: they index language rather than reality. For Ramsey – and others in the various emerging schools of philosophy for which metaphysics is anathema – Russell’s approach confuses categories about language with categories of things in the world and in doing so is too metaphysical and too realist.

e. The Syntactical View

To some extent, Russell accepts the syntactical view in the following sense. Beginning in 1918 he concedes that logical truths are not about the world but are merely tautologies, and he comes to admit that tautologies are nothing more than empty combinations of meaningless symbols. Yet Russell’s conception of language and logic remains in some respects deeply metaphysical. For example, when, following Ramsey’s suggestion, Russell claims in the 1925 second edition of Principia that a propositional function occurs only in the propositions that are its values (Principia, p. xiv and Appendix C), he again aligns that idea with a doctrine of predicates as incomplete symbols, that is, with a metaphysical doctrine of the distinction between universals and particulars. Opposing this, Ramsey praises what he thinks is Wittgenstein’s deliberate attempt to avoid metaphysical characterizations of the ultimate constituents of facts, a view he infers from Wittgenstein’s cryptic remark in the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus that, in a fact, objects “hang together” like links in a chain.

6. 1930-1970: Anti-positivist Naturalism

The choice of years framing this final category is somewhat artificial since Russell’s work retains a great deal of unity with the doctrines laid down in the 1920s. Nevertheless, there is a shift in tone, largely due to the emergence of logical positivism, that is, the views proposed by the members of the Vienna Circle. Russell’s work in the remaining decades of his life must be understood as metaphysical in orientation and aim, however highly scientific in language, and as shaped in opposition to doctrines emanating from logical positivism and the legacy following Ludwig Wittgenstein’s claim that philosophical (metaphysical) propositions are nonsensical pseudo-propositions. Yet even as it remains metaphysical in orientation, with respect to logic Russell’s work continues to draw back from his early realism.

a. Logical Truths

In his 1931 introduction to second edition of Principles of Mathematics, Russell writes that, “logical constants…must be treated as part of the language, not as part of what the language speaks about,” adopting a view that he admits is “more linguistic than I believed to be at the time I wrote the Principles” (Principles, p. xi) and that is “less Platonic, or less realist in the medieval sense of the word” (Principles, p. xiv). At the same time he says that he was too generous when he first wrote the Principles in saying that a proposition belongs to logic or mathematics if it contains nothing but logical constants (understood as entities), for he now concedes there are extra-logical propositions (for example “there are three things”) that can be posed in purely logical terms. Moreover, though he now thinks that (i) logic is distinguished by the tautological nature of its propositions, and (ii) following Rudolf Carnap he explains tautologies in terms of analytic propositions, that is, those that are true in virtue of form, Russell notes that we have no clear definition of what it is to be true in virtue of form, and hence no clear idea of what is distinctive to logic (Principles, p. xii). Yet, in general, he no longer thinks of logical propositions as completely general truths about the world, related to those of the special sciences, albeit more abstract.

b. Empirical Truths

In his later work, Russell continues to believe that, when a proposition is false, it is so because of a fact. Thus against logical positivists like Neurath, he insists that when empirical propositions are true, “true” has a different meaning than it does for propositions of logic. It is this assumption that he feels is undermined by logical positivists like Carnap, Neurath and others who treat language as socially constructed, and as isolable from facts. But this is wrong, he thinks, as language consists of propositional facts that relate to other facts and is therefore not merely constructed. It is this he has in mind, when in the 1936 “Limits of Empiricism” (Papers 10), he argues that Carnap and Wittgenstein present a view that is too syntactical; that is, truth is not merely syntactical, nor a matter of propositions cohering. As a consequence, despite admitting that his view of logic is less realist, less metaphysical, than in the past, Russell is unwilling to adopt metaphysical agnosticism, and he continues to think that the categories in language point beyond language to the nature of what exists.

c. A Priori Principles

Against logical positivism, Russell thinks that to defend the very possibility of objective knowledge it is necessary to permit knowledge to rest in part on non-empirical propositions. In Inquiry into Meaning and Truth (1940) and Human Knowledge: Its Scope and Limits (1948) Russell views the claim that all knowledge is derived from experience as self-refuting and hence inadequate to a theory of knowledge: as David Hume showed, empiricism uses principles of reason that cannot be proved by experience. Specifically, inductive reasoning about experience presupposes that the future will resemble the past, but this belief or principle cannot similarly be proved by induction from experience without incurring a vicious circle. Russell is therefore willing to accept induction as involving a non-empirical logical principle, since, without it, science is impossible. He thus continues to hold that there are general principles, comprised of universals, which we know a priori. Russell affirms the existence of general non-empirical propositions on the grounds, for example, that the incompatibility of red/blue is neither logical nor a generalization from experience (Inquiry, p. 82). Finally, against the logical positivists, Russell rejects the verificationist principle that propositions are true or false only if they are verifiable, and he rejects the idea that propositions make sense only if they are empirically verifiable.

d. Universals

Though Russell’s late period work is empiricist in holding that experience is the ultimate basis of knowledge, it remains rationalist in that some general propositions must be known independently of experience, and realist with respect to universals. Russell argues for the existence of universals against what he sees as an overly syntactical view that eliminates them as entities. That is, he asserts that (some) relations are non-linguistic. Universals figure in Russell’s ontology, in his so-called bundle theory, which explains thing as bundles of co-existing properties, rejecting the notion of a substance as an unknowable ‘this’ distinct from and underlying its properties. (See Inquiry, Chapter 6.) The substance-property conception is natural, he says, if sentences like “this is red” are treated as consisting of a subject and a predicate. However, in sentences like “redness is here,” Russell treats the word “redness” as a name rather than as a predicate. On the substance-property view, two substances may have all their properties in common and yet be distinct, but this possibility vanishes on the bundle theory since a thing is its properties. Aside from his ontology, Russell’s reasons for maintaining the existence of universals are largely epistemological. We may be able to eliminate a great many supposed universals, but at least one, such as is similar, will remain necessary for a full account of our perception and knowledge (Inquiry, p. 344). Russell uses this notion to show that it is unnecessary to assume the existence of negative facts, which until the 1940s he thought necessary to explain truth and falsity. For several decades his psychological account of negative propositions as a state of rejection towards some positive proposition coexisted with his account, using negative facts, of what justifies saying that a negative belief is true and a positive one is false. Thus Russell does not eliminate negative facts until 1948 in Human Knowledge: Its Scope and Limits, where one of his goals is to explain how observation can determine the truth of a negative proposition like “this is not blue” and the falsity of a positive one like “this is blue” without being committed to negative facts (Human Knowledge, Chapter IX). In that text, he argues that what makes “this is not blue” true (and what makes “this is blue” false) is the existence of some color differing from blue. Unlike his earlier period he now thinks this color other than blue neither is nor implies commitment to a negative fact.

e. The Study of Language

Russell’s late work assumes that it is meaningful and possible to study the relation between experience and language and how certain extra-linguistic experiences give rise to linguistic ones, for example, how the sight of butter causes someone to assert “this is butter” or how the taste of cheese causes someone to “this is not butter.” Language, for Russell, is a fact and can be examined scientifically like any other fact. In The Logical Syntax of Language (1934) Rudolph Carnap had argued that that a science may choose to talk in subjective terms about sense data or in objective terms about physical objects since there are multiple equally legitimate ways to talk about the world. Hence Carnap does not believe that in studying language scientifically we must take account of metaphysical contentions about the nature of experience and its relation to language. Russell opposes Rudolf Carnap’s work and logical positivism, that is, logical empiricism, for dismissing his kind of approach as metaphysical nonsense, not a subject of legitimate philosophical study, and he defends it as an attempt to arrive at the truth about the language of experience, as an investigation into an empirical phenomenon.

7. References and Further Reading

The following is a selection of texts for further reading on Russell’s metaphysics. A great deal of his writing on logic, the theory of knowledge, and on educational, ethical, social, and political issues is therefore not represented here. Given the staggering amount of writing by Russell, not to mention on Russell, it is not intended to be exhaustive. The definitive bibliographical listing of Russell’s own publications takes up three volumes; it is to be found in Blackwell, Kenneth, Harry Ruja, and Sheila Turcon. A Bibliography of Bertrand Russell, 3 volumes. London and New York: Routledge, 1994.

a. Primary Sources

i. Monographs

  • 1897. An Essay on the Foundations of Geometry. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
  • 1900. A Critical Exposition of the Philosophy of Leibniz. Cambridge, UK: University Press.
  • 1903. The Principles of Mathematics. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
  • 1910-1913. Principia Mathematica, with Alfred North Whitehead. 3 vols. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press. Revised ed., 1925-1927.
  • 1912. The Problems of Philosophy. London: Williams and Norgate.
  • 1914. Our Knowledge of the External World as a Field for Scientific Method in Philosophy. Chicago: Open Court. Revised edition, London: George Allen & Unwin, 1926.
  • 1919. Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy. London: George Allen & Unwin.
  • 1921. The Analysis of Mind. London: George Allen & Unwin.
  • 1927. The Analysis of Matter. London: Kegan Paul.
  • 1940. An Inquiry into Meaning and Truth. New York: W. W. Norton.
  • 1948. Human Knowledge: Its Scope and Limits. London: George Allen & Unwin.

ii. Collections of Essays

  • 1910. Philosophical Essays. London: Longmans, Green. Revised ed., London: George Allen & Unwin, 1966.
  • 1918. Mysticism and Logic and Other Essays. London: Longmans, Green.
  • 1956. Logic and Knowledge: Essays 1901-1950, ed. Robert Charles Marsh. London: George Allen & Unwin.
  • 1973. Essays in Analysis, edited by Douglas Lackey. London: George Allen & Unwin.

iii. Articles

  • “Letter to Frege.” (Written in 1902) In From Frege to Gödel, ed. J. van Heijenoort, 124-5. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1967.
  • “Meinong’s Theory of Complexes and Assumptions.” Mind 13 (1904): 204-19, 336-54, 509-24. Repr. Essays in Analysis.
  • “On Denoting.” Mind 14 (1905): 479-493. Repr. Logic and Knowledge.
  • Review of Meinong et al., Untersuchungen zur Gegenstandstheorie und Psychologie. Mind 14 (1905): 530-8. Repr. Essays in Analysis.
  • “On the Substitutional Theory of Classes and Relations.” In Essays in Analysis. Written 1906.
  • “On the Nature of Truth.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 7 (1906-07): 28-49. Repr. (with the final section excised) as “The Monistic Theory of Truth” in Philosophical Essays.
  • “Mathematical Logic as Based on the Theory of Types.” American Journal of Mathematics 30 (1908): 222-262. Repr. Logic and Knowledge.
  • “On the Nature of Truth and Falsehood.” In Philosophical Essays.
  • “Analytic Realism.” Bulletin de la société française de philosophie 11 (1911): 53-82. Repr. Collected Papers 6.
  • “Knowledge by Acquaintance and Knowledge by Description.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 11 (1911): 108-128. Repr. Mysticism and Logic.
  • “On the Relations of Universals and Particulars.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 12 (1912): 1-24. Repr. Logic and Knowledge.
  • “The Ultimate Constituents of Matter.” The Monist, 25 (1915): 399-417. Repr. Mysticism and Logic.
  • “The Philosophy of Logical Atomism.” The Monist 28 (1918): 495-27; 29 (1919): 32-63, 190-222, 345-80. Repr. Logic and Knowledge. Published in 1972 as Russell’s Logical Atomism, edited and with an introduction by David Pears. London: Fontana. Republished in 1985 as Philosophy of Logical Atomism, with a new introduction by D. Pears.
  • “On Propositions: What They Are and How They Mean.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society. Sup. Vol. 2 (1919): 1 – 43. Repr. Logic and Knowledge.
  • “The Meaning of ‘Meaning.’” Mind 29 (1920): 398-401.
  • “Logical Atomism.” In Contemporary British Philosophers, ed. J.H. Muirhead, 356-83. London: Allen & Unwin, 1924. Repr. Logic and Knowledge.
  • Review of Ramsey, The Foundations of Mathematics. Mind 40 (1931): 476- 82.
  • “The Limits of Empiricism.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 36 (1936): 131-50.
  • “On Verification.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 38 (1938): 1-20.
  • “My Mental Development.” In The Philosophy of Bertrand Russell, ed. P.A. Schilpp, 1-20. Evanston: Northwestern University, 1944.
  • “Reply to Criticisms.” In The Philosophy of Bertrand Russell, ed. P.A. Schilpp. Evanston: Northwestern, 1944.
  • “The Problem of Universals.” Polemic, 2 (1946): 21-35. Repr. Collected Papers 11.
  • “Is Mathematics Purely Linguistic?” In Essays in Analysis, 295-306.
  • “Logical Positivism.” Revue internationale de philosophie 4 (1950): 3-19. Repr. Logic and Knowledge.
  • “Logic and Ontology.” Journal of Philosophy 54 (1957): 225-30. Reprinted My Philosophical Development.
  • “Mr. Strawson on Referring.” Mind 66 (1957): 385-9. Repr. My Philosophical Development.
  • “What is Mind?” Journal of Philosophy 55 (1958): 5-12. Repr. My Philosophical Development.

iv. The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell

  • Volume 1. Cambridge Essays, 1888-99. (Vol. 1) Ed. Kenneth Blackwell, Andrew Brink, Nicholas Griffin, Richard A. Rempel and John G. Slater. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1983.
  • Volume 2. Philosophical Papers, 1896-99. Ed. Nicholas Griffin and Albert C. Lewis. London: Unwin Hyman, 1990.
  • Volume 3. Towards the “Principles of Mathematics,” 1900-02. Ed. Gregory H. Moore. London and New York: Routledge, 1994.
  • Volume 4. Foundations of Logic, 1903-05. Ed. Alasdair Urquhart. London and New York: Routledge, 1994.
  • Volume 6. Logical and Philosophical Papers, 1909-13. Ed. John G. Slater. London and New York: Routledge, 1992.
  • Volume 7. Theory of Knowledge: The 1913 Manuscript. Ed. Elizabeth Ramsden Eames. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1984.
  • Volume 8. The Philosophy of Logical Atomism and Other Essays, 1914-1919. Ed. John G. Slater. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1986.
  • Volume 9. Essays on Language, Mind, and Matter, 1919-26. Ed. John G. Slater. London: Unwin Hyman, 1988.
  • Volume 10. A Fresh Look at Empiricism, 1927-1942. Ed. John G. Slater. London and New York: Routledge, 1996.
  • Volume 11. Last Philosophical Testament, 1943-1968. Ed. John G. Slater. London and New York: Routledge, 1997.

v. Autobiographies and Letters

  • 1944. “My Mental Development.” The Philosophy of Bertrand Russell, ed. Paul A. Schilpp, 1-20. Evanston: Northwestern University.
  • 1956. Portraits from Memory and Other Essays. London: George Allen & Unwin.
  • 1959. My Philosophical Development. London: George Allen & Unwin.
  • 1967-9. The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell. 3 vols. London: George Allen & Unwin.

b. Secondary sources

i. General Surveys

  • Ayer, A.J.. Bertrand Russell. New York: Viking Press, 1972.
  • Dorward, Alan. Bertrand Russell: A Short Guide to His Philosophy. London: Longmans, Green, and Co, 1951.
  • Eames, Elizabeth Ramsden. Bertrand Russell’s Dialogue with His Contemporaries. Carbondale, Ill.: Southern Illinois Univ. Press, 1989.
  • Griffin, Nicholas, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Bertrand Russell. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
  • Jager, Ronald. The Development of Bertrand Russell’s Philosophy. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1972.
  • Klemke, E.D., ed. Essays on Bertrand Russell. Urbana: Univ. of Illinois Press, 1970.
  • Sainsbury, R. M. Russell. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979.
  • Schilpp, Paul, ed. The Philosophy of Bertrand Russell. Evanston: Northwestern University, 1944.
  • Schoenman, Ralph, ed. Bertrand Russell: Philosopher of the Century. London: Allen & Unwin, 1967.
  • Slater, John G. Bertrand Russell. Bristol: Thoemmes, 1994.

ii. History of Analytic Philosophy

  • Griffin, Nicholas. Russell’s Idealist Apprenticeship. Oxford: Clarendon, 1991.
  • Hylton, Peter. Russell, Idealism and the Emergence of Analytic Philosophy. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990.
  • Irvine, A.D. and G.A. Wedeking, eds. Russell and Analytic Philosophy. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993.
  • Monk, Ray, and Anthony Palmer, eds. Bertrand Russell and the Origins of Analytic Philosophy. Bristol: Thoemmes Press, 1996.
  • Pears, David. Bertrand Russell and the British Tradition in Philosophy. London: Fontana Press, 1967.
  • Savage, C. Wade and C. Anthony Anderson, eds. Rereading Russell: Essays on Bertrand Russell’s Metaphysics and Epistemology. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989.
  • Stevens, Graham. The Russellian Origins of Analytical Philosophy: Bertrand Russell and the Unity of the Proposition. London and New York: Routledge, 2005.

iii. Logic and Metaphysics

  • Costello, Harry. “Logic in 1914 and Now.” Journal of Philosophy 54 (1957): 245-263.
  • Frege, Gottlob. Philosophical and Mathematical Correspondence. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980.
  • Griffin, Nicholas. “Russell on the Nature of Logic (1903-1913).” Synthese 45 (1980): 117-188.
  • Hylton, Peter. “Logic in Russell’s Logicism.” In The Analytic Tradition, ed. Bell and Cooper, 137-72. Oxford: Blackwell, 1990.
  • Hylton, Peter. “Functions and Propositional Functions in Principia Mathematica.” In Russell and Analytic Philosophy, ed. Irvine and Wedeking, 342-60. Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1993.
  • Linsky, Bernard. Russell’s Metaphysical Logic. Stanford: CSLI Publications, 1999.
  • Ramsey, Frank P. The Foundations of Mathematics. Paterson, NJ: Littlefield, Adams and Co, 1960. Repr. as Philosophical Papers. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990
  • Frege, Gottlob. “Letter to Russell.” In From Frege to Gödel, ed. J. van Heijenoort, 126-8. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1967.
  • Ramsey, F.P. “Mathematical Logic.” Mathematical Gazette 13 (1926), 185-194. Repr. Philosophical Papers, F.P. Ramsey, 225-44. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990.
  • Rouilhan Philippe de. “Substitution and Types: Russell’s Intermediate Theory.” In One Hundred Years of Russell’s Paradox, ed. Godehard Link, 401-16. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004.

iv. Meaning and Metaphysics

  • Burge, T. “Truth and Singular Terms.” In Reference, Truth and Reality, ed. M. Platts, 167-81. London: Routledge & Keegan Paul, 1980.
  • Donnellan, K.S. “Reference and Definite Descriptions.” Philosophical Review 77 (1966): 281-304.
  • Geach, P., (1962). Reference and Generality. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962.
  • Hylton, Peter. “The Significance of On Denoting.” In Rereading Russell, ed. Savage and Anderson, 88-107. Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota, 1989.
  • Kneale, William. “The Objects of Acquaintance.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 34 (1934): 187-210.
  • Kripke, S. Naming and Necessity. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980.
  • Linsky, B. “The Logical Form of Descriptions.” Dialogue 31 (1992): 677-83.
  • Marcus, R. “Modality and Description.” Journal of Symbolic Logic 13 (1948): 31-37. Repr. in Modalities: Philosophical Essays. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993.
  • Neale, S. Descriptions. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press Books, 1990.
  • Searle, J. “Proper Names.” Mind 67 (1958): 166-173.
  • Sellars, Wilfrid. “Acquaintance and Description Again.” Journal of Philosophy 46 (1949): 496-504.
  • Strawson, Peter F. “On Referring.” Mind 59 (1950): 320-344. Urmson, J.O. “Russell on Acquaintance with the Past.” Philosophical Review 78 (1969): 510-15.

v. Beliefs and Facts

  • Blackwell, Kenneth. “Wittgenstein’s Impact on Russell’s Theory of Belief.” M.A. thesis., McMaster University, 1974.
  • Carey, Rosalind. Russell and Wittgenstein on the Nature of Judgment. London: Continuum, 2007.
  • Eames, Elizabeth Ramsden. Bertrand Russell’s Theory of Knowledge. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1969.
  • Griffin, Nicholas. “Russell’s Multiple-Relation Theory of Judgment.” Philosophical Studies 47 (1985): 213-247.
  • Hylton, Peter. “The Nature of the Proposition and the Revolt Against Idealism.” In Philosophy in History, ed. Rorty, et al., 375-97. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1984.
  • McGuinness, Brian. “Bertrand Russell and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Notes on Logic.” Revue Internationale de Philosophie 26 (1972): 444-60.
  • Oaklander, L. Nathan and Silvano Miracchi. “Russell, Negative Facts, and Ontology.” Philosophy of Science 47 (1980): 434-55.
  • Pears, David. “The Relation Between Wittgenstein’s Picture Theory of Propositions and Russell’s Theories of Judgment.” Philosophical Review 86 (1977): 177-96.
  • Rosenberg, Jay F. “Russell on Negative Facts.” Nous 6 (1972), 27-40.
  • Stevens, Graham. “From Russell’s Paradox to the Theory of Judgment: Wittgenstein and Russell on the Unity of the Proposition.” Theoria, 70 (2004): 28-61.

vi. Constructions

  • Blackwell, Kenneth. “Our Knowledge of Our Knowledge.” Russell: The Journal of the Bertrand Russell Archives, no. 12 (1973): 11-13.
  • Carnap, Rudolf. The Logical Structure of the World & Pseudo Problems in Philosophy, trans. R. George. Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1967.
  • Fritz, Charles Andrew, Jr. Bertrand Russell’s Construction of the External World. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1952.
  • Goodman, Nelson. The Structure of Appearance. Cambridge Mass: Harvard University Press, 1951.
  • Pincock, Christopher. “Carnap, Russell and the External World.” In The Cambridge Companion to Carnap, ed. M. Friedman and R. Creath. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2007.
  • Pritchard, H. R. “Mr. Bertrand Russell on Our Knowledge of the External World.” Mind 24 (1915), 1-40.
  • Sainsbury, R.M. “Russell on Constructions and Fictions.” Theoria 46 (1980): 19-36.
  • Wisdom, J. “Logical Constructions (I.).” Mind 40 (April 1931): 188-216.

vii. Logical Atomism

  • Hochberg, Herbert. Thought, Fact and Reference: The Origins and Ontology of Logical Atomism. Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1978.
  • Lycan, William. “Logical Atomism and Ontological Atoms.” Synthese 46 (1981), 207-229.
  • Linsky, Bernard. “The Metaphysics of Logical Atomism.” In The Cambridge Companion to Bertrand Russell, ed. N. Griffin, 371-92. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2003.
  • Livingston, Paul. “Russellian and Wittgensteinian Atomism.” Philosophical Investigations 24 (2001): 30-54.
  • Lycan, William. “Logical Atomism and Ontological Atoms.” Synthese 46 (1981): 207-29.
  • Patterson, Wayne A. Bertrand Russell’s Philosophy of Logical Atomism. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 1993.
  • Pears, David. ‘Introduction.’ In The Philosophy of Logical Atomism, B. Russell, 1-34. Chicago: Open Court, 1985.
  • Rodríguez-Consuegra, Francisco. “Russell’s Perilous Journey from Atomism to Holism 1919-1951.” In Bertrand Russell and the Origins of Analytical Philosophy, ed. Ray Monk and Anthony Palmer, 217-44. Bristol: Thoemmes, 1996.
  • Simons, Peter. “Logical Atomism.” In The Cambridge History of Philosophy, 1870-1945, ed. Thomas Baldwin, 383-90. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2003.

viii. Naturalism and Psychology

  • Garvin, Ned S. “Russell’s Naturalistic Turn.” Russell: The Journal of Bertrand Russell Studies, n.s. 11, no. 1 (Summer 1991).
  • Gotlind, Erik. Bertrand Russell’s Theories of Causation. Uppsala: Almquist and Wiksell, 1952.
  • O’Grady, Paul. “The Russellian Roots of Naturalized Epistemology.” Russell: The Journal of Bertrand Russell Studies, n.s. 15, no. 1 (Summer 1995).
  • Stevens, Graham. “Russell’s Re-Psychologising of the Proposition.” Synthese 151, no. 1 (2006): 99-124.

ix. Biographies

  • Clark, Ronald W. The Life of Bertrand Russell. London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1975.
  • Monk, Ray. Bertrand Russell: The Spirit of Solitude, 1872-1921. New York: The Free Press, 1996.
  • Monk, Ray. Bertrand Russell 1921-1970: The Ghost of Madness. London: Jonathan Cape, 2000.
  • Moorehead, Caroline. Bertrand Russell. New York: Viking, 1992.
  • Wood, Alan. Bertrand Russell: The Passionate Sceptic. London: Allen and Unwin, 1957.

Author Information

Rosalind Carey
Email: rosalind.carey@lehman.cuny.edu
City University of New York
U. S. A.

Joseph Priestley (1733—1804)

priestleyA notable Enlightenment polymath, Joseph Priestley published almost two hundred works on natural philosophy, theology, metaphysics, political philosophy, politics, education, history and linguistics. Remembered today primarily as a scientist who isolated oxygen, Priestley considered his calling to be that of a theologian, and he spent most of his life working as a minister and teacher. He combined his Unitarian theology with an associationist, materialist and determinist philosophy to create a coherent world-view that was the subject of bitter controversy.

The implications of his metaphysics were challenging. Priestley posited that matter, far from being impenetrable and inert, was subject to internal forces such as attraction and compulsion. This enabled him to assert that the matter of the brain is sensitive to certain vibrations that form the basis of thought. He went on to argue in favor of a material basis for the soul and its complete physical unity with the body. Priestley believed that perception, knowledge, intellect, and memory were acquired through sensory experience and that simple ideas combined into complex ideas through a process of association. This mechanism was entirely material and therefore based on necessary causal laws determined by God.

Priestley tended to prioritize the practical and the experimental above the purely theoretical. His metaphysical beliefs grew in part from his passion for natural philosophy and his careful scientific investigation. His understanding of the world was based on an assumption that truths were demonstrable and revealed through observation and experience. This included studying scripture alongside the natural world in order to gain knowledge of a God who orchestrated and determined all events for the ultimate good of humanity. Priestley was a “rational dissenter” whose careful biblical exploration allowed him to argue for the unity of God. Jesus was wholly human and did not die as an atonement for inherently sinful humanity, but lived to exemplify the perfect moral life that all people could potentially attain.

Priestley argued that the truths of scripture were available to all through the careful application of reason. This influenced his liberal political position, as he penned many works in favor of complete toleration and minimal governmental intervention. Priestley believed that the story of humanity was a march of progress towards ultimate perfection. Liberal government was one means by which truth could triumph in an atmosphere of free and unfettered debate. Priestley was also a fervent millenarian, trusting in biblical prophecy and waiting for the second coming of Christ, the ultimate aim of all human progress. This optimistic liberalism saw Priestley through a barrage of vitriolic criticism and the infamous “Church and King” riots which destroyed his Birmingham home in 1791. Despite the disappointments of the French Revolution and his forced emigration, Priestley stuck tenaciously to his belief in progress and Providence. A hopeful advocate of reason and rational religion, he died with the conviction that his physical resurrection and perfect life with Christ would not be long coming

Table of Contents

  1. Biographical Sketch
    1. Religious Beliefs
    2. Education and Marriage
    3. Life as a Minister and Teacher
    4. Natural Philosophy
    5. Portrayal, Reception and Legacy
  2. Theology
    1. Method
    2. Principal Ideas
      1. Unitarianism
      2. The Atonement
      3. Predestination
      4. Original Sin and Grace
      5. The Soul
      6. The Millennium
    3. Reactions and Criticisms
  3. Politics and Political Philosophy
    1. Principal Ideas
    2. Priestley and the Law
    3. Toleration and the Pursuit of Truth
    4. Reactions and Criticisms
  4. Association of Ideas
    1. Principal Ideas
    2. Links to Other Ideas
    3. Reactions and
  5. 5. Matter and Spirit
    1. Principal Ideas
    2. Priestley, Newton and Boscovitch
    3. Theology
    4. Reactions and Criticisms
  6. Philosophical Necessity
    1. Principal Ideas
    2. Links to Other Ideas
    3. Reactions and Criticisms
  7. Philosophy of Education, History and Linguistics
    1. Principal Ideas
    2. History and Language
    3. Reactions and Criticisms
  8. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Works
      1. Theology
      2. Politics and Political Philosophy
      3. Association of Ideas
      4. Matter and Spirit
      5. Philosophical Necessity
      6. Philosophy of Education, History and Linguistics
    2. General Secondary Sources
      1. Theology
      2. Politics
      3. Association of Ideas
      4. Matter and Spirit
      5. Philosophical Necessity
      6. Education

1. Biographical Sketch

Priestley’s childhood was marked by upheaval, rejection and spiritual doubt, while his education granted him considerable intellectual liberty and independence of thought. To understand these early years of rejection, isolation and freedom is a significant step towards understanding Priestley’s adult thought as earnest and rational but at times controversial, idiosyncratic and consistently misunderstood.

The following account of Priestley’s life is taken mainly from his autobiography.

Priestley was born on March 13th, 1733 at Birstall Fieldhead, a small village just southwest of Leeds where his family had lived and worked for several generations. His father, Jonas Priestley, was a wool-cloth dresser and his mother, Mary Swift, came from a farming family. Priestley was their first-born child, but three brothers and two sisters soon followed in quick succession. The demands of a large family meant that the young Priestley was sent first to live his grandfather and later, after the death of his mother, to the home of his childless uncle and aunt.

a. Religious Beliefs

Priestley recalls religious devotion on the part of his parents, his uncle and his aunt. However, while Priestley shared his family’s religiosity and remained a committed believer all his life, he was profoundly affected by early theological doubts. He tells us that he was “much distressed” because he could not “feel a proper repentance for the sin of Adam” and was equally disturbed by his failure to experience the “new birth” regarded as “necessary to salvation.” Having a weak constitution and facing death during adolescence, Priestley was faced with the “horror” of feeling that God had forsaken him (Autobiography 71).

It is fortunate that Priestley had the intellectual and spiritual resources to deal with these fears. Although a strict Calvinist, his aunt often entertained liberal Armenian and Baxterian theologians, so the young Priestley was able to explore the rational theology that would quell the horrors that haunted him. He was eventually able to view his doubts as part of his progression towards truth. He writes that his illness, rigorous religious upbringing and failure to experience a conversion allowed him to acquire a “serious turn of mind,” and his doubts were compensated by a rational understanding of God and proper action. However, as his theology drifted from that of his family and community, Priestley faced rejection and isolation. Priestley had grown up attending the Heckmondwike congregation and tells us that he desired to be admitted as a communicant. However, his membership was refused “because, when they interrogated me on the subject of the sin of Adam, I appeared not to be quite orthodox.” When Priestley adopted Arianism at Daventry it marked a break with the family that would not be reversed (Autobiography 73).

b. Education and Marriage

As a boy Priestley attended several schools in the local area and learned Latin, Greek and Hebrew. When his illness prevented him from going to school, he continued his education at home. These early years of self-education were marked with the seriousness, hard work and intellectual isolation that Priestley found so productive in later life. During these years Priestley taught himself French, Italian, and High Dutch “without a master,” while also learning geometry and algebra and reading the work of John Locke and Isaac Watts. In 1752 Priestley entered Daventry Academy, as his dissenting views prevented him from subscribing to the Westminster Confession and thus excluded him from the traditional universities. With young informal tutors and a liberal curriculum, Priestley found intellectual freedom and companionship and discovered the associationist ideas of David Hartley (Autobiography 70-75).

Priestley flourished at Daventry, enjoying the discipline and hard work and building “warm friendships.” In contrast to the rejection and isolation of his childhood, Priestley found himself part of a community of likeminded thinkers. As an adult he was to continue to find intellectual companionship with middle class dissenters and liberals, such as the Lunar society in Birmingham and his fellow tutors at Warrington. In 1762 he also married happily Mary Wilkinson (1743-1796), the daughter of the famous iron master Isaac Wilkinson, whose sons John and William continued to expand the family’s fortunes. He writes fondly although not passionately of Mary, calling his marriage a “very suitable and happy connexion” (Autobiography 87).

c. Life as a Minister and Teacher

Priestley graduated from Daventry in 1755 and moved to Needham Market, Suffolk, to work as a minister at the local chapel. It was not a happy time: lacking the financial assistance originally promised by his aunt, Priestley struggled for money and also struggled to be accepted into the community. No one came to the school he established and most were unable to accept his Arian theology.

Despite these problems, it was this combination of educator and minister that would keep Priestley employed throughout his life. In 1758 he moved to Nantwich in Cheshire and again took on a congregation and established a school. This time he was much more successful and his ideas were communicated and received with ease. In 1761 Priestley took up a tutorship in languages and belles lettres at Warrington Academy and again combined this with a position as a minister.

In 1767 Priestley left Warrington to become a minister for the Mill Hill Chapel in Leeds, a post with increased financial security, allowing Priestley to put the role of minister at the center of his life once again. In the county of his childhood Priestley was accepted by the liberal dissenting congregation where once he had experienced theological rejection. Of course, he also continued to teach and set up a series of classes of religious instruction for members of the chapel.

Suffering financially at Leeds, and keen to broaden his horizons, Priestley took up an offer to sail with James Cook to the South Seas as the ship’s astronomer. However, the arrangement fell through, and after toying with the idea of moving to the colonies, Priestley finally, in 1773, took up residence in Calne, Wiltshire, in order to work in a varied and ill-defined role as Lord Shelburne’s companion. Priestley was given a house for his growing family and a healthy salary; in return he acted as intellectual companion and political ally to Lord Shelburne. He practised many of his now famous experiments for Shelburne’s guests, took over much of the education of his children and considerably expanded the library. Priestley was thus able to continue his role as a teacher, but he preached only occasionally.

His life with Shelburne was never as successful as either party had hoped, and in 1780 Priestley left the service with a good pension to become senior minister of the New Meeting in Birmingham, a large, wealthy and influential congregation. Priestley seems to have been very content in this role of minister, which he continued to see as the most important activity in his life. He also taught children from the congregation and established a number of Sunday schools that taught reading, writing and mathematics as well as religious tenets. However, these happy times did not last long. Priestley left Birmingham after his house and belongings were destroyed in the notorious Church and King riots of 1791. He moved the family to Hackney where they stayed until 1794. He succeeded Richard Price at the Gravel Pit meeting as morning preacher. Increasingly well known as a liberal political philosopher and theologian, Priestley was elected a citizen of France but declined an offer to be a representative to the National Convention.

Priestley faced continuing pressure and the fear of further riots while he lived in London. Significantly, he had to obtain official notice that he was not evading arrest before he could emigrate to the United States in 1794 where he hoped to find freedom and tolerance in the new world. Priestley lived in Pennsylvania until his death in 1804 in a house built in Northumberland and shared with his son Joseph and his family. Mary Priestley and their son Harry both died during this time, and Priestley’s health slowly deteriorated. Priestley preached only occasionally in the following years but published much and continued to write until the day of his death, February 6th. That evening, although very ill, Priestley finished dictating some changes to some pamphlets. When these were complete he said “That is right; I have done now” and died just hours later (Autobiography 139).

d. Natural Philosophy

As a young teacher and minister in Nantwich, Priestley had acquired the basic apparatus needed for natural philosophy: an air pump and electrical machine used in lessons with the older pupils. As a tutor at Warrington, recently married, settled and part of a stimulating community, Priestley allowed his interest in natural philosophy to flourish.  After moving to Leeds Priestley continued to experiment with electricity and researched optics. Turning to pneumatic chemistry he published his Directions for Impregnating Water with Fixed Air in 1772.  The same year Priestley’s Observations on Different Kinds of Air was published in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society. The paper was significant—Priestley had isolated nitric oxide, anhydrous hydrochloride and acid gases. It also introduced the ideas of eudiometry and photosynthesis. In 1773 Priestley won the Copley medal from the Royal Society.

Priestley used the resources provided by Shelburne at Calne to continue his experiments in pneumatic chemistry and published many of his findings. He isolated samples of what we would now call ammonia gas, nitrous oxide, nitrogen dioxide, sulphur dioxide and most notably oxygen. He also continued to investigate refraction, heat expansion, sound transmission of gases and photosynthesis. Priestley’s scientific interests also found an outlet in Birmingham through his membership of the Lunar Society. Here he met many well-known scientists and businessmen including Erasmus Darwin, Josiah Wedgwood, Matthew Boulton and James Watt. Priestley also entered into a debate with Antoine Lavoisier about how best to interpret his experiments identifying oxygen.  He built a new laboratory and published more of his findings while living in the United States. Until his dying day, he stubbornly stuck to his phlogiston theory despite convincing arguments in favor of Lavoisier.

e. Portrayal, Reception and Legacy

Priestley was a man with a great deal to say but found it a struggle to speak and make himself understood. He stammered from early childhood, yet he followed a career demanding effective communication. His speech impediment caused him significant distress at school and at Daventry and contributed to his rejection at Needham where, he tells us, he found preaching “very painful” (Autobiography 80). Misunderstanding and miscommunication seem to be significant themes in Priestley’s life. The ideas that he saw as reasonable and pleasing to God were received as dangerously revolutionary both in politics and theology. Although he regarded himself as a rational advocate of truth who wrote according to the respectable precepts of the doctrine of candor, his adversaries called him arrogant and incendiary. He advocated political, religious and intellectual freedom and the pursuit of truth through unfettered debate, yet he could be stubborn and uncompromising and believed in absolute truth. This led him into heated controversy and acrimonious debate despite his insistence that he simply wanted a frank exchange of opinions. Priestley was portrayed by his enemies as a dangerous radical with a political and religious philosophy that would undermine the moral and social order. In print and in cartoon Priestley was “gunpowder Joe,” an explosive enemy of church authority, the truth of revealed religion and the political status quo.

2. Theology

We find a set of sophisticated religious and theological beliefs at the very heart of Priestley’s intellectual and moral life, his career and politics, his social networks, behavior and sentiments. To understand Priestley’s faith is to understand the central motivation for the majority of his published works.

a. Method

Priestley’s most striking contribution to theological debate was his approach to the study of Christian scripture. He was one of a small group of Unitarian thinkers who devised a new translation of the Bible with the distinguishing feature that it should be in a state of continual improvement. Priestley had confidence in the project because he held that although truth itself was absolute and uniform, human attainment of truth was a fluid and gradual process. Knowledge must not be allowed to stagnate, and there was much work still to be done. At the heart of this slow progression toward absolute truth was Priestley’s belief that all humanity could reach the perfect understanding attained by Christ.

Priestley argues that reason is a tool for the use of all humankind and that application of reason alone is enough to convince us of the existence of a unified, benevolent, creator God. The empirical evidences of natural religion and the precepts of rationality are God-given resources provided in order for us to understand the deity as a self-comprehending, omnipresent and omniscient being. However, other essential knowledge is not available through reason and natural religion alone. Revelation is also needed in order to teach us important lessons such as the proper use of prayer and other teachings of Jesus.

Priestley approached scriptural study extremely seriously because of the essential role of revealed religion. He tells us that rational evaluation of the Bible is the only way in which truth can be attained. He denounced all the mystery and irrationality of orthodox theology, denying the Trinity and the Atonement as examples of such muddled and disordered thought. Without mystery and without the need for unfounded faith the individual was free to interpret scripture by the light of reason. Only rational thought, good education and complete liberty of conscience were needed for understanding the words of revealed law in their plainest sense and as a coherent whole. This was open to all individuals who possessed the powers of reason and thus religious authority and the need for a clergy–seen by him as distant and elite–were undermined in one sweep.

Priestley also developed a critical method in his approach to scripture based on careful linguistic and historical study. He emphasized the highly figurative nature of the scriptures and argued that many misunderstandings were merely verbal, the result of taking ancient languages out of their cultural context. Furthermore, Priestley studied history in order to explain the ways in which Christianity had become corrupted over time as misunderstandings crept in, disfiguring the pure and simple beliefs of the early church.

b. Principal Ideas

i. Unitarianism

Application of his theological methods allowed Priestley to develop a set of religious beliefs which he regarded as highly rational and as close as possible to the pure Christianity of the early church. Already denying the Trinity, Priestley left Daventry Academy an Arian and tells us that it was after reading Nathaniel Lardner’s Letter on the Logos of1759that he adopted the Unitarian creed he held for most of his adult life. Priestley argued that the notion of the Trinity is an essentially irrational tenet of an unquestioning faith. It requires a willingness to replace individual reason with trust in the teaching of church authorities whose power is perpetuated by ideas shrouded in superstition and mystery. He compared this belief to the simple idea of a unified God, a rational truth present in both natural and revealed religion. His historical work allowed Priestley to argue that the early Christians and Church Fathers were Unitarian and that belief in the Trinity was a corruption that had crept into scripture over the centuries. The Trinity slowly developed over time as gentile and heathen beliefs infiltrated simple “pristine” understanding of the unlearned. The most important message of the Old Testament, argues Priestley, is that God is unified and indivisible. In the New Testament, while the role of Jesus is essential, the Father is entirely exclusive of the Son. He tells us that when scripture appears to say that the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit are equally divine, the language is highly figurative and should not be read literally. This leaves Jesus as wholly human and the powers he possessed as those granted by God to an ordinary man. Christ has the power for resurrection and ascension, but he is not God, according to Priestley. He is not divine and should not be worshipped, despite being an object of our utmost respect.

ii. The Atonement

Priestley undermined the divinity of Jesus and in doing so deeply altered the whole interpretation of his death and resurrection. Priestley insisted that the death of Jesus was only a sacrifice in the figurative sense. His death was not a means by which the wrath of God had been diverted, and his sacrifice was not an atonement for sin. Jesus was not a divine mediator between God and humanity; he was a savior simply because his life was a demonstration of perfect moral duty and the truth of physical resurrection.

iii. Predestination

Priestley argued that the Calvinist notion of predestination was irrational and had only a flimsy basis in scripture. Arguing from utilitarian premises, Priestley writes that God’s manifest plan is to produce the greatest happiness for his people; a system which condemns many to eternal torment and therefore produces exceptional misery cannot be part of this plan. Priestley was drawn to the idea of universal salvation, the only system to ensure the greatest happiness. He acknowledged the role of punishment as an important part of divine justice and even wrote that it should be long and severe in order to be effective. However, he could not accept that finite humans would be punished infinitely.

iv. Original Sin and Grace

The notion of grace that was prevalent among the clergy and orthodox believers was based on the idea of original sin pardoned by the death of Christ, a sacrifice for the sake of fallen humankind. Instead of believing in this idea of innate sinfulness and supernatural reconciliation, Priestley held that everyone had the potential to attain the perfect moral knowledge that Jesus had exemplified and taught. Part of this potential for perfection, writes Priestley, is that God has given us moral laws that we are perfectly capable of following. Although he concedes that everyday fallible humans are unlikely to be morally perfect, he contends that we can choose to lead a life pleasing to God and make constant effort to repent and change our behavior. He places this at the center of Christian life, rather than the emotional evangelical faith, the Calvinist “experience” or the fallacy of the death bed conversion. He tells us that it is not arrogance or pride which allows us to dismiss the idea of original sin and believe that all humankind can do what God tells us. It is simply the power that God has given to all of us. The idea that we are justified by faith or predestination diminishes this power that every person has to do the will of God.

v. The Soul

The metaphysical basis for Priestley’s disavowal of the existence of the soul is explored in the section of this article on “Matter and Spirit.” Priestley combined exploration of the nature of matter with scriptural study to argue for the unity of body and spirit, insisting on the biblical basis for a belief in physical resurrection. He writes that there is no scriptural basis for a split between body and soul. Not only is belief in the soul unreasonable based on the evidence around us, writes Priestley, it is also a belief which careful historical exploration shows was an idolatrous heathen tenet that crept into Christianity and slowly corrupted it.

vi. The Millennium

Priestley was a fervent millenarian, trusting in biblical prophecy and waiting for the second coming of Christ. He read widely on the millennium and placed himself within a well established scholarly tradition of millenarian study. Priestley was hopeful that he was living in the “last days” before the foretold return of Christ. Reading Daniel and Revelation, Priestley believed that the return of the Jews to their homeland would precede the glorious second coming and waited eagerly for such an event. He carefully watched worldwide political developments for signs that Christ’s rule on earth was soon to begin, and it is likely that looking for such evidence that the bible contained absolute truths and tangible proofs of the existence of the deity appealed to Priestley’s scientific mindset. The American Revolution seemed a good sign and his optimism intensified after the French Revolution and the Birmingham riots. At the end of his life Priestley became increasingly preoccupied with the millennium, putting a great deal of hope in the imminent arrival of Christ and studying scriptural prophecy in great detail.

c. Reactions and Criticisms

For Priestley there was an order, even a beauty, which stemmed from the process of obtaining truth through reason, and in the pure, rational and simple truth that this process revealed. Although his enemies called him “gunpowder Joe,” his grains of gunpowder were no more than a series of necessarilyrelated ideas which, when marshaled by strict reason and controlled by rational thought, would always have the same outcome. However, to some of Priestley’s Anglican opponents his reason-driven truth was subversive and seditious. He was accused of demolishing the foundations of revealed truth and, in consequence, of morality. They saw moral upheaval where Priestley saw rationality and order.

Contemporary reactions to Priestley’s theological and religious works often involved in-depth scriptural analysis. This kind of discussion has been seen as less relevant today. Some secondary comment has focused on the interaction between Priestley’s theological position and his political beliefs, often identifying interesting conceptual links. For example, J.C.D. Clark stated that theological heterodoxy and radicalism were ‘conceptually basic’ (281). A.M.C. Waterman has added to the debate, arguing that although challenging the Trinity is enough to undermine the principle of subordination in church and society, there is no necessary link between dissent and subversive politics (Haakonssen 214). Other comment has examined Priestley’s belief in miracles and biblical prophecy in light of his highly rational stance. For example, Martin Fitzpatrick asks us to consider whether Priestley’s obsession with apocalyptic texts in his later life was the sign of an unbalanced mind (Fitzpatrick 1991 106). However, Clark-Garrett argues that, far from a weakness or drift in old age, Priestley’s millenarian speculations were consistent with his overall outlook. His attention focused by the French Revolution, Priestley was simply using his scientific method to observe the unfolding patterns of Providence, and the fulfilment of prophecy was a key part of this search for facts and evidence to bolster his rational religion (53).

3. Politics and Political Philosophy

a. Principal Ideas

At the heart of Priestley’s political philosophy lie the twin themes of progress and perfectibility. His work is shot-through with an optimism that arises from his unswerving belief in progress and a perfect future state. Priestley’s work rests on an assumption that humankind will be better off in the future than it is at present and that society in the present is already more perfect than life in the past. Unlike brute animals who continue in the same way without change, human society is constantly in a state of development, change and improvement. He tells us of the happiness he experiences because of the realization that whatever the world was like at the beginning the end will be perfect and “paradisiacal.” Importantly, mankind’s unbounded potential for future development requires good government, and, going full circle, good government here means government conducive to progress.

Priestley conjectures a social contract to illustrate his ideas on liberty. He tells us of a group of unconnected individuals who lead separate lives. They are exposed to many wrongs and have few advantages. If the people voluntarily submit to join forces as part of a group they resign some of their natural liberty in return for protection, alliance and other advantages. Some liberty has to be given up just for the society to function. A large group of people would need representatives in order to make decisions on behalf of society and, although this may seem like a sacrifice of liberty, these men would act purely for the good of society and reflect the sentiments of the whole body. The only thing that gives them power is that they are there to act for the public good. Reason and conscience guide them and the people judge them.

Significantly, Priestley divides “natural” liberty into civil and political liberty after the contractual agreement. This is a distinction which Robert E. Schofield says was only commonplace after Mill and that Priestley felt was necessary for the sake of clarity (1997 210). Political liberty, Priestley tells us, is the power of holding or electing public office. It is the “right of magistracy,” the power of the private opinion made public. Civil liberty is the power an individual has over their actions and only refers to their own conduct. It is the right to be exempt from the control of others.  Priestley tells us that when natural liberty is resigned upon entering into society, it is civil liberty that is relinquished for the sake of increased political liberty.

Once elaborated, Priestley’s articulation of two types of liberty allows him to place his theory on utilitarian grounds. The good and happiness of the whole of society is made identical with the good and happiness of the majority of its members. Happiness, good and progress become inextricably linked within this theory, as Priestley had insisted that progress towards perfection is the ultimate goal for mankind and would result in unbounded happiness. He tells us that government is required to identify what is most conducive to progress, and therefore to happiness, and to eradicate barriers and limits to progress. For example, division of labor is useful and should be encouraged, as it aids the economy and increases knowledge. Specialization helps everyone reach their potential and means that the arts and sciences are likely to flourish. Meanwhile, progress is hindered by encroachments on civil liberty. Priestley was concerned that progress would stagnate if education and religion were not left free to flourish and reach perfection. He wrote against established religion and against state education, wary of uniformity and unnecessary authority. He insisted that diversity of opinion was essential for free debate and ultimate progress and therefore advocated complete religious liberty and freedom of speech.

b. Priestley and the Law

Although Priestley celebrated freedom and was concerned to limit government intervention for the sake of individual liberty, he did not have an antagonistic opinion of the law. Good government plays an important role within Priestley’s philosophy, protecting liberty and rights but also serving as an active agent of change. Priestley’s political philosophy has a psychological foundation based on the doctrine of association. Human perfection was to be achieved along associationist lines. Good government and society was crucial to this process. Government should explore what circumstances are most conducive to progress and happiness and apply these principles, even if this means intervening or limiting freedom to some extent.

c. Toleration and the Pursuit of Truth

Priestley’s theology and his status as a dissenter informed much of his political work. At a political level Priestley was keen to speak on behalf of rational dissent and outline the political principles most often associated with Protestant dissent in general. Eager to inform the Anglican clergy of the political opinions to be found amongst their dissenting counterparts, Priestley writes that there is no reason to assume that dissenters are anarchists or republicans. The vast majority are peaceful, law-abiding and property-owning. He tells us that dissenters respect human authority in most matters, respect the government and support the Hanoverian succession. However, they do not recognize human authority in religion, seeing no spiritual or scriptural reason for church authority or established religion. The church has no business in civil government, and one of the many reforms required was a full separation of church and state, as well as a purging of other popish ways still left within the Church of England.

At a philosophical level, Priestley’s demands for religious liberty were often for utilitarian reasons, recognizing the need for liberty in order to foster truth and aid progress. He was skilled in illustrating these abstract arguments with numerous historical examples to consolidate his case. Priestley did believe firmly in the absolute nature of divine truth, but he argued for full toleration for dissenters, Catholics and even atheists. This was because at the root of his call for toleration was a powerful conviction that to uncover divine truth should be the ultimate aim of all human endeavors, and this needed an atmosphere of free and unrestrained debate. Rational dissent held that truth arose from the application of human reason and conversely that unnecessary intervention could be extremely harmful. If laws were in place that stifled free discussion and forced belief in superstition or falsehood, the cause of truth was left in the dark

d. Reactions and Criticisms

Priestley’s Essay on the First Principles of Government went swiftly through two editions and continued to be published throughout the nineteenth century. Clearly influential at the time, the work also had significant long-term impact. Jeremy Bentham acknowledged the Essay as the inspiration for his utilitarian “greatest happiness” principle. Although Bentham’s famous words do not appear anywhere in the work of Priestley, it is fair to say that this is a significant legacy. However, in his own time, Priestley’s work was met with criticism and attack. Priestley backed the campaign for the repeal of the test and corporation acts, and this provoked a huge conservative backlash fuelled in part by heightened reactionary fears following the French revolution. In this heated atmosphere, accusations of sedition and treason were common currency, and Priestley came under serious criticism for his political and theological views. Priestley’s critics entangled religion and politics and made little attempt to identify Priestley’s own first principles. Priestley was accused of attempting to undermine the authority of the church and the government. His political philosophy seemed dangerously egalitarian and his insistence on continual progress was a dangerous threat to the old order. Priestley’s insistence on the importance of unfettered individual reason had dangerous consequences. His enemies explicitly stated that Priestley’s concern for the truth had inverted the order of things. Priestley had destroyed the necessity for a separate Clergy and attacked the sacredness of their profession. By questioning the need for obedience and asserting the authority of the individual, it seemed to nervous minds that he had inverted the whole social hierarchy.

One way this division has manifested itself is in the interesting relationship between natural law and utility as it appears in Priestley’s political philosophy. For example, both Margaret Canovan and Robert Schofield comment on the relationship as it appears in Priestley’s Essay on the First Principles of Government (Canovan 1984, Schofield 1997 209). Schofield suggests that Priestley’s brand of utilitarianism is significantly less relativist than Bentham’s. While Bentham used the happiness principle as the only guiding force of government, Priestley never doubted that there was a perfect way of governing and that it was towards this that mankind should progress. Canovan also questions the idea that Priestley was a proto-Benthamite. She says that the underlying assumptions of the two men are significantly different. Priestley firmly believed in the existence of a benign and all powerful God who presided over a well-ordered and structured universe. So it was in this realm of natural law that Priestley’s utilitarianism was supposed to operate. Priestley believed in the existence of an objective moral order so while happiness for Bentham could be whatever society or any individual decided it should be, happiness for Priestley was universal, fixed and could be evaluated in moral terms. While Bentham constructed a moral order from utilitarian grounds, Priestley simply used the principle in order to evaluate and discern moral laws. This places Priestley firmly in the natural law tradition. It allows him to use the language of rights as part of his political philosophy without compromising his utilitarianism.

The real extent of Priestley’s liberalism is debated in a variety of different ways in the secondary literature. For example, Martin Fitzpatrick has highlighted that, while Priestley supported toleration whole-heartedly, this was because of his conviction that absolute truth would eventually prevail, rather than the pluralistic outlook of Richard Price (1982 18-23). Margaret Canovan has pointed out that, although Priestley is rightly remembered as a liberal, he often celebrated a paternalistic view of class relations (1983). Celebrating the bourgeois station, he stressed the importance of middle class charity to the poor, which would encourage their ambition and create useful social bonds. He also wrote that inequalities were part of God’s plan for the present, despite his general support for social mobility. Isaac Kramnick has also pointed out this ‘ominous’ side to Priestley’s liberalism, examining the new layers of authority Priestley was prepared to impose on society in the name of progress and reform. Kramnick argues that the scientifically minded Priestley viewed the state as a kind of laboratory where intervention was required to perfect humankind, and so his thought is shot-through with a regard for authority and discipline (11, 20-22).

4. Association of Ideas

a. Principal Ideas

The principle of association states that ideas are generated from external sensations. Complex ideas are made up of simple ideas. These complex ideas are formed through repeated juxtaposition or “association” over time. This means that ideas become united in the mind so that one idea will be invariably followed by the other.

Hartley tells us that this principle has not escaped the notice of writers both ancient and modern but that it was John Locke who affixed the word “association” to the theory. Locke had argued that ideas are not innate but derived from experience. In mechanistic terms he explained the ways in which simple ideas become associated in experience and therefore build up complex ideas. Locke had posited a mind blank before experience of sense impressions had made their mark.  Hartley picked up this idea and added to it a physiological basis for the associationist theory, an idea that it was vibrations acting on the brain that laid down ideas and that when two vibrations occurred simultaneously over time they become associated in the mind. Hartley used Locke’s epistemology but removed Locke’s emphasis on reflection as a means to knowledge. Locke had written that all knowledge is based on sensation and then reflection. Hartley simply said that all types of ideas were derived from sensation. Priestley followed Hartley and dropped Locke’s need for reflection as a distinct source of knowledge. Priestley also read the Rev. John Gay who had used Locke’s associationist principle to argue against the innatist theory of morals of Francis Hutcheson. Gay had argued that morality and the passions were acquired through experience; as we attempt to avoid pain and seek pleasure our morals and passions are formed.

Enjoying debate and finding creativity in opposition, Priestley expounded his most coherent theory of association as an attack on the notion that innate common sense can stand above reason when it comes to religious belief. Published in 1774 Priestley’s Examination of Dr. Reids Inquiry…Dr. Beatties Essay…and Dr. Oswalds Appeal is a harsh and rigorous refutation of common sense in favor of association. Like Hartley, Priestley was keen to make association the sole basis of human understanding. Hobbes had written of association as one means that certain ideas become linked by resemblance or causality. In contrast to Hobbes, Locke was more interested in unnaturally associated ideas, or when two things that have nothing in common end up united. However, for Priestley association was the foundation and excluded all other epistemological sources. This certainly ruled out what he took to be Reid’s theory, that sensations are made into ideas by innate principles implanted by God, and it excluded the argument that sensations act on the passive matter of the brain and that innate instincts act to turn them into knowledge. Priestley writes that living is about experience. That something seems instinctive does not mean that it has not derived ultimately from external experience.

b. Links to Other Ideas

Associationism allowed Priestley to identify the general laws of human nature he was looking for and is therefore the basis for much of his metaphysical, educational and political writing, as well as informing his theology. For example, Priestley’s work on the nature of matter enabled him to add a physiological basis to the doctrine of association. Once association was understood physiologically Priestley was able to argue against Cartesian dualism, against the existence of an immaterial soul, and in favor of the material unity of body and mind. In his political and educational philosophy the doctrine of association furnished Priestley with a means by which circumstances could be understood to shape the intellectual and moral life of individuals. This allows for progress in society and in the acquisition of knowledge because it allows for controlled change through experience. It gives teachers and legislators the power to shape others through altering circumstances or environment. Association consolidated Priestley’s determinist doctrine of philosophical necessity as it allowed all actions to be traced back to motives and ideas formed entirely from experience and therefore potentially determined by Providence. Finally, association also appears in Priestley’s theology. In the Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion (1772) Priestley explains that revealed religion has followed the same pattern historically as an individual does when learning through association. The development from the Old Testament to the New is like the process of acquiring knowledge of pain and difficulty but also love of god and the pleasures of life as an individual.

c. Reactions and Criticisms

Priestley’s devotion to the doctrine of association was one of the less controversial aspects of his thought. The system was already part of a respected tradition and Priestley’s ideas were not especially innovative or shocking. However, the polemic feel of his attacks on Reid, Beattie and Oswald did provoke some sharp replies and Priestley actually issued an apology for the tone he had struck. Robert E. Schofield has argued that Priestley played a crucial role in maintaining Hartley’s ideas, especially among the utilitarians, and therefore had an important influence on the nineteenth century. While late nineteenth-century associationist psychology is often regarded as the precursor to the behaviorism of the twentieth century, studying Priestley allows us to locate the ideas considerably further back (2004 52).

5. Matter and Spirit

a. Principal Ideas

Priestley wanted to elucidate a physiological theory to refute his interpretation of the Scottish “common sense” system of separate instinctive perceptions. Priestley writes that all sensations are the same. They arise from experience as vibrations in the brain. Priestley argued that this system offered a simplicity that the theory of separate and original instincts could not. An outside stimulus causes the brain to vibrate. For example, “seeing” is actually the result of vibrations of the optic nerve caused by light. Vibrations consisted of tiny movements of small particle, of the nerves and then of the brain. These movements were caused by the impressions made by external objects on any of the five senses.

Priestley tells us that all matter vibrates and that all matter can transmit these vibrations to our brains.  Following Hartley, Priestley tells us that once the brain has been made to vibrate a trace of that vibration is left behind. Hartley calls this a “vibratiuncle.” Although Priestley cuts down on such technical terms the theory is the same. A “vibratiuncle” is laid down as a tendency for the brain to vibrate the same way again. If the initial vibration was strong or intense, then so too will be the vibratiuncle. If the vibration is weak or small, then the vibratiuncle too is weaker. If the vibration occurs many times, this has the same affect, strengthening the trace and increasing the tendency to vibrate. When two vibrations occur together they act on each other or modify each other so that, as they occur repeatedly together, they become associated in the brain. This association means that when one occurs the other will also occur. Vibrations can build up sets of vibratriuncles so that if only one vibrates, the others in the system will vibrate too. One occurrence triggers all of them.

This is the physiological basis of the associationist doctrine. It explains how sensations become ideas and how simple ideas can build up into complex ones through this process. While Hartley did acknowledge the parallel process between ideas and physiological vibrations, he was keen to leave room in his theory for the existence of an immaterial soul. Priestley lacked his caution and was driven to question the means by which a non-physical substance could act upon a physical one. While Hartley had left this a mystery and posited an “elementary substance” that was neither matter nor spirit but linked them both, Priestley’s answer was to abandon any kind of dualism at all. He writes that our understanding is troubled simply because of the way in which matter appears to us. Superficially it seems solid and inert. However, Priestley tells us, experiments reveal that this is not the case. Matter is far from solid or impenetrable, it is made up of atoms and particles and these are subject to forces of attraction and repulsion depending on their arrangement. It is these forces that make matter seem solid. Matter had been assumed to be incapable of thought or perception because it was solid and not affected by outside forces. It was seen as inert, sluggish even, and therefore incompatible with the capacity for sensation. Now that this assumption had been undermined, it remained entirely possible that matter could form the basis for our mind and spirit as well as physical being.

When the matter of the brain was subject to vibrations and vibratriuncles, it was engaged in thought. Priestley does not tell us how vibrations become ideas. He admitted that, although he did not know how material substances think over and above this basic supposition, he argued that the possibility remained and that this scenario seemed more likely than the existence of separate and immaterial soul. The distinction between matter and spirit was therefore unnecessary and untrue. Priestley writes that his materialism leaves fewer questions unanswered than the notion of a soul. It prevents the need for speculation about how and why the soul leaves the body and how it may return, what happens to the soul before resurrection and how a soul comes to choose a certain body to start with. Priestley claimed he had resolved the problems of Cartesian dualism and the tricky distinction that had corrupted Christianity. He had redefined the nature of matter and made the composition of the body single and uniform.

b. Priestley, Newton and Boscovitch

Priestley’s regard for Newtonian theory is communicated strongly in his works on matter and spirit. Robert E. Schofield has explained the ways in which Priestley’s career can be seen as dedicated to the Newtonian idea of matter (1964 291-294). At the end of principia mathematica,IsaacNewton gives us a physical explanation for the association of ideas. Unlike John Locke, who was wary of looking for a physical basis of his idea of association, Newton used a theory of vibrations to explain how perception and memory are formed. Hartley then relied on Newton’s idea of an elastic ether and the possibility for vibrating motions to occur within it. In the same way, it was Newtonian ideas about matter, that “solids” retain an impression when vibrations or forces act upon them, that allowed Priestley to explain the lasting affect of vibrations on the matter of the brain. Furthermore, it was Newton who had suggested that objects in the world cause light sensations which vibrate the optic nerve and allow us to “see,” and it was a Newtonian desire to uncover simple, universal laws of explanation that linked Priestley’s ideas on association and matter and spirit so neatly.

c. Theology

It is impossible to separate Priestley’s metaphysical opinions about matter and spirit from his theology. His speculations on the nature of matter provided Priestley with scientific and physiological evidence to deny the existence of the soul. Some thinkers insisted that matter was inert and animated only by a God-given soul. Priestley’s matter was different. It was not inert. Matter was complex and active. It was possible for the brain to be wholly material and also to vibrate and therefore to “think” rather than a passive vehicle moved by an immaterial soul. When Priestley examined the atheism of Baron d’Holbach he stated that it was one of the most convincing arguments he had come across. This was because d’Holbach shared some of his ideas on the nature of matter. However, d’Holbach held that forces of attraction and repulsion, gravity and electricity were simply the “energy of nature.” Priestley said that this was another name for God, an energy which should be acknowledged as having intelligence and design. His continued faith meant that Priestley never relinquished scriptural study and examined the Bible in relation to his understanding of matter.

Priestley’s reading of scripture convinced him that the idea of soul was actually a “corruption” of Christianity and that resurrection, when it occurred, was of a physical and not a spiritual nature. He attacked the dualism of Descartes but argued that the idea of an immaterial mind and soul was actually of ancient pagan origin, having crept into Christian belief and undermined “monist” Hebrew doctrines. His opinion on the material nature of the soul allowed him to explain the resurrection of matter and spirit as a single, material event.  Priestley argues from scripture alongside his exploration of matter. He writes that the idea of the soul only appears in some badly interpreted and unconnected passages of the bible and that, if such duality had actually been part of God’s design, it would have been revealed with clarity. Priestley insisted that removing this corruption from our understanding of scripture would strengthen the foundations of revealed religion and lead to stronger, rational, belief. While the notion of the soul had debased the whole idea of resurrection, Priestley believed his materialist ideas explained the process by which the body would die and decompose, only to be recomposed and physically restored to immortality through the power of the divine.

d. Reactions and Criticisms

Robert E. Schofield has shown evidence that Michael Faraday had read Priestley and claims that British scientists showed so much interest in Boscovichian atomism because Priestley had advocated his ideas (2004 71-72). Boscovich’s own reaction was more typical. He was absolutely furious that Priestley had reduced his ideas to materialism. Other commentators were similarly outraged. Priestley’s edition of Hartley came under severe criticism and his further publications on the subject heightened the controversy. Materialism was feared by many; it could easily slip into atheism. The theological speculations that accompanied Priestley’s metaphysics were regarded with suspicion and met with outright anger.

Joseph Berington, a Roman Catholic, and the Anglican Bishop Samuel Horsley both penned fierce refutations of Priestley’s works on the nature of matter and spirit. His ideas provoked vitriol from a wide variety of believers. A respectful debate with Richard Price reveals the extent to which Priestley’s ideas were a challenge even to other rational dissenters. Price refused to agree that matter was not inert. For him, matter was solid and could not be imbued with sensation or perception. Matter was subject to forces such as gravity but only because God had added these properties onto matter; they were not innate. Price argued strongly in favor of the existence of the soul. He said that although he did not see the body as something corrupt and something that trapped the soul, he did think that there was an immaterial part of the body and that this needed a link to the physical body in order to exercise certain powers. He saw two separate substances connected and dependent but distinct. Priestley’s engagement with such a diverse selection of critics served to ensure that his views on matter and spirit would become infamous and added to his reputation as an idiosyncratic, controversial and even dangerous figure.

6. Philosophical Necessity

a. Principal Ideas

Priestley writes that he published his principle work on philosophical necessity out of concern for the ambiguous definitions of liberty and necessity. He tightened the meaning of these words and argued that, under the system of philosophical necessity, everyone is free; everyone is entirely at liberty to do anything they will as long as there are no external constraints. So all people can think whatever they chose and act however they chose. However, everyone is also operating under divine necessity. Everyone is bound by causal laws fixed by God and directed by him for the ultimate good of all humanity. This means that there is no way that two different events, decisions or acts can occur when the circumstances are exactly identical. Provided the circumstances are identical, there is only one possible outcome. This removes any possibility for random occurrences and eliminates all chance. No room is left for the possibility of variation. Everything becomes part of an entirely determined chain of causes and effects.

Priestley asserts that when most people examine their views on free will, they will see that those ideas actually fit better into his system of philosophical necessity than they immediately realize. Once liberty and necessity are properly understood, he writes, they are actually compatible with each other. It is chance or randomness that is incompatible with freedom or voluntary action. Priestley puts it in terms of motives for acting. He says that throughout nature there are fixed, unalterable laws. David Hume had said that every cause and effect is just a conjunction; the connection could be arbitrary. The cause and effect may appear to be linked, but there is no way of knowing for sure that they are. Priestley, on the other hand, was keen to refute Hume. He said there is an invariable connection between cause and effect. Furthermore, in the case of human choice and action, the cause is often a motive. If one has a state of mind and then acts, the same action will occur again if the state of mind is unaltered. The choice made is voluntary, but the motives that led to that choice form part of an unbroken necessary chain of causes and events.

Priestley also discusses the role of God within this system in more detail. He tells us that God knows everything, but he would not be able to foresee contingent events–this alone eradicates the possibility of contingency and consolidates Priestley’s determinist position. Aware of the controversial conclusions of this position, Priestley admits that this means that God is the author of sin. However, as God determines everything for the ultimate good, vice and bad behavior are in fact part of a greater divine plan to bring humankind to perfection. Priestley was careful to distinguish this system of necessity from the predestination of Calvinism. Calvinists held that God uses supernatural methods in order to bring about change and chooses an elect few for salvation. Priestley’s God worked naturally through a string of necessary causes and effects only, and although sinners would be punished, Providence did not allow for eternal damnation.

Priestley’s ideas on determinism and providence were not new. He cites Hobbes and Hartley as major influences, as well as drawing from Locke and Hume. What is more interesting here is the extent to which these ideas were part of a personal journey for Priestley. He tells us that it is his happiness to find a resolution to his anxieties that motivated him to publish on the subject. The security and satisfaction that comes from contemplating every event as part of the divine plan of Providence gave Priestley his characteristic optimism and self-assurance. It was this that he was keen to make known to the public.

b. Links to Other Ideas

Philosophical necessity works well with Priestley’s idea of matter. Priestley had insisted that the human body and spirit were both physical. As matter is subject to the universal or unchanging laws of nature, it follows that no decision in the mind or act in the body can be random or spontaneous.

Philosophical necessity and the association of ideas are also closely related. Priestley acknowledged the importance of human will and the sense that this was free. Association explained how the will was created. All motives were part of a causal chain of associated ideas. Basil Willey has argued that it is the associationist foundation of philosophical necessity that means it promotes moral behavior (171-174). Priestley posited a universe created by God in which vice is less attractive than virtue in terms of the rewards it brings. Although physical pleasure and sin bring short term benefits, it is more compelling in the long term to follow a virtuous path. According to his system, it is possible for people to change their motives and their circumstances and therefore to alter their behavior for the positive. This suffuses the necessarian doctrine with human agency. It means that humankind cannot simply sit back and let Providence take its course. We may be instruments of God, but in understanding that our own motives and choices are part of a chain of cause and effect, we can act to alter them and become more virtuous. Although all events are determined and God is the ultimate author of sin, on a day-to-day level we have freedom to shun vice and chose virtue. Unlike God, humankind does not have the power to use sin and wrongdoing for the sake of good, and therefore we must chose to live virtuous lives.

Finally, understanding philosophical necessity is important in order to get to grips with Priestley’s notions of reward and punishment. Priestley spends a lot of time writing about the ways in which necessity is the only system that allows punishment to make rational sense. A person acts because of a set of motives, these are caused by circumstances. Therefore circumstances and motives can be altered. There is no reason to punish behavior is if it not caused and not based on a rational intention

c. Reactions and Criticisms

Priestley entered into a number of debates concerning his determinism including a long and respectful debate with Richard Price. Price argued that free-will was essential in order to ensure that we take responsibility for our choices and actions before God. He added that a determined system was less of an achievement of creation than the reality of human freedom God had granted. Priestley was aware of the accusation that the system of philosophical necessity removed any imperative towards moral behavior. Although he tried to address this by arguing that on an everyday level all people can chose to act or not to act. He used his associationist theory to explain that people could actively change their circumstances in order to alter their motives over time. Most contemporary and modern commentators have pointed out that this has the feeling of a clever paradox. Robert E. Schofield calls it “sophistry” and Basil Willey has pointed out that the liberty granted to humankind under Priestley’s system of philosophical necessity is free will under a different name (Willey 171-174, Schofield 2004 79).

7. Philosophy of Education, History and Linguistics

a. Principal Ideas

In his educational works, Priestley tells us that the education provided at dissenting academies and universities is often ill-suited to the young men in attendance. The curriculum provided did not prepare them for a civil and active life. He emphasized that the traditional subjects, such as philosophy, mathematics and logic, were important but could not alone fit a young mind for work in anything but the clergy and learned professions. Instead he wanted to educate a generation that was destined for a life of commerce and for magistrates, lawyers, powerful merchants, statesmen and even the landed. The broad liberal education that Priestley recommended was to turn out useful liberal minds from among the middle classes and included modern history, law, economics and the arts. He also turned his attention to women, refuting the notion that they were intellectually inferior and arguing that many women would need to subsist alone and should be given the tools to do so. Women were moral creatures just like men, and as education was the basis of morality their exclusion was counter to Priestley’s hopes of progress and perfection. Priestley’s attitude to the education of the poor was less enthusiastic. His liberalism meant that he stood against state education but did not extend his interest in a more positive direction.

Priestley’s educational philosophy was based on his metaphysics. It is a fine example of the ways in which he brought associationism, materialism and philosophical necessity together in practical ways. Priestley thought that all knowledge, intellect, perception and memory were acquired through sensory experience and that simple ideas combined into complex ideas through association. This mechanism was entirely material and therefore based on necessary causal laws which could be identified and manipulated. It was important because any two ideas could be associated together to control the environment of children so that they were exposed to the most useful and virtuous associations. Denying any chance that knowledge or morality is innate put extra emphasis on the importance of environment, especially when minds were young and malleable and the potential for progress and perfection was at its peak.  Priestley’s optimism now had a practical outlet. It was up to the educator, whose actions had a sole and necessary effect on children, to prepare the next generation for virtue and improvement that could be unlimited.

Priestley was careful to prepare a curriculum which would optimize healthy physical, moral and intellectual development, and this meant using the theory of association to design learning aids and make practical recommendations. Association meant that the most useful learning involved natural discussions and digressions and that experience rather than theory was always to be more memorable. Priestley’s ideal lessons involved question and answer sessions and group discussions. Both sides of a controversy were to be understood and all queries and objections brought to light. Priestley was keen on the use of mechanical aids in teaching, such as his successful charts of history and biography. He wanted to convey knowledge in an ordered and regular manner so that it was easily learned and remembered.

b. History and Language

Priestley made significant contribution to the development of a modern curriculum. His philosophical work was enriched by his experience as a teacher. Priestley put together a philosophy of history and a linguistic theory while preparing lectures for publication. For Priestley, history was a useful practical tool. It appealed to him because it could be used to demonstrate God’s divine purpose and could be observed in order to understand political and economic developments more fully. Priestley writes that history is like the experiments made by the air pump or electrical machine. It demonstrates the workings of nature and God and therefore provides the foundations for theoretical speculation. Like personal experience, history was a swifter teacher than abstract ideas. It allowed one to assemble the evidences of the divine plan and unveiled the plans of Providence. History could increase our understanding of God and the ways in which he used short-term suffering for the greater good; that which appeared evil was actually essential for progress and would terminate in the perfection of humanity.

Priestley hoped that to view history in this way would increase virtue and piety in the minds of his pupils and infuse all with a sense of optimism. He also wanted to encourage his students to see history as a laboratory, where all manner of political systems had been tried and tested. It provided the data needed for sound political philosophy. A liberal government, unfettered thought and belief and free trade could be seen historically to stimulate progress. Furthermore, accurate study of all aspects of the past, from domestic lives to warfare, would increase knowledge of humanity and therefore help future advancements. This meant that Priestley advocated the study of modern history including arts, language, food, clothing, manners and sentiments. He extended the number of sources traditionally seen as relevant to historical study to include material evidence such as coins, medals, inscriptions, fortifications and town plans.

Alongside history Priestley had a long standing fascination with linguistics, and over the course of life as a teacher developed a coherent philosophy of language. He stressed the importance to teaching language and insisted his student be well educated in the vernacular. He tells us that English is as vital as Latin, adding that it is a serious defect in any gentleman not to be able to read and write well in his own language. Priestley made a number of contributions to the study of English grammar, and his influence in the field extended well into the nineteenth century. As part of his grammatical work, Priestley highlighted the importance of understanding that language is in a continual process of development and that the only really useful standard by which to establish rules of language was to look at custom and usage.

These observations were part of a broader theory of language development. Priestley tells us that language is human, not a direct gift from God. It grows up slowly as words gain meaning through association, first simple words and then more complicated constructs. It develops slowly and irregularly and its symbols are arbitrary and often subject to changes of use and meaning. This means that, in order to translate accurately and fully understand the languages of the past, careful cultural study is needed in order to furnish us with enough information to understand meaning and usage. Individual language acquisition to some extent mirrors this process. Young children grasp the meaning of words through constant association between object and word. Furthermore, Priestley tells us that the association of ideas is important for understanding the impact of language, especially figurative language, on the mind. Words can trigger whole strings of associations based on both cultural and individual experience.

c. Reactions and Criticisms

Priestley’s publications on education were generally well received at the time and ran into many editions. Modern commentators, however, have highlighted concern that Priestley used his status as a historian and educator to propagate his Unitarian theology. Arthur Sheps says that history was often written for “pugnacious and apologetic” reasons and that being a historian was a way of gaining moral authority. Priestley gained a historical reputation and was then able to use it to provide evidence for his scriptural exegesis (Belleguic 149). John McLachlan goes even further. He sees Priestley as someone whose religious belief overruled his more rational pursuits. He let a hopeful optimism in the workings of Providence get in the way of careful historical thinking (260).

8. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Works

i. Theology

Priestley’s first religious publications grew out of his role as a teacher of youth while employed as a minister at Leeds. In 1767 he published A Catechism for Children and Young Persons and followed this in 1772 with A Scripture Catechism, consisting of a Series of Questions, with References to the Scriptures instead of Answers. Although these early works were intended to lay down the basics rather than spark doctrinal controversy, hints of Priestley’s unorthodox views creep through the conventional veneer. In 1772 Priestley published his Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion, a long and detailed exposition of the central beliefs of rational dissent, drawn from a variety of rational and liberal theologians. Many of Priestley’s works contain a similar emphasis on summarizing and streamlining the views of other thinkers, such as A Free Address to Protestant Dissenters on the Subject of the Lords Supper (1768) and Considerations on Differences of Opinion among Christians (1769).These formed part of a plethora of publications answering his already fierce critics, and Priestley continued to court controversy when he published An Appeal to the Serious and Candid professors of Christianity in 1770. Many answers and many replies followed, and the same opinions were repeated in Familiar Illustration (1772).

In 1768 Priestley established the Theological Repository,a theological journal with lofty aims to further truth through unfettered and candid debate. This allowed Priestley to rewrite some of his now familiar arguments under a variety of pseudonyms, while his long-running series of Letters to a Philosophical Unbeliever gave him space to challenge the views of those whose faith had been lost through the reading of modern philosophers. With strong leaning towards historical modes of arguments and an interest in the history of early Christianity, Priestley published his 1777 A Harmony of the Evangelists, in Greek,followed by a version in English in 1780. Other important historical studies include Priestley’s History of the Corruptions of Christianity,first published in 1782, and An History of Early Opinions concerning Jesus Christ in 1786. In the 1790s and following his emigration, Priestley continued to defend his heterodox opinions on the Trinity with his Defences of Unitarianism series and the 1795 Unitarianism Explained and Defended, and he showed an increasing interest in biblical prophecy and the impending millennium, for example in his 1794 The Present State of Europe Compared with Antient Prophecies.

ii. Politics and Political Philosophy

In 1768 Priestley published his Essay on the First Principles of Government. Widely read and well regarded, the Essay was Priestley’s first political publication. The following year Priestley published a pamphlet, The Present State of Liberty in Great Britain and her colonies, which reiterated many of the concerns grappled with in the Essay. 1769 also saw the publication of three works dealing with Protestant dissent, each addressed to liberal dissenters themselves or intended to inform others about their principles. In 1787 Priestley again entered political terrain with An Account of a Society for encouraging the Industrious Poor,in which his liberal individualism was more than obvious. Many of Priestley’s political publications are evidence of the close link between his politics and theology. In 1769 he published Considerations on Church Authority, A View of the Principles and Conduct of Protestant Dissenters and A Free Address to Protestant Dissenters as such,all of which highlight the influence of Priestley’s theology on his political philosophy. Priestley also wrote on religious liberty in An Address to Protestant Dissenterson the Approaching Election of Members of Parliament and overviewed current arguments in favor of toleration for his patron Lord Shelburne in 1773. In 1780 Priestley controversially came out in favor of toleration for Roman Catholics, and again stirred up trouble a decade later by entering the vitriolic debate on the repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts, with letters to Pitt and Burke and a defense of his opinions addressed to the people of Birmingham.

iii. Association of Ideas

We first encounter Priestley’s associationist opinions in his Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion, which he began writing while still at Daventry and published in three volumes between 1772 and 1774. The Institutes and a number of later publications on the same topicinclude an attack on the principles of the common sense philosophy of Oswald, Reid and Beattie. The theme is continued in Priestley’s edition of Hartley’s Observations on Man in 1775, where Priestley cut out much of Hartley’s work on physiology and theology in order to concentrate solely on expounding the doctrine of associationism.

iv. Matter and Spirit

David Hartley had vigorously denied accusations of materialism, but Priestley’s own monist views emerged first in his edition of Hartley’s Observations on Man in 1775. Although he removed some of Hartley’s physiological exploration and theological concerns, Priestley appended a number of essays to his edition of the work that took Hartley’s doctrine of vibrations and its materialist implications much further than the author would have liked. In 1777 Priestley set out to elucidate and defend his ideas on the unity of body and soul in his Disquisitions relating to Matter and Spirit,causing further offense and controversy. The following year, Priestley engaged in an exchange with Richard Price in which he defended his view of matter as capable of thought and perception and his disbelief in the existence of a nonphysical soul.

v. Philosophical Necessity

Priestley’s interest in the determinist philosophy he called “philosophical necessity” emerges first in his Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion,where Priestley’s utilitarianism entails the direct intervention of a divine Providence in order to ensure that all suffering is ultimate good and the unhappiness of a few will always benefit the majority. The doctrine also plays a crucial part in his Examination of the Scottish common sense philosophers and his Disquisitions…. In 1777 Priestley outlined and defined these ideas in a work dedicated to the system, the Doctrine of Philosophical Necessity Illustrated.

vi. Philosophy of Education, History and Linguistics

Priestley’s ideas on education emerge first in his Essay on the First Principles of Government, which actually took form out of his remarks on a well known code of education. In 1765, while working as a tutor at Warrington, he published a major work, the Essay on a Course of Liberal Education. In 1778 the Miscellaneous Observations Relating to Education outlined this syllabus in detail. In his 1788 Lectures on History and General Policy,Priestley’s thoughts on education are elucidated with clarity and, along with his published syllabuses, lectures and teaching aids, the work allow us valuable insight into his educational philosophy. Priestley also produced teaching aids: a Chart of Biography in 1765 and New Chart of History in 1769, which used timelines to illustrate the major figures and time periods in history. Some of Priestley’s earliest publications were about language and grew from his post as tutor of languages and belles-lettres at Warrington. In 1761 Priestley published The Rudiments of English Grammar,and this was followed a year later by A Course of Lectures on the Theory of Language and Universal Grammar. Priestley was an influential grammarian, and his publications were widely read and well received; he is notable for his emphasis on custom and usage as the most useful standards by which to assess correct language. In 1777 his Course of Lectures on Oratory and Criticism explored rhetoric, style and taste, introducing the importance of psychology and human nature as the means by which to understand these aspects of language.

b. General Secondary Sources

  • Priestley, Joseph. Autobiography of Joseph Priestley. Bath: Adams and Dart, 1970.
  • Schofield, Robert E. The Enlightenment of Joseph Priestley: A Study of his Life and Work from 1733-1773. Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997.
  • Schofield, Robert E. The Enlightened Joseph Priestley: A Study of His Life and Work from 1773-1804. Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004.
  • Truman Schwartz, and John McEvoy, eds. Motion toward perfection: The Achievement of Joseph Priestley. Boston MA: Unitarian Universalist Association, 1990.
  • Willey, Basil. The Eighteenth-Century Background. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962.

i. Theology

  • Brooks, Marilyn. “Priestley’s Plan for a Continually Improving Translation of the Bible.” Enlightenment and Dissent 15 (1996): 89-106.
  • Clark, Jonathan C.D. English Society, 1688-1832: Ideology, Social Structure and Political Practice during the Ancien Regime. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.
  • Fitzpatrick, Martin. “Joseph Priestley, politics and ancient prophecy.” Enlightenment and Dissent 10 (1991): 104-109.
  • Fruchtman, Jack. “The Apocalyptic Politics of Richard Price and Joseph Priestley: A Study in Late Eighteenth-Century English Republican Millennialism.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 4 (1983):
  • Garrett, Clarke. “Joseph Priestley, the Millennium and the French Revolution.” Journal of the History of Ideas 34. 1 (1973): 51-66.
  • Haakonssen, Knud, ed. Enlightenment and Religion: Rational Dissent in Eighteenth-Century Britain. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.

ii. Politics

  • Canovan, Margaret. “Paternalistic Liberalism: Joseph Priestley on Rank and Inequality.” Enlightenment and Dissent 2 (1983): 23-37.
  • Canovan, Margaret. “The Un-Benthamite Utilitarianism of Joseph Priestley.” Journal of the History of Ideas 45. 3 (1984): 435-450.
  • Fitzpatrick, Martin. “Toleration and Truth.” Enlightenment and Dissent 1 (1982): 3-31.
  • Kramnick, Isaac. “Eighteenth-Century Science and Radical Social Theory: The case of Joseph Priestley’s Scientific Liberalism.” The Journal of British Studies 25. 1 (1986): 1-30.

iii. Association of Ideas

  • Bowen Oberg, Barbara. “David Hartley and the Association of Ideas.” Journal of the History of Ideas 37. 3 (1976): 441-454.
  • Faurot. JH. “Reid’s Answer to Joseph Priestley.” Journal of the History of Ideas 39. 2 (1978): 285-292.
  • Kallich, Martin. “The Association of Ideas and Critical Theory: Hobbes, Locke, and Addison.” ELH 12. 4 (1945): 290-315.

iv. Matter and Spirit

  • Schofield, Robert E. “Joseph Priestley, the Theory of Oxidation and the Nature of Matter.” Journal of the History of Ideas 25. 2 (1964): 285-294.
  • Schofield, Robert E. “Monism, Unitarianism and Phlogiston in Joseph Priestley’s Natural Philosophy.” Enlightenment and Dissent 19 (2000): 78-90.
  • Laboucheix, Henri. “Chemistry, Materialism and Theology in the Work of Joseph Priestley.” Price-Priestley Newsletter 1 (1977): 31-48.

v. Philosophical Necessity

  • Fitzpatrick, Martin. ” ‘In the Glass of History’: The Nature and Purpose of Historical Knowledge in the Thought of Joseph Priestley.” Enlightenment and Dissent 17 (1998): 172-209.
  • Harris, James A. “Joseph Priestley and the ‘Proper Doctrine of Philosophical Necessity.” Enlightenment and Dissent 20 (2001): 23-44.
  • Hatch, Ronald B. ” Joseph Priestley: An Addition to Hartley’s Observations.” Journal of the History of Ideas 36. 3 (1975): 548-550.

vi. Education

  • Belleguic, Thierry ed. Representations of Time in Eighteenth-Century London. London Ont.:  Academic Printing and Publishing,1999.
  • McLachlan, John. “Joseph Priestley and the study of History.” Transactions of the Unitarian Historical Society 19. 4 (1990): 452-463.
  • Watts, Ruth. “Joseph Priestley and Education.” Enlightenment and Dissent 2 (1983): 83-100.

Author Information

Elizabeth Kingston
Email: e.s.kingston@sussex.ac.uk
University of Sussex
Great Britain

Phenomenology and Time-Consciousness

Edmund Husserl, founder of the phenomenological movement, employs the term “phenomenology” in its etymological sense as the activity of giving an account (logos) of the way things appear (phainomenon). Hence, a phenomenology of time attempts to account for the way things appear to us as temporal or how we experience time. Phenomenology offers neither metaphysical speculation about time’s relation to motion (as does Aristotle), nor the psychological character of time’s past and future moments (as does Augustine), nor transcendental-cognitive presumptions about time as a mind-dependent construct (as does Kant). Rather, it investigates the essential structures of consciousness that make possible the unified perception of an object that occurs across successive moments. In its nuanced attempts to provide an account of the form of intentionality presupposed by all experience, the phenomenology of time-consciousness provides important contributions to philosophical issues such as perception, memory, expectation, imagination, habituation, self-awareness, and self-identity over time.Within the phenomenological movement, time-consciousness is central. The most fundamental and important of all phenomenological problems, time-consciousness pervades Husserl’s theories of constitution, evidence, objectivity and inter-subjectivity. Within continental philosophy broadly construed, the movements of existential phenomenology, hermeneutics, post-modernism and post-structuralism, as well as the work of Martin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Hans George Gadamer and Jacques Derrida, all return in important ways to Husserl’s theory of time-consciousness. After devoting considerable attention to Husserl’s reflections on time-consciousness, this article treats the developments of the phenomenological account of time in Heidegger, Sartre, and Merleau-Ponty.

Table of Contents

  1. Husserl, Phenomenology, and Time-consciousness
    1. Phenomenological Reduction and Time-Consciousness
    2. Phenomenology, Experienced Time and Temporal Objects
    3. Phenomenology Not to be Confused with Augustine’s Theory of Time
    4. Phenomenology and the Consciousness of Internal Time: Living-Present
    5. The Living-Present’s Double-Intentionality
  2. Heidegger on Phenomenology and Time
    1. Heidegger and Dasein’s Temporality
  3. Sartre and the Temporality of the “For-Itself”
  4. Merleau-Ponty and the Phenomenology of Ambiguity: The Subject as Time
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Husserl, Phenomenology, and Time-Consciousness

Phenomenology maintains that consciousness, in its very nature as activity, is intentional. In its care for and interest in the world, consciousness transcends itself and attends to the world by a myriad of intentional acts, e.g., perceiving, remembering, imagining, willing, judging, etc.—hence Husserl’s claim that intentional consciousness is correlated (that is, co-related) to the world. Although the notion of intentionality includes the practical connotations of willful interest, it fundamentally denotes the relation conscious has to objects in the world. Of these many modes of intentionality, time-consciousness arguably constitutes the central one for understanding consciousness’s intentional, transcending character. Put differently, time-consciousness underscores these other intentional acts because these other intentional acts presuppose or include the consciousness of internal time. For this and other reasons, Husserl, in his On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893-1917) (1991), deemed time-consciousness the most “important and difficult of all phenomenological problems” (PCIT, No. 50, No. 39). Together with Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Syntheses (2001), Cartesian Meditations (1997) and Die ‘Bernaur Manuskripte’ über das Zeitbewußtseins 1917/18 (2001), this work seeks to account for this fundamental form of intentionality that the experience of temporal (e.g., spatial and auditory) and non-temporal (e.g., mathematical and logical) objects alike presupposes.

All experience entails a temporal horizon, according to phenomenology. This claim seems indisputable: we rush, we long, we endure, we plan, we reminisce, we perceive, we speak, we listen, etc. To highlight the difficulty and importance of explaining the structures of consciousness that make possible the experience of time, Husserl, like his contemporaries Henri Bergson and William James, favored the example of listening to a melody. For a melody to be a melody, it must have distinguishable though inseparable moments. And for consciousness to apprehend a melody, its structure must have features capable of respecting these features of temporal objects. Certainly, we can “time” the moments of a temporal object, a melody, with discrete seconds (measured by clocks). But this scientific and psychological account of time, which, following Newton, considers time as an empty container of discrete, atomistic nows, is not adequate to the task of explaining how consciousness experiences a temporal object. In this case of Newtonian time, each tone spreads its content out in a corresponding now but each now and thus each tone remains separated from every other. Newtonian time can explain the separation of moments in time but not the continuity of these moments. Since temporal objects, like a melody or a sentence, are characterized by and experienced as a unity across a succession, an account of the perception of a temporal object must explain how we synthesize a flowing object in such a way that we (i) preserve the position of each tone without (ii) eliminating the unity of the melody or (iii) relating each tone by collapsing the difference in the order between the tones.

Bergson, James and Husserl realized that if our consciousness were structured in such a way that each moment occurred in strict separation from every other (like planks of a picket fence), then we never could apprehend or perceive the unity of our experiences or enduring objects in time otherwise than as a convoluted patchwork. To avoid this quantitative view of time as a container, Husserl’s phenomenology attempts to articulate the conscious experience of lived-time as the prerequisite for the Newtonian, scientific notion of time’s reality as a march of discrete, atomistic moments measured by clocks and science. In this way, Husserl’s approach to time-consciousness shares much in common with these popular nineteenth Century treatments of time-consciousness. Yet to appreciate fully Husserl’s account of time-consciousness—the uniqueness of his contribution beyond other popular nineteenth Century accounts (deWarren 2008), and the priority he affords it in his own thinking—we first must understand phenomenology’s methodological device, the phenomenological reduction.

a. Phenomenological Reduction and Time-consciousness

Husserl believed that every experience for intentional conscious has a temporal character or background. We experience spatial objects, both successive (e.g., a passing automobile) and stationary (e.g., a house), as temporal. We do not, on the other hand, experience all temporal objects (e.g., an imagined sequence or spoken sentence) as spatial. For the phenomenologist, even non-temporal objects (e.g., geometrical postulates) presuppose time because we experience their timeless character over time; for example, it takes time for me to count from one to five although these numbers themselves remain timeless, and it takes some a long time to understand and appreciate the force of timeless geometrical postulates (PCIT § 45; see Brough 1991). To this point, common sense views of time may find Husserl agreeable. Such agreement ceases, however, for those who expect Husserl to proclaim that time resembles an indefinite series of nows (like seconds) passing from the future through the present into the past (as a river flows from the top of a mountain into a lake). This common sense conception of time understands the future as not-yet-now, the past as no-longer-now, and the present as what now-is, a thin, ephemeral slice of time. Such is the natural attitude’s view of time, the time of the world, of measurement, of clocks, calendars, science, management, calculation, cultural and anthropological history, etc. This common sense view is not the phenomenologist’s, who suspends all naïve presuppositions through the reduction.

Phenomenology’s fundamental methodological device, the “phenomenological reduction,” involves the philosopher’s bracketing of her natural belief about the world, much like in mathematics when we bracket questions about whether numbers are mind-independent objects. This natural belief Husserl terms the “natural attitude,” under which label he includes dogmatic scientific and philosophical beliefs, as well as uncritical, every-day, common sense assumptions. Not a denial of the external world, like Descartes methodologically proposed, the phenomenological reduction neutralizes these dimensions of the natural attitude towards experience in order to examine more closely experience and its objects just as they appear to conscious experience (Ideas I §§ 44-49; Sokolowski 2000). Put less technically, one could consider phenomenology a critical rather than habitual or dogmatic approach to understanding the world. To call phenomenology a critical enterprise means that it is an enterprise guided by the goal of faithfully describing what experience gives us—thus phenomenology’s famed return to the things themselves—rather than defaulting to what we with our dogmas and prejudices expect from experience—thus phenomenology’s famed self-description as a “pressupositionless science” (Logical Investigations)

That the phenomenologist suspends her natural attitude means that a phenomenology of time bypasses the inquiry into both natural time considered as a metaphysical entity and scientific world time considered as a quantitative construct available for observation and necessary for calculation (PCIT § 2). Without prejudice to the sciences, the reduction also suspends all philosophical presuppositions about time’s metaphysical, psychological or transcendental-cognitive nature. Hence, the phenomenological reduction enables Husserl to examine the structures of consciousness that allow us to apprehend and thus characterize the modes of temporal objects appearing as now, past or future. As Husserlians often express it, Husserl concerns himself not with the content of an object or event in time (e.g., listening to a sentence) but with how an object or event appears as temporal (Brough 1991).

As this discussion about the effect of the reduction on Husserl’s account of time implies, Husserl distinguishes three levels of time for our consideration: (3) world[ly] or objective time; (2) personalistic or subjective time; and (1) the consciousness of internal time. We can make assessments and measurements, e.g., declaring things simultaneous or enduring, at the level of objective time only because we experience a succession of mental states in our subjective conscious life. Our awareness of objective time thus depends upon our awareness of subjective time. We are aware of subjective time, however, as a unity across succession of mental states because the consciousness of internal time provides a consciousness of succession that makes possible the apprehension and unification of successive mental states (PCIT No. 40; Sokolowski 2000).

Husserl’s contention that all experience presupposes (1) at first appears as an exhaustively subjective denial of time’s reality, particularly in light of the reduction. Moreover, since we believe that natural time precedes and will outlast our existence, we tend to consider (3) more fundamental than (1). As such, some may find Husserl’s privileging of (1) counterintuitive (Sokolowski 2000). Of course, such a passively received attitude or belief about time and our place therein amounts to cultural prejudice in favor of the scientific view of human beings as mere physical entities subject to the relentless march of time. A brief example may help us better understand Husserl’s objective and thus dispel these reservations: When listening to a fifty minute lecture (level 3), one may experience it as slow or as fast (level 2). Still, each listener’s consciousness has a structure (level 1) that makes it possible for her to apprehend (3) and (2). This structure in (1) functions in such a way that each listener can agree about the objective duration of the lecture while disagreeing about their subjective experience of it. If (1) changed subjectively as (2), then we never could reach a consensus or objective agreement about (3). For the phenomenologist, who seeks to give an account (logos) of the way things appear as temporal, the manifest phenomenon of time is not fundamentally worldly/objective or psychological/subjective time (Brough, 1991). Concerned with how temporal phenomena manifest themselves to conscious perceivers, the phenomenologist examines (1), namely the structures of intentional consciousness that make possible the disclosure of time as a worldly or psychological phenomenon. To begin to explain the priority of (1), Husserl highlights how the now and past are not a part of time considered according to the natural attitude view of (3) or (2).

b. Phenomenology, Experienced Time and Temporal Objects

It should be clear already that Husserl does not privilege the Newtonian view of time as a series of now, past and future moments considered as “things,” containers for “things,” or points on the imagined “time-line” (PCIT §§ 1-2, No. 51). Conversely, he considers the present, past, and future as modes of appearing or modes by which we experience things and events as now, no longer (past) or not yet (future). For example, though I experience the event of the space shuttle Columbia’s explosion as past, the past is not some metaphysical container of which the Columbia shuttle tragedy is a part; the past is the mode in which the Columbia shuttle tragedy appears to me. This does not mean that Husserl views time as something that flows willy-nilly, or that the time of the Columbia shuttle tragedy is contemporaneous with the time of your reading this entry. Husserl acknowledges that “time is fixed and that time flows” (PCIT § 31, No. 51). When we count from one to ten, two always occurs after one and before three regardless of how far our counting progresses; likewise, the temporal event of the Columbia shuttle tragedy occupies an unchanging, determinate temporal position in world-time, “frozen” between what came before and after it, ever-receding into the past of world time (history) without losing its place. Phenomenology helps to clarify the common sense understanding of time as a container—a metaphysical placeholder—that contains events. This common sense understanding of time as a container persists because we forget that we first understand these fixed temporal relations and position thanks to the modes of appearing, namely now, past and future (Brough, 1991).

As Husserlians put it, Husserl considers the now as conscious life’s absolute point of orientation from which things appearing as past and future alter (PCIT §§ 7, 14, 31, 33). Since the now and past are not a part of time but the modes by which things appear to me as temporal, each now that becomes past can accommodate many events simultaneously, e.g., one may remember where one was when the shuttle exploded, what anchor man one might have heard, what channel one was watching, who one was with, etc. (PCIT § 33; Brough 2005). The very fact that this experience becomes part of one’s conscious life implies that one experienced it in the now. Moreover, I can remember what events preceded and succeeded this tragedy, e.g., that my grade-school class filed into the auditorium or that my teacher sniffled as she led us back to our classroom. The very fact that one can place the event in relation to preceding and succeeding events implies both that one never experiences the now in isolation from the past and future and that one experiences the relation between now, past and future without collapsing these three modes of appearing (PCIT § 31).

These reflections on temporal objects and experienced time indicate that the flow of our conscious life is the condition for the possibility of the disclosure of temporal objects and experienced time, a condition that begins from the privileged standpoint of the now, which, again, nevertheless occurs in an interplay with past and future rather than in isolation from them. More than this descriptive account of some essential features of time’s appearance, however, Husserl’s phenomenology of time-consciousness concerns itself with the structure of the act of perceiving that allows us to apprehend a temporal object as unified across its manifold moments. Indeed, our preliminary reflections on time depend upon a series of successive events but a succession of experiences or perceptions is not yet an experience or perception of succession. Husserl turns his attention toward (1)—the transcendental level of internal time-consciousness—in order to explain how (2) and (3) become constituted conscious experiences.

c. Phenomenology Not to be Confused with Augustine’s Theory of Time

When we say that Husserl focuses his attention on (2) and (1), we mean that his writings on time-consciousness attempt to explain how time and experienced time appear to consciousness. This explanation begins, for Husserl, by confronting the paradox of how to account for the unity of a process of change that continues for an extended period of time, a unity that develops in succession, e.g., listening to a sentence or watching a film (PCIT No. 50). To unravel this theoretical knot, Husserl believed, philosophy must realize that, beyond the temporality of the object, the act of perceiving has its own temporal character (PCIT No. 32). Consider the phrase, “Peter Piper picked a pack of pickled peppers” at the word, “picked.” In this example, I hear “picked” yet somehow must hold onto “Peter” and “Piper” in just the order in which I originally apprehended them. Husserl contends that insofar as a temporal object such as a sentence occurs across time in a now that includes what is no longer, consciousness too must extend beyond the now; indeed, if all I heard were different words in each new now without connecting them to past related words, then I never would hear a sentence but only a barrage of sounding words. Consciousness not only must extend beyond the now, but it also must extend in such a way that it preserves the determinate temporal order of the words and modifies their orientation to the now. Indeed, if I preserved the words in a simultaneous or haphazard order, then I never would hear a sentence but only a jumble of words.

To account for the unity of succession in a way that avoids these difficulties, Husserl will not explain consciousness’ extension beyond the now in an act of perception by merely importing a view of Newtonian time into the mind or translating such a view of natural time into a transcendental condition of the mind. This was Kant’s dogmatic failure in the “Transcendental Aesthetic” of his Critique of Pure Reason (Crisis 104 ff.). Nor will Husserl’s account of the “perception” of a temporal object conclude, as Augustine’s did, that consciousness extends beyond the now thanks to its “present of things no longer” and a “present of thing yet to come” that echoed Augustine’s description of the soul’s distention (PCIT § 1; Kelly 2005). Such an Augustinian account of “the present of thing no longer” cannot explain the perception of a temporal object because it traps the heard contents in the now (as a present of things no longer remains present nevertheless). Augustine’s notion of a “present of things no longer” can explain consciousness’ extension beyond the now only as a result of a memorial recollection. But memory drags past nows—and the contents occurring therein—back into the present, thereby rendering past moments simultaneous with a present moment and effectively halting time’s flow. Any account of temporal awareness that explains consciousness’’ extension beyond the now by recourse to memory conflates the acts of memory and perception and thus proves inadequate to explain the conscious perception of a temporal object. Memory gives not the perception of a temporal object but always only what it is capable of giving: a memory (PCIT No. 50; Brough, 1991).

With respect to this problem of conflating memory and perception, Husserl indicates two consequences. First, the distention of the now through memory leaves us with a situation where, as Husserl admits, at any given moment I perceive only the actually present word of the sentence; hence, the whole of the enduring sentence appears in an act that is predominantly memory and only marginally perception (PCIT § 12). Experience tells us, however, that we “perceive” (hear) the whole sentence across its present (now) and absent (past or future) words rather than hearing its present word and remembering (or expecting) the others (PCIT § 7). Indeed, something quite different occurs when I hear a sentence and when I remember the event of the Columbia shuttle tragedy. Second, having conflated the past and the present by making recourse to memory as a means to explain consciousness’ extension beyond the now, such a theory violates the law of non-contradiction, for the mode of the present cannot present something as past, but only as present, and vice versa (PCIT No. 14). In short, on such Augustinian theory, everything remains ‘now’ and nothing can overcome that fact (Brough 1993; Kelly 2005).

The problem of the consciousness of time becomes properly phenomenological when Husserl asks how one explains the original consciousness of the past upon which one can recognize an object as past rather remembering a past moment. Put differently, the problem of time becomes phenomenological when Husserl begins to seek an account of the generation of a sense or consciousness of pastness upon which (the) perception (of a temporal object) and memory depend. Indeed, to claim that we remember something presupposes the very sense of the past we are trying to explain (Sokolowski 2000). An adequate account of the perception of a temporal object first requires a discussion of how consciousness extends beyond the now, i.e., an account of the difference between the consciousness of succession and the remembrance of a succession of consciousnesses (PCIT No. 47; Brough 1972).

d. Phenomenology and the Consciousness of Internal Time: Living-Present

Unlike previous theories addressing the consciousness of time, Husserl shifts his attention from an account of what is perceived as temporal to an account of the temporality of that which does the perceiving. Put differently, he tightens his focus, so to speak, recognizing that when one perceives a temporal object one also experiences the flow of the intentional act of perception (Brough 1991). In order to solve the aforementioned paradox of how to account for the unity of a temporal object over the succession of its parts (e.g., the sentence across it many words), Husserl turns his attention to consciousness’ lived experience, to the structures of consciousness at level (1) that make possible the unification of the manifold moments of that act of perception at level (2) and the perceived object at level (3) (PCIT No. 41).

To explain how consciousness extends beyond the now in its act of perception, Husserl begins to think that consciousness itself must have a “width.” And this is just to say that consciousness must have a sense of the past and a sense of the future to begin with (Sokolowski 2000). To this end, Husserl attempts to argue that consciousness extends to capture past moments of experience and temporal objects therein by “retaining” and “protending” the elapsed and yet to come phases of its experience and thereby the past words that do not presently exist (when I reach a certain point in listening to a sentence) yet remain related to the present experience (PCIT, No. 54; Zahavi, 2000). Rather than attempt to explain the unity of a succession of discrete consciousnesses correlated with a succession of discrete moments in a temporal object, Husserl attempts to explain the consciousness of succession that makes possible the apprehension of a succession of consciousnesses.

Husserl thus speaks almost exclusively of consciousness’ living-present, and he characterizes this life of consciousness with three distinguishable yet inseparable moments: primal impression, retention, and protention. This tripartite form or intentional structure of the living-present should not be thought of as discrete, independently occurring pieces in a process (or procession). Such an atomistic view of the living-present’s structure will not work. Were the moments of the living-present thought as such, we would have to remember or re-present each past state of consciousness. Not a knife-edged moment, Husserl describes the life of consciousness, the living-present, as extended like a comets tail, or saddle-back, to use the image William James preferred, moments comprising an identity in a manifold (James) (PCIT § 10).

Consciousness is no longer a punctual box with several acts functioning in it simultaneously and directing themselves to the appropriate instances of the object. Admittedly, it is difficult to talk of this level of the consciousness of internal time, and Husserl himself claims we are reduced to metaphors (PCIT §§ 34-36). In a perhaps inadequate metaphor, Husserl’s theory of the living-present might be thought of as presenting a picture of consciousness as a “block” with relevant “compartments” distinguished by “filters” or “membranes,” each connected to and aware of the other. In this life of consciousness, Husserl maintains, consciousness apprehends itself and that which flows within it. As Husserl describes it, retention perceives the elapsed conscious phase of experience at level (1) and thereby the past of the experience at level (2) and the past of the object at level (3). The moments of retention and protention in the tripartite form of consciousness that is the living-present make possible consciousness’ extension beyond the now in such a way that avoids the problem of simultaneity and enables consciousness to attend determinately to the temporal phases of the object of perception. Unlike Augustine’s notion of a present of things no longer, which remembered or re-presented a past content in the now, Husserl draws a distinction between memory and retention. On the one hand, memory provides a “consciousness of the [instant] that has been” (PCIT § 12). On the other hand, retention “designates the intentional relation of phase of consciousness to phase of consciousness” (PCIT No. 50), i.e., a “consciousness of the past of the [experience]” (PCIT No. 47) and thereby the instant of the object that has been.

This distinction does not mean that memory differs from retention merely as a matter of temporal distance, the former reaching back further into time. Rather, Husserl draws a structural distinction between memory and retention: The former is an active, mediated, objectifying awareness of a past object, while the latter is a passive, immediate, non-objectifying, conscious awareness of the elapsed phase of conscious experience. First, memory reveals itself to be an act under the voluntary auspices of consciousness, whereas retention occurs passively. Second, while memories occur faster or slower and can be edited or reconstructed, retention occurs “automatically” and cannot be varied at one’s whim (though it can, at level 2, be experienced as faster or slower, as noted above in our example of listening to a lecture). Third, remembering re-produces a completed temporal object, whereas retention works at completing the consciousness of a temporal object, unifying its presence and absence. Fourth, as the representation of a new intentional object, memory is an act of presenting something as past, as absent, whereas the retention that attempts to account for the perception of an object over time constitutes an intuition of that which has just passed and is now in some sense absent, an act of presenting something as a unity in succession. Fifth, memory provides us with a new intentional object not now intuitively presented as the thing itself “in person”—e.g., remembering my friend’s face when she is absent from me in this moment—whereas retention accounts for the perception across time of an object now intuitively presented for me—e.g., the progressive clarity of my perception of my friends face as she approaches me from the street. Sixth, despite memory’s character as a presenting act, when it represents to me my friend’s face it represents it in the now with a change in temporal index or a qualification of the remembered object as past, whereas retention holds on to that which is related to my present perception in a mode of absences (e.g., as when I hear “picked” while retaining “Peter Piper”). Seventh, memory depends upon or is “founded” upon retention as the condition of its very possibility, for memory could never represent an object as a completed whole if retention did not first play its role in constituting across time the object now remembered (PCIT, No 50; Zahavi; Brough 1991.

To explain time-consciousness at level (1), then, Husserl comes to favor the theory that consciousness of the past and future must be explained by the intentional direction of retention and protention to the past and future of consciousness’ lived experience rather than a mode of memorial apprehension that issues from the now to animate past impressions. Returning to our above example of listening to a sentence, when I hear “picked,” I do not remember “Peter Piper.” Rather, I intuitively perceive the sentence as a temporally differentiated yet nonetheless related to the current [of this] experience. To be sure, the words do not occur simultaneously; each word passes and yet remains relevant to the presently lived experience. The interpreter of Husserl must take care at this point not to read the turn to consciousness as entailing a loss of the perceived; rather, what is retained is precisely the impressional moment as experienced in that moment and having been retained in this experience. In fact, this account allows that the words, “Peter Piper,” have passed, metaphysically, but remain on hand in this apprehension of “picked” thanks to consciousness’ retention of its past phase of experience wherein it heard the related words, “Peter Piper.” As a moment of the intentional relationship between the phases of consciousness’ living-present, retention “automatically” experiences its intuitively present conscious life and determinately provides a consciousness of the past of the experience.

Husserl’s account of the living-present ultimately articulates the condition for the possibility of all objectifying acts, a condition itself not objectified. As such, the discussion of retention brings us to the bottom line, the final and most difficult layer of intentional analysis, namely consciousness’ double-intentionality (PCIT No. 54).

e. The Living-Present’s Double-Intentionality

The living-present marks the essence of all manifestation, for in its automatic or passive self-givenness the living-present makes possible the apprehension of the elapsed phases of the life of consciousness and thereby the elapsed moments of the transcendent spatio-temporal object of which the conscious self is aware. This is possible, Husserl argues, because the “flow” (PCIT § 37) of conscious life enjoys two modes of simultaneously operative intentionality. One mode of intentionality, which he terms Langsintentionalität, or horizontal intentionality, runs along protention and retention in the flow of the living-present. The other mode of intentionality, which Husserl terms the Querintentionalität, or transverse intentionality, runs from the living-present to the object of which consciousness is aware (PCIT No. 45; Brough 1991).

Husserl explains the unity of these two intentional modes as a consciousness wherein the Querintentionalität is capable of intending a temporal object across its successive appearings because the Langsintentionalität provides consciousness’ self-awareness and awareness of its experiences over time. As an absolute flowing identity in a manifold—of primal impression, retention and protention—the stream of conscious life in the living-present constitutes the procession of words in the sentence that appears and is experienced sequentially in accordance with the temporally distinct position of each word. Husserl thus describes consciousness as having a “double-intentionality”: the Querintentionalität, which objectively and actively grasps the transcendent object—the heard sentence—and the Langsintentionalität, which non-objectively and automatically or passively grasps consciousness’ lived-experience—the flow of the living-present (PCIT No. 45). That I hear the words of the fifty-minute lecture and feel myself inspired or bored is possible only on the basis of my self-awareness or consciousness of internal time.

Though Husserl terms this consciousness that is the special form of horizontal intentionality in the living-present a “flow,” he employs the label “metaphorically” because the living-present’s flow manifests itself, paradoxically, as a non-temporal temporalizing (PCIT § 32, No. 54). That the living-present temporalizes means that it grasps its past and future as absent without reducing its past and future to the present, thus freezing consciousness temporal flow. To capture Husserl’s image of a non-temporal flow more aptly, some commentators prefer the image of shimmering (Sokolowski 1974). As Husserl himself admits that we have no words for this time-constituting phenomenon, the image of shimmering seems a more appropriate descriptor, for Husserl understand the living-present paradoxically as a standing-streaming (PCIT No. 54). Though non-temporal, Husserl assigns the living-present a time-constituting status, for this absolute consciousness makes possible the disclosure of temporal objects insofar as it makes possible the disclosure of consciousness’’ temporality by accounting for our original sense of the past and of the future in the retentional and protentional dimension of the living-present (PCIT § 37).

Husserl must characterize the flow as non-temporal. If that which makes possible the awareness of a unity in succession itself occurred in succession, then we would need to account for the apprehension of the succession unique to the living-present, and so on and so forth, ad infnitum (PCIT, No. 39, No. 50). An infinite regress of consciousness, however, would mean that we never would achieve an answer to the question of what makes possible the consciousness of time. In order to avoid an infinite regress, then, and in accordance with experience, which tells us that we do apprehend time and temporal objects, Husserl describes the living-present’s flow as a non-temporal temporalizing. This argument in favor of the non-temporal character of the living-present brings us to the two senses in which the special form of intentional consciousness is an absolute consciousness.

First, Husserl characterizes the living-present as absolute because a non-temporal consciousness that needs no other consciousness behind it to account for its self-apprehension is just that, absolute, the bottom line. Second, as the absolute bedrock of intentional analysis (Sokolowski 2000), the absolute flow as a mode of intentionality peculiar to the living-present conveys a move away from a model of awareness or intentionality dependent upon a subject’s relation to an object. If philosophy construes all awareness according to an object-intentionality model of awareness, i.e., the dyadic relation of a subject (knower) to an object (known), then it can never account for the relation between knower and known in the case of self-consciousness. For example, when I am writing this entry, I am conscious of the computer on which I am typing, as well as myself as the one typing. To explain, philosophically, however, how I apprehend myself as the one typing, the dyadic object-intentionality model of awareness will not suffice. The issue, of course, concerns self-awareness and thus philosophy’s standard understanding of self-identity over time.

In the classic treatment of self-consciousness, John Locke in his Essay Concerning Human Understanding accounts for self-identity over time thanks to consciousness’ reflective grasp on its past states. Locke establishes this account by distinguishing (i) simple ideas of sense directed toward (iia) objects from (i) simple ideas of reflection directed toward (iib) the self. In both cases, (i) knows (iia) and (iib) in the same manner insofar as (i) takes (iia) and (iib) as objects while (i) itself goes unnoticed or unaccounted for. Locke’s account thus turns the self or subject into an object without ever really presenting the self. Even if a simple idea of reflection directs itself toward the self, one self (the reflecting self) remains subject while the other self (the reflected self) becomes the object. In self-awareness, however, no difference, distance or separation exists between the knower and the known. Forced to apprehend itself as an object in an exercise of simple sense reflection, the Lockean subject never coincides with itself, caught as it is in a sequence of epistemic tail chasing (Locke, 1959 I; Zahavi, 1999). Such tail chasing, moreover, entails an infinite regress of selves themselves never self-aware. Locke’s failure stems from his restriction of intentionality to the model of object-awareness, the dyadic model of awareness, where all awareness requires a subject knowing an object.

Husserl’s account of the unity of (1) this dynamic, shimmering living-present makes possible the consciousness of (2) psychological or subjective time and (3) worldly or objective time provides an alternative to the traditional account of awareness as merely an objectivating relation of a subject to object (Brough, 1991; Sokolowski, 1973; Zahavi, 1999). By retaining the elapsed phase of consciousness and thereby the past of the object, retention unifies consciousness’ flow and the time-span of the perceived temporal object, thus providing at once a non-objective self-awareness and an objective awareness of spatio-temporal entities.

Despite the heady accomplishments of Husserl’s theory of time-consciousness as founded in the living-present’s double-intentionality, contemporary phenomenologists still disagree about Husserl’s discovery. Some commentators, under the influence of Derrida’s critique of Husserl’s theory of the living-present (Derrida 1973), express reservations over the legitimacy of the status of the living-present as an absolute, non-temporal temporalizing, arguing that it amounts to a mythical construct (Evans, 1990). Yet decisive refutations of these criticisms, based on their insensitivity to the nuances of Husserl’s theory, are plenty (Brough, 1993; Zahavi, 1999). Still, even those who accept its legitimacy disagree about how best to explain the relation between levels (1) and (2) of time-consciousness (see Zahavi, 1999; Brough 2002). Interestingly, the very complexities and details of Husserl’s theory of internal time-consciousness, which remain a central point of debate for contemporary phenomenologists, proved germane to phenomenology’s development and alteration throughout the Twentieth Century.

2. Heidegger on Phenomenology and Time

If the double-intentionality of Husserl’s theory of consciousness proves fruitful, it is because it allows us to given an account of the temporality of individual experiences (e.g., listening to a sentence) as well as the temporal ordering of a multiplicity of experience (e.g., recognizing the classroom to which I return each week as the same room differentiated over a span of time) and all of these experiences as mine, as belonging to me. Husserl’s first follower, Martin Heidegger, took up the benefits of Husserl’s theory and developed them into his own unique brand of phenomenology. In fact, Heidegger developed his brand of phenomenology precisely in light of Husserl’s reflections on the intentionality unique to absolute time-constituting consciousness. As we shall see, Heidegger might put the point more forcefully, claiming that he developed his phenomenology in opposition to Husserl’s theory of absolute time-constituting consciousness. In any event, we can begin by identifying a fundamental difference between Husserl and Heidegger: Husserl emphasized the retentional side of the life of consciousness because he was interested in cognition, which builds up over time, while Heidegger emphasized the protentional or futural side of the subject because he is more interested in practical activity (the “in order to” or “for the sake of”).

According to Heidegger, the essence of absolute time-constituting consciousness amounted to a subject divorced and isolated from the world because Husserl construed absolute consciousness as a theory only about the a priori, presuppositionless and essential structures of consciousness that made possible the unified perception of an object occurring in successive moments. As an alternative to what he considered Husserl’s abstracted view of the human being, Heidegger suggests that philosophy cannot advance a proper understanding of the being of the human being by bracketing its and the world’s existence. Instead, we must understand the human being as being-in-the-world, Dasein, literally there-being; we only can understand what the world contributes to us and what we contribute to the world if we consider each as co-dependent without reducing one to the other. To put it differently, Husserl’s transcendental phenomenology provides an “upward” oriented approach while Heidegger’s ontological phenomenology provides a “downward” oriented approach, and their approaches stem from their different views of time (Macann 1991).

Heidegger maintains that Husserl’s phenomenology proves inadequate to the task of understanding Dasein’s relation to the world because Husserl fails to articulate adequately the relation between consciousness, or being, and time. Specifically, Husserl’s construction of the fundamental form of intentionality as absolute time-constituting consciousness remains, according to Heidegger, prisoner to the bias of pure presence. As Heidegger puts it, the bias of pure presence entails the reduction of “being” to the moment that “is” fully articulated in the conscious now at the expense of absence, i.e., what falls outside the conscious now, i.e., the moments of past and future. Such a view of consciousness, Heidegger insists, capitulates to the prejudice of presence because it implies that something can appear to consciousness only in the form of an object now given or before one in person and unified by consciousness across its manifold moments (BT, § 67c). At a general level of intentionality, Heidegger wants to correct Husserl’s overly cognitive assessment of the subject. For Heidegger, an intention or intentio literally conveys a sense of “stretching out” or “straining” (Heidegger 1925). For Heidegger, Dasein is being in the world, a being with goals and projects toward which it comports itself or toward which it stretches out. The projects toward which it stretches itself makes Dasein fundamentally futural in its intentional directedness toward the world.

Having failed to investigate the practical comportment of the subject, Heidegger argues, Husserl’s view of consciousness seems to reduce all awareness to awareness of an object in the present, thus reducing the past to the present and consciousness’ self-awareness to an object among objects (Dahlstron 1999). Together, these related consequences motivate Heidegger’s conclusion that Husserl fails to perform the phenomenological reduction completely. Or, better, Heidegger concluded that the performance of the reduction adulterates the view of the subject and thus should be abandoned. Heidegger’s version of phenomenology thus does not begin from a phenomenological reduction although competing views of this matter exist (Crowell 1990; Blattner 1999).

As mentioned already, Heidegger’s very conception of Dasein as co-dependent with the world displays, he believes, his difference from Husserl’s view of the human being as absolute time-constituting consciousness. Put negatively and in terms of his History of the Concept of Time (1925), Heidegger criticizes Husserl for not considering fully the existence of the human being, bracketing its existence in favor of an analysis of the essential features of consciousness’ intentional structures (Heidegger 1925). Put positively and in terms of his Being and Time (1927), Heidegger claims that Dasein’s essence is its existence (BT § 9). Hence, one might claim, Heidegger introduces the movement of existential phenomenology, a development in phenomenology concerned with the very existence of the human being, which we have seen is termed Dasein by Heidegger.

Concern with Dasein’s existence as its essence does necessarily reduce to the assumption that Heidegger takes existence in the sense of biological or genetic determinants. Though such factors may condition Dasein’s manner of existing, they do not determine it, according to Heidegger. Dasein is neither fully determined nor uninhibitedly free (BT 144). She exists in the mode of her possibilities and her possibilities are motivated by environmental influences, her skills and interests, etc. (Blattner, 1999). Dasein, for Heidegger, is thus a being concerned about her being, reckoning with the world through her activities and commitments. Centering his existential phenomenology on how the world appears to a being concerned about its being, Heidegger’s inquiry starts from how Dasein comports herself as manifest in the everyday activities of her life, activities to which she commits herself or about which she cares (BT § 7). Heideggerian phenomenology thus begins from an interest in how the world appears to a being that cares about its existence, an intentional being but one who, in intending the world, is primarily practical and secondarily contemplative. Less concerned with the Husserlian search for presuppositionless certainty and essential structures, Heidegger’s existential phenomenology amounts to an interpretive description or hermeneutics that attempts to express the unexpressed (or articulate the pre-predicative) mode of Dasein’s engagement with the world (BT § 7). And this manner of engagement finds its fullest expression in Heidegger’s account of Dasein’s temporality.

a. Heidegger and Dasein’s Temporality

The notion of Dasein’s projects proves crucial to understanding Heidegger’s analysis of Dasein’s temporality and its difference from Husserl’s phenomenology. In discussing Dasein’s projects, Heidegger takes the term etymologically; to pro-ject means to put out there or to put forward. That Dasein projects itself in the world implies something fundamental about it. Dasein finds itself thrown into a world historical circumstance and projects itself in that world. Born (thrown) into a time and culture not of one’s choosing, Dasein always already exists in the world and suffers some limitations from which she nevertheless may wiggle free thanks to her interests and concerns about the world and her existence therein. The way things matter to Dasein—how she finds herself affected, in Heidegger’s language—and her skills and interest constitute different possibilities for her, different ways of being-in-the-world. These possibilities, in turn, manifest themselves in Dasein’s projects, i.e., in how she puts herself forward or projects or comports herself. These conditions suggest to Heidegger that the essential mode of being in the world for Dasein is a temporal one. Of the three temporal dimensions characterizing Dasein, we may say: First, the fact that Dasein finds herself thrown into a world and characterized by certain dispositions, etc. implies a “pastness” to her being. Second, the fact she projects herself implies a “futurity” to her being. And, third, the fact that she finds herself busied with the world as she projects herself in an effort to fulfill the present tasks required by the goal that is her project implies a “presentness” to her being (Blattner 1999).

The fundamental characteristic of the being that cares about its being, Dasein, then, is temporality. But things are not as simple (or common-sense) as they seem thus far. Time resembles Dasein insofar as time projects itself or stands outside itself in its future and past without losing itself—time and Dasein thus appear ontologically similar, or similar in their ontological structure. Since the question concerns the being for whom its being is a concern, and since the fundamental structure of this being is its temporality, philosophy’s very attempt to understand Dasein fundamentally concerns the relation between being and time at a pre-predicative level of worldly-engagement, a level prior to articulated judgment, prior to the conscious conceptualizations of traditional metaphysics or Husserlian phenomenology; hence, the title of Heidegger’s famous work, Being and Time (Richardson 1967). In Heidegger’s terms, an “authentic” understanding of the being concerned about its being rests upon a proper understanding of that being’s temporality.

To understand Dasein, then, Heidegger first distinguishes originary or authentic time understood as Dasein’s way of being in the world from worldly- and ordinary-time understood inauthentically or uncritically by the common-sense, pre-philosophical mind (BT § 80). As the labels imply, Heidegger articulates a hierarchical structure between these levels of time, much like Husserl’s levels of time (Sokolowski 1974). The hierarchical structure envisioned by Heidegger looks like this: World-time grounds ordinary-time, and both in turn are grounded by originary-time.

To establish the fundamental feature of Dasein as originary temporality, Heidegger distances his view of Dasein’s temporality from all common sense understandings of time as a series of nows, thereby deferring the common sense understanding of past as no-longer-now and future as not-yet-now. His position depends on a distinction between how time shows itself to Dasein as world-time and ordinary-time, the latter being derivative of the former. World-time denotes the manner in which the world appears as significant to Dasein in its everyday reckoning with the world at a practical level through its projects. For example, the world appears to an academic with certain significances or importance. Objects like chalk, books, computers, and libraries all manifest themselves with a particular value, and time does, as well (just consider the fact that the new year begins in late August rather than the first day of January). When I sit in my office, the approaching time of three in the afternoon does not appear merely as an indifferent hour on the clock. Rather, it appears to me as the time when, according to my project, I must head to class—just as it may appear to a postal work as the time when she should return to the station from her route. For me, the time-span of my class does not merely appear as seventy-five successive minutes. Rather, the classroom time of my project appears to me as the time when I project myself toward my students, the material for the day’s discussion and the material equipment in the class that facilitates my teaching well. If my class begins to go poorly, however, I may become self-conscious about how well I meet the demands of my project as a teacher. When the focus of my attention shifts from my project to my failures, the time of my project ceases to be my primary focus. Perhaps in this case I shift my focus to the passing nows or seconds of each increasingly long minute. If such a shift occurs, Heidegger might claim that I shift from the mode of world-time to the mode of ordinary-time, the time understood as a measurable succession of nows, seconds, minutes, etc.

This time that measures successive nows, Heidegger deems ordinary-time, which depends upon world-time. Heidegger distinguishes the two by pointing out that the significance which colors world-time goes missing in the view of ordinary time and time appears no longer as the span of my project but the mere succession of punctual, atomistic nows (the Newtonian scientific view of time as an empty container or place holder). When the time-span of practical reckoning with the world ceases for Dasein, ordinary-time emerges (BT§ 80; Blattner 1999). The above example does not quite get Heidegger exactly right, however, for in it I remain interested in human concerns (except that now I am worried about them). What the example does convey is the shift in understanding time from a mode of time as an extended reckoning with the world laden with significance to a mode of time considered as a purely abstract marching of moments, a view of time most accurately associated with the mathematical and scientific view of time (but not to the mathematician or scientist working with this view of time).

All of these distinctions between world- and ordinary-time are meant to elaborate Heidegger’s view that as a series of projects Dasein is no mere entity in the world but a temporal structure peculiar to its kind of being-in-the-world that makes manifest world- and ordinary-time. For Heidegger, the now denotes a mode of Dasein’s manner of being that discloses the appearance of the world to us, i.e., Dasein’s way of being-in-the-world. As a series of projects, Dasein in its originary temporality is characterized by a tripartite mode of transcendence or process (albeit a non-sequential process, since Heidegger has distanced himself from the ordinary view of time). First, as transcendence, as that which goes from itself and to which the world comes, Dasein has a futural moment. Second, as transcendence, as that which manifests itself non-objectively while reckoning with that which stands before it, Dasein has a present moment as the place wherein the world appears to, or manifests itself to, that which cares about it. And, third, as transcendence, as that to which the world comes, Dasein has a past moment because that which comes and manifests itself comes and manifests itself to one who always already is there (Heidegger 1927; Richardson 1967). As transcendence, as temporality, Heidegger describes Dasein as “ecstatic,” where ecstatic means to stand out (Sokolowski 2000). As the kind of being that is always outside itself without leaving itself behind, Dasein is a process of separating and consolidating itself (Sokolowski 1974). Outside of itself in the future, Dasein projects itself and reckons with that about which it cares; outside of itself in the present, Dasein makes manifest or present the appearance of that to which it goes out in its interest and according to its projects; outside of itself in the past, Dasein drags along that which it has been, its life, which, in turn, colors its present experiences and future projects.

This union of past, present and future as modes of originary-time in Dasein’s being-in-the-world renders Dasein authentic—one with itself or its own—because the projection into the future makes the present and the past part of Dasein’s project—its essence is its existence. However, insofar as I assume a project or life-orientation passively and without realizing myself as responsible for that project, argues Heidegger, I live inauthentically. And this is because I am engaged in the world without a full understanding of myself within the world. Put differently, rather than consciously make myself who I am through my choices, I passively assume a role within society—hence the temptation to label Heidegger an existentialist, a label the he himself rejected.

Many rhetorical differences exist between how Husserl and Heidegger execute the phenomenological method, particularly the phenomenology of temporality. Despite these differences, Heidegger begins his inquiry into Dasein’s temporality much like Husserl began his consideration of absolute, time-constituting consciousness. Just as Husserl established that neither the now nor the consciousness of the now is itself a part of time, Heidegger begins his account of Dasein’s originary temporality with the observation that neither the now nor Dasein is itself a part of time (BT § 62). As Heidegger puts it, as always already being-in-the-world, Dasein’s temporality is neither before nor after nor already in terms of the way common sense understands time as a sequence of discrete, empty nows (BT § 65). Hence, Heidegger translates Husserl’s account of the levels of time into an account of Dasein’s originary temporality. Moreover, Heidegger and Husserl seemingly end on the same note, for Husserl describes the living-present as a non-objectivating transcendence, an intentional being that transcends itself toward the world, and this description equally characterizes Heidegger’s more practically oriented discussion of Dasein’s originary-temporality. Like Husserl’s notion of the living-present, Heidegger’s theory of Dasein’s structure as originary temporality considers Dasein a mode of objectivating not itself objectified, the condition for the possibility of all awareness of objects at the levels of worldly- and ordinary-time (BT § 70).

Still, an important difference exists with respect to their phenomenologies of time and time-consciousness. First, despite the implicit levels of time, Heidegger employs the phenomenological reduction quite ambivalently and ambiguously. Second, Heidegger explicitly rejects the outcome of the phenomenological reduction as a privileged access to absolute time-constituting consciousness. Third, Heidegger quite unequivocally privileges the moment of the future in his account of Dasein’s originary temporality. By emphasizing Dasein’s being-in-the-world as manifest through its throwness in the world, and its care for the world as manifest through its projects, Heidegger’s focuses on Dasein’s futural character distinguishes his account from Husserl’s, for Husserl emphasized the moment of retention in the living-present almost to the exclusion of any remarks on protention, the anticipatory moment of the living-present. For these reasons, Heidegger considered his phenomenology radically different from Husserl’s. In particular, Heidegger thought Husserl’s overly cognitive account of how consciousness constitutes a unified temporal object across a succession of moments articulated only one of the many issues surrounding the temporality of Dasein, a merely scientific or cognitive account of how consciousness presents an object in the world to itself. Husserl’s restrictive phenomenology of time, Heidegger argues, overlooks the existential dimension of Dasein’s temporality, how Dasein reckons with the world at a tacit level rather than how it cognizes the world. And in particular, Heidegger thought philosophy could assess Dasein’s manner of reckoning with the world only by examining its futural moment as manifest in the projects that characterize Dasein’s mode of existence as the ongoing realization of its possibilities or construction of its essence.

3. Sartre and the Temporality of the “For-Itself”

Heidegger’s innovative contributions to the phenomenology of time did not go unnoticed by later phenomenologists. Both Sartre and Merelau-Ponty adopted Heidegger’s view of Dasein as being-in-the-world, an entity whose essence is its existence. The originality of Sartre’s phenomenology of time lies not in his reflections on time, which, as we shall see, return to some rather pedestrian claims. Rather, Sartre’s unique contribution to the phenomenology of time lies in his understanding of how consciousness, the “for-itself,” relates to the world, the “in-itself.” What in their discussions of this fundamental mode of transcendence Husserl labeled absolute time-constituting consciousness, and Heidegger Dasein, Sartre termed the “for-itself.” Given Husserl and Heidegger’s differing views of consciousness’ mode of intentionality and its fundamental self-transcending nature in its mode of temporality, Sartre’s theory presents an unlikely marriage of the two.

Fusing Heidegger’s view of being-in-the-world with what he considered was a greater fidelity to Husserl’s notion of intentionality, Sartre considered the being of the “for-itself” an ecstatic temporal structure characterized by a sheer transcendence or intentionality. In his earliest work, Transcendence of the Ego (1939), Sartre defines the “for-itself” by intentionality, i.e., the Husserlian claim that consciousness transcends itself (Sartre 1936). As self-transcending, Sartre further delimits the “for-itself” as a being-in-itself-in-the-world. The “for-itself” is a field of being always already engaged with the world, as Heidegger expressed Dasein as intentional and thrown. For Sartre, however, in its activity of engaging the world the “for-itself” reveals itself as nothing, a “no-thing,” or not-the-being-of-which-it-is-conscious. Sartre further qualifies the being of the “for-itself” that always already is engaged with the world as a non-positional consciousness (Sartre 1936). A non-positional consciousness always already engaged the world, Sartre contends, consciousness does not take a position on itself but on the world; hence, consciousness is non-positional. To evidence his point, Sartre maintains that I, when late for a meeting and running to catch the subway, do not primarily concern myself with myself but only have a consciousness of the subway to be caught (Sartre 1936). Rather than taking a position on myself as I pursue the subway, I implicitly carry myself along as I tarry explicitly with the world. For this reason, Sartre argues that absolute consciousness in Husserl’s sense of the living-present does not unify a temporal experience because the unity of consciousness itself is found in the object (Sartre 1936).

This Sartrean view that the experience unifies itself not only recalls Heidegger’s insistence that Dasein is a self-consolidating process, but also renders the notion of an absolute time-constituting consciousness superfluous, according to Sartre. Indeed, Sartre believed that a deep fidelity to Husserl’s theory of intentionality necessitated the abandonment of Husserl’s notion of absolute consciousness; hence, he dramatically declared that the Husserlian notion of an absolute consciousness would mean the death of consciousness (Sartre 1936). If one assumes, with Husserl, the notion of a living-present characterized by the moments of retention, primal impression and protention, Sartre argues, consciousness dies of asphyxiation, so to speak. A consciousness divided in this way, according to Sartre, amounts to a series of instantaneous and discrete moments that themselves require connection. Such an instantaneous series of consciousness amounts to a caricature of intentionality, in Sartre’s view, because this kind of consciousness cannot transcend itself; as Sartre expresses it, an internally divided consciousness will suffocate itself as it batters in vain against the window-pains of the present without shattering them (Sartre 1943).

Sartre’s critique of the living-present or absolute time-constituting consciousness seems rather questionable. Indeed, this image leaves one wondering whether or not Sartre derives this caricatured view of time-consciousness from a caricature of Husserl’s view of intentionality. Nevertheless, Sartre abandons Husserl’s notion of the tripartite structure of absolute time-constituting consciousness in favor of something like Heidegger’s notion of Dasein’s ecstatic temporality and its projects and possibilities. And yet Sartres’ adaptation of Heidegger’s notion of Dasein’s possibilities seems questionable as well. Recall that Dasein’s possibilities were not purely uninhibited, that Dasein did not simply choose its projects and possibilities from a position of total freedom because of its thrown condition and affective dispositions. Sartre’s theory of the “for-itself” seems to reject the kinds of limiting conditions entailed by Heidegger’s notion of thrownness. Indeed, Sartre’s melodramatic image of a consciousness with cabin fever implies that he cannot fully embrace any limiting factors on how the “for-itself” fashions its essence through its existence. For Sartre, the “for-itself” is radically free (Blattner 1999), and the result of Sartre’s reflections on the temporality of the “for-itself” is a rather pedestrian view of temporality.

Like Husserl and Heidegger, Sartre does not consider the past, present and future as moments of time considered as contents or containers for contents. Rather, each marks a mode in which the “for-itself” makes manifest itself and the world. But Sartre’s account neither surpasses nor achieves either the rigor of Husserl’s analyses or the descriptive quality of Heidegger’s. For Sartre, the past of the “for-itself” amounts to that which was but is no longer—similar to the view of the past itself, which Augustine rejected, as that which was but is no-longer. By mirror opposite, the future of the “for-itself” amounts to which it intends to be but is not yet—similar to the view of the future itself, which Augustine rejected, as that which will be but is not yet. And between the two, the present of the “for-itself” is that which it is not, for its being is characterized as being-not-the-thing-of-which-it-is-conscious—similar to the view of the present, which Augustine rejected, as the thin, ephemeral slice of the now.

4. Merleau-Ponty and the Phenomenology of Ambiguity: The Subject as Time

Whether Husserl’s, Heidegger’s or Sartre’s account, for phenomenology we cannot separate the issue of time from the issue of subjectivity’s structure. And Merleau-Ponty’s discussion of temporality in Phenomenology of Perception (1945) is no exception. It is, however, the most exceptional case of the intertwining of these issues. Developing Heidegger’s notion of Dasein as being-in-the-world, Merleau-Ponty emphasizes the being of Dasein as its bodily comportment and declares the body an essentially intentional part of the subject. Since Merleau-Ponty wants to make the body itself intentional, it is no surprise that he intertwines time and the subject, (in)famously remarking that “we must understand time as the subject and the subject as time” (Merleau-Ponty 1945).

To situate Merleau-Ponty’s account in this trajectory of phenomenological theories of time, it is useful to bear in mind that his account amounts to an innovative synthesis of Husserl and Heidegger’s understandings of time. Though the same can and has been said of Sartre’s account, Merleau-Ponty’s synthesis of Husserl and Heidegger differs from Sartre’s on three important scores. First, Merleau-Ponty rejects the dualistic ontology of the “for-itself” and the “in-itself” that led Sartre to rashly criticize Husserl’s notion of absolute consciousness and superficially adopt Heidegger’s phenomenological account of Dasein’s temporality as manifest in its projects and possibilities.” Second, Merleau-Ponty will not adopt Heidegger’s notion of Dasein’s temporality as an alternative to some purported shortcoming of Husserl’s account of the mode of intentionality unique to absolute time-constituting consciousness. Rather, third, more sensitive to the subtleties of Husserl’s theory of absolute time-constituting consciousness in the living-present than even Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty proposes to think the “unthought” of Husserl’s account of time through an intensified version of Heidegger’s account of the self’s inseparability from time.

From the outset, the “Temporality” chapter of his Phenomenology of Perception explicitly links time to the problem of subjectivity, noting that the analysis of time cannot follow a “pre-established conception of subjectivity” (Merleau-Ponty 1945). On the one hand, Merleau-Ponty rejects the traditional idealist conception of subjectivity in favor of an account of subjectivity in “its concrete structure;” on the other hand, since we must seek subjectivity “at the intersections of its dimensions,” which intersections concern “time itself and … its internal dialectic,” Merleau-Ponty rejects the realistic conception of subjectivity’s states as Nacheinander, i.e., successive, punctual, atomistic instants that lack intersection (Merleau-Ponty 1945). Hence, our understanding of Merleau-Ponty’s account of temporality and subjectivity’s temporality should follow the “triadic” structure of the Phenomenology: reject realism and idealism to demonstrate the merits of phenomenology (Sallis 1971).

The intellectualist account of time as (in) the subject fails because it extracts the subject from time and reduces time to consciousness’ quasi-eternity. The realist account of the subject as (in) time fails because it reduces the subject to a perpetually new present without unity to its flow. Both failures force upon the philosopher the realization that she can resolve the problem of time and subjectivity only by forfeiting the commitment to a “notion of time … as an object of our knowledge.” If we no longer can consider time “an object of our knowledge,” we must consider it a “dimension of our being” (Merleau-Ponty 1945). Hence, an account of subjectivity’s temporality—of time as a dimension of our being—necessarily entails the development of a model of bodily consciousness’ pre-reflective, non-objectifying awareness beyond the “pre-established conception of subjectivity” that takes time as an object of our knowledge.

This means not that (1) “time is for someone” but that (2) “time is someone” (Merleau-Ponty 1945). Phenomenologists and commentators alike often attribute (1) to Husserl and (2) to Heidegger. This should not surprise us given that Heidegger himself seemed to ascribe (2) to himself and his examination of Dasein’s lived-temporality in opposition to (1) Husserl’s account of how consciousness synthesizes an object across time. Often one of Husserl’s most sympathetic and accurate commentators (in Phenomenology of Perception, at least) Merleau-Ponty suggests that Husserl’s theory of absolute time-constituting consciousness in the living-present with its tripartite intentional structure provided an account of how (2) made time appear for reflection as (1). In short, Merleau-Ponty understood better than Heidegger that Husserl’s theory of the living-present articulated a theory of lived-time. What remained unthought by Husserl according to Merleau-Ponty was the inseparability of time and the subject in the theory of the living-present. Hence, an ambiguity intentionally pervades the account of time provided in Phenomenology of Perception.

This ambiguity at hand in Phenomenology of Perception stems from Merleau-Ponty’s honest admission that one never can fully execute the phenomenological reduction: “the most important lesson the reduction teaches us is the impossibility of a complete reduction” (Merleau-Ponty 1945). Merleau-Ponty does not advocate discarding the reduction, however, as Heidegger somewhat equivocally did. Rather, he aims to explain that Husserl merely meant the reduction as a critical device that ensured phenomenologists would retain the stance of presuppositionlessness, the stance of a perpetual beginner. The motivation for Merleau-Ponty’s reading of Husserl’s phenomenological reduction is the fact that philosophical reflection always depends upon a pre-reflective lived experience, a lived experience that always occurs in the temporal flux of bodily consciousness. Under the influence of Heidegger’s theory of Dasein’s being-in-the-world, Merleau-Ponty fashions his starting point in the exploration of time as an attempt to provide an account of the structures of pre-reflective consciousness that make reflection possible. And much like Heidegger, who sought to articulate the pre-predicative element of lived experience, Merleau-Ponty believed that these structures of pre-reflective consciousness reveal themselves as primarily temporal. (For his part, Merleau-Ponty will refer to this pre-reflective consciousness as the “tacit cogito,” his expression for the non-objectivating, pre-reflective consciousness articulated throughout the phenomenologists we have considered in this entry.) Hence, one could argue, despite the watershed reflections Merleau-Ponty provides on embodiment, time proves the most fundamental investigation of Phenomenology of Perception (Sallis 1971).

Since phenomenology’s task includes providing an account of the pre-reflective’, lived experience that makes possible reflection, Merleau-Ponty turns to the structure of time as an exemplar of that which makes explicit the implicit. For Merleau-Ponty, time provides a model that sheds light on the structure of subjectivity because “temporal dimensions … bear each other out and ever confine themselves to making explicit what was implied in each, being collectively expressive of that one single explosion or thrust that is subjectivity itself” (Merleau-Ponty 1945). Since to make explicit that which is implied in each moment means to transcend, to go beyond, one could say that Merleau-Ponty’s paradoxical expression means that time and the subject share the same structure of transcendence. That time is the subject and the subject is time means that the subject exists in a world that always outstrips her yet remains a world lived through by the subject (Sallis 1971). To clarify this structure, Merleau-Ponty invokes “with Husserl the ‘passive synthesis’ of time,” for the passive and non-objectivating characteristic of time’s structure in (what Husserl called) the living-present marks the archetype of the self’s structure, its transcendence that makes possible self- and object-manifestation. The Husserlian notion of double-intentionality thus pervades Merleau-Ponty’s account (Merleau-Ponty 1945).

That the matter of a passive and non-objectivating synthesis takes Merleau-Ponty to a consideration of the structure of absolute time-constituting consciousness’ double-intentionality—its transcendence and self-manifestation—as the structure of time we know to be the case for two reasons. First, Merleau-Ponty tells us, “in order to become explicitly what it is implicitly, that is, consciousness, [the self] needs to unfold itself into multiplicity;” second, in addition to the distinction just implied between non-objectivating and objectivating awareness, i.e., pre-reflective’ and reflective consciousness, Merleau-Ponty elaborates this manner of unfolding by claiming that “what we [mean] by passive synthesis [is] that we make our way into multiplicity, but that we do not synthesize it” as intellectualist accounts of time such as Augustine’s suggest. A synthesis of the multiplicity of time’s moments and the moments of the self must be avoided because it would require a constituting consciousness that stands outside time, and “we shall never manage to understand how a … constituting subject is able to posit or become aware of itself in time.” To avoid this error of separating consciousness from that of which it is aware, Merleau-Ponty appeals to Husserl’s theory of the living-present’s absolute flow, a “[consciousness that] is the very action of temporalization—of flux, as Husserl has it—a self anticipatory … flow which never leaves itself” (Merleau-Ponty 1945).

Merleau-Ponty seemingly provides an existential-phenomenological account of Husserl’s theory of absolute time-constituting consciousness’ double-intentionality. Nevertheless, he adopts Husserl’s theory according to his characteristic philosophy of ambiguity. Indeed, Merleau-Ponty insists that “it is of the essence of time to be not only actual time, or time which flows, but also time which is aware of itself … the archetype of the relationship of self to self” (Merleau-Ponty 1945). Ultimately with such remarks Merleau-Ponty was on the verge of bringing phenomenology toward a theory of ontology, which theory emerged in earnest in his later work, The Visible and the Invisible (1961). In that work, Merleau-Ponty expressly rejects his Phenomenology of Perception for having retained the Husserlian philosophy of consciousness. And this move from phenomenology to ontology manifests itself in some of his most provocative observations about time. To say that he moves from phenomenology to ontology is to say that he rejects any privileging of the subject or consciousness as constituting time either as a perceptual object or through a lived experience. As he puts it in the working notes of his The Visible and the Invisible, “it is indeed the past that adheres to the present and not the consciousness of the past that adheres to the consciousness of the present” (Merleau-Ponty 1961). Time now is characterized as an ontologically independent entity and not a construct disclosed by consciousness. It is the essence of time to be time that is aware of itself, to be sure. But this time is no longer an archetype of the self’s non-objectivating self-awareness. Rather, time constitutes the subject according to Merleau-Ponty, who puts to rest the phenomenological notion of absolute time-constituting consciousness, arguably Husserl’s most important discovery.

5. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Augustine, A. Confessions. Trans. F. J. Sheed. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co, 1999.
  • Derrida, J. Speech and Phenomena. Trans. D. Allison. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1973.
  • Heidegger, M. Sein und Zeit. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1986; Being and Time. Trans. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson. New York: Harper and Row, Publishers Inc, 1963.
  • Heidegger, M. Gesamtausgabe Band 20: Prolegomena zur Geschichte des Zeitbefriffs. Frankfut am Main: Vittorio Klosterman, 1979; The History of the Concept of Time Trans. T. Kisiel. Bloomington: Indian University Press, 1985.
  • Husserl, E. Zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewußtseins (1983-1917). Ed. R. Boehm. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1966; On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1983-1917). Trans. J. Brough. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1991.
  • Husserl, E. Analysen zur passiven Synthesis. Aus Vorlessungs- und Forschungsmauskripten (1918-1926). Ed. M. Fleisher. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1966; Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Synthesis: Lectures on Transcendental Logic. Trans. A. Steinbock. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001. Husserl, E. Phatasie, Bildbewußtseins, Erinnerung. Ed. E. Marbach. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1980; Fantasy, Image-Consciousness, Memory. Trans. J. Brough. Dordrecht: Springer, 2005.
  • Husserl, E. Aktive Synthesen: Aus der Vorlesung ‘Transzendental Logik’ 1920-21. Ergäzungsband zu ‘Analysen sur passiven Synthesis.’ Ed. R. Breur. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2000; Analyses Concerning Passive and Active Synthesis: Lectures on Transcendental Logic. Trans. A. Steinbock. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001.
  • Husserl, E. Die ‘Bernaur Manuskripte’ über das Zeitbewußtseins 1917/18. Ed. R. Bernet and D. Lohmar. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001.
  • Locke, J. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. New York: Oxford University Press, 1990.
  • Merleau-Ponty, M. Phenomenology of Perception. Trans. C. Smith. New York: Routledge & Keegan Paul Ltd, 1962.
  • Merleau-Ponty, M. The Visible and the Invisible. Trans. A. Lingis. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1969.
  • Sartre, J. P. Transcendence of the Ego. Trans. F. Williams and R. Kirkpatrick. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1957.
  • Sartre, J. P. Being and Nothingness. Trans. H. Barnes. New York: Philosophical Library, 1956.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Blattner, W. Heidegger’s Temporal Idealism. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999.
  • Brough, J. B. “The Emergence of Absolute Consciousness in Husserl’s Early Writings on Time-Consciousness.” Man and World (1972).
  • Brough, J. B. “Translator’s Introduction.” In E. Husserl, On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893-1917). Trans. by J. Brough. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1991.
  • Brough, J. B. “Husserl and the Deconstruction of Time,” Review of Metaphysics 46 (March 1993): 503-536.
  • Brough, J. B. “Time and the One and the Many (In Husserl’s Bernaur Manuscripts on Time Consciousness),” Philosophy Today 46:5 (2002): 14-153.
  • Dalhstrom, D. “Heidegger’s Critique of Husserl.” In Reading Heidegger from the Start: Essays in His Earliest Thought. Edited by T. Kisiel and J. van Buren. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994.
  • de Warren, N. The Promise of Time. New York: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming.
  • Evans, J. C. “The Myth of Absolute Consciousness.” In Crises in Continental Philosophy. Edited by A Dallery, et. al. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990.
  • Held, K. Lebendige Gegenwart. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1966.
  • Kelly, M. “On the Mind’s ‘Pronouncement’ of Time: Aristotle, Augustine and Husserl on Time-consciousness. Proceedings of the American Catholic Philosophical Association, 2005.
  • Macann, Christopher. Presence and Coincidence. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1991.
  • Richardson, W. Heidegger: Through Phenomenology to Thought. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1967.
  • Sallis, J. “Time, Subjectivity and the Phenomenology of Perception.” The Modern Schoolman XLVIII (May 1971): 343-357.
  • Sokolowski, R. Husserlian Meditations. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1974.
  • Sokolowski, R. Introduction to Phenomenology. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
  • Wood, D. The Deconstruction of Time. Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press International, 1989.
  • Zahavi, D. Self-awareness and Alterity: A Phenomenological Investigation. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1999.
  • Zahavi, D. Husserl’s Phenomenology. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2003.

Author Information

Michael R. Kelly
Email: michaelkelly@sandiego.edu
University of San Diego
U. S. A.

Deshoulières, Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde (1638—1694)

deshouliA major poet during the reign of Louis XIV in France, Madame Deshoulières used her writings to defend philosophical naturalism. Like her intellectual model Lucretius, she employed verse to argue that natural causes can adequately explain such apparently spiritual phenomena as thought, volition, and love. In metaphysics, Deshoulières argues that the real is comprised of variations of matter and that material causation adequately explains observed changes in the real. In anthropology, she claims that the difference between animal and human is one of degree, not of kind. Material organs, and not the occult powers of a spiritual soul, produce such human phenomena as thought and choice. In ethics, she insists that such instincts as self-preservation govern the virtuous activity customarily ascribed to an elusive free will. In particular, she emphasizes that the human phenomenon of love, endlessly debated in the salons she frequented, owes far more to instinctual attraction and repulsion than rationalist philosophers would admit. A friend and disciple of Pierre Gassendi, she constructed a distinctive chapter in Renaissance naturalism and in its struggle against the philosophical alternatives of Aristotelianism and Cartesianism.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Philosophical Naturalism
    1. Metaphysics
    2. Anthropology
    3. Critique of Virtue
    4. Environmental Ethics
  4. Interpretations and Relevance
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Biography

Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde was born into an aristocratic Parisian family on January 1, 1638. Her father Melchior du Ligier, sieur de la Garde, occupied a prominent position in court circles as a chevalier de l’ordre du roi. He served as maître d’hôtel for Queen Anne of Austria, the wife of Louis XIII, and performed important services for the queen mother Marie de Médicis, the regent of France.

Even by the standards of the court aristocracy, Mademoiselle du Liger de la Garde’s early education was unusually sophisticated. She learned Latin, a rare achievement for a woman of the period, as well as learning Spanish and Italian. She studied the fashionable novels of La Calpranède, Urfé, and Scudéry, though she would later dismiss the novel as an inferior species of literature. Through her tutor Jean Hesnault, Du Ligier de la Garde became a partisan of philosophical naturalism. A disciple of Pierre Gassendi, Hesnault argued that all human action, like all movement in the cosmos, could be explained by physical causes. The tutor allied his metaphysical naturalism to religious skepticism (which is opposed to the thesis of the immortality of the soul), and also to ethical libertinism, which celebrated the rational pursuit of pleasure as the supreme moral good. Hesnault deepened this apprenticeship of naturalism by guiding Du Ligier de la Garde’s reading of the major texts of Gassendi and of the classical Latin philosopher Lucretius.

In 1651 Du Ligier de la Garde married Guillaume de la Fon-de-Boisguérin, seigneur Deshoulières. By all accounts, the marriage was an aristocratic alliance of convenience that permitted the spouses to pursue separate lives. A military officer attached to the Prince de Condé, Seigneur Deshoulières was embroiled in the Fronde (1648-1653), the intermittent civil war that pitted the French throne against dissident aristocrats, led by Condé. During the beginning of her husband’s war-related exile in the Lowlands, Madame Deshoulières studied philosophical works at her parent’s home in Paris. Her renewed study of Gassendi confirmed her allegiance to the philosophical naturalism she had imbibed from Hesnault.

In 1656, Madame Deshoulières joined her husband in exile in Belgium. Due to her persistent efforts to obtain the back pay owed her husband, she was imprisoned at the chateau of Wilworden in 1657. After a daring rescue by her husband, the couple fled to France, where they received a personal pardon from Louis XIV. Their reintegration into French society was quickly followed by the collapse of their marriage. In 1658, Seigneur Deshoulières successfully sued for a permanent separation of goods and persons. Declaring bankruptcy, he consigned his few remaining assets to his creditors. An impoverished Madame Deshoulières faced a grim social future in the anomalous position of a woman who was neither single, divorced, nor truly united to her legal husband.

Despite her penury, Deshoulières began her literary ascent in 1658 when she began to conduct a salon in her modest apartment on the Rue de l’Homme armé in Paris. The salon quickly attracted a coterie of authors noted for their libertinism: Benserade, Des Barreaux, Ménage, Quinault, Pellisson, and La Monnoye. In 1662, she published her first poem: a portrait of the skeptic Linières. An influential arbiter of literary disputes, she defended the modernist party in the querelle des anciens et modernes over the comparative merits of classical and contemporary French literature. A partisan of Corneille, she led an ill-fated campaign against the drama of Racine.

In 1672 Deshoulières published her first nature idyll in Le Mercure galant. Acclaimed as a poet of the first rank, Deshoulières published a flood of poetry during the next two decades. Her works explored the theme of nature and man’s immersion in it. Many of her more philosophical poems demonstrated how physical instinct is the cause of the intellectual and volitional activity philosophers wrongly attribute to a spiritual soul. Her poetry dealing with flora and fauna denied a substantial difference between human beings and other species of the organic world. In recognition of her literary achievement and philosophical prowess, the Academy of the Ricovrati of Padua (1684) and the Academy of Arles (1689) elected her to membership. Despite being banned from membership due to her gender, Deshoulières received recognition from the Académie française. During the inauguration of Fontenelle as a member in 1691, Académie officials recited poetry of Deshoulières as part of the official proceedings. Louis XIV granted her an annual pension of 2,000 pounds in 1688, consecrating her status as one of the nation’s leading authors.

In 1682, as Deshoulières showed the first symptoms of breast cancer, her poetry become more austere. Her older pastoral poetry yielded to a more abstract analysis of the characteristic virtues and vices of human nature. Toward the end of the decade, Deshoulières reverted to the Catholic faith of her youth. Her final poems, paraphrases of psalms in the Latin Vulgate, renounced the skeptical views of her earlier years and refuted a materialist explanation of human spiritual activity.

Madame Deshoulières died from cancer on February 17, 1694.

2. Works

First published in 1687, the collected poetical works of Madame Deshoulières demonstrated her literary dexterity. Deshoulières wrote in multiple literary genres: ode, idyll, ballad, madrigal, rondeau, portrait, maxim, biblical paraphrase, comedy, tragedy, and opera libretto. Immensely popular throughout the eighteenth century, her poetry underwent twenty distinct editions until the final edition of her complete works in 1810. The odes, pastorals, and satires no longer charmed a literary public avid for the more bombastic fare of Romanticism.

Anthologies of French poetry routinely include several of Deshoulière’s poems as exceptional specimens of neoclassical nature idylls. Many literary critics have noted the philosophical skepticism that permeates Deshoulières’s poetical exploration of nature. Antoine Adam’s argument is typical: “She [Deshoulières] had the reputation of being foreign to all religious belief and her poetry seems in fact to carry the reflection of this incredulity.”

The philosophical reception of Deshoulières has been less consistent. In the decades following her death, Deshoulières was acclaimed as a bold philosophical thinker who prepared the path to the religious skepticism of the Enlightenment. In his influential Dictionnaire historique et critique (1696; 1702) Pierre Bayle discusses the skepticism of Deshoulières concerning human immortality: “It is certain that anyone who spoke this way literally would be denying the immortality of the soul. But to save the honor of Madame Deshoulières, let’s just say that she was following certain poetical conventions we are not supposed to take too seriously—not that one can’t hide a good deal of libertinage under the privilege of versifying.” Veiled in his characteristic irony, Bayle’s judgment clearly pegs Deshoulières as a libertine skeptic. In their respective correspondences, both Voltaire and Rousseau praise the work of Deshoulières.

Subsequent history of philosophy has largely ignored Deshoulières. Just as her antiquated genres of expression closed her work to literary audiences after the French Revolution, her non-treatise style of argument masked the philosophical nature of her work. Only in the recent feminist expansion of the philosophical canon has the properly philosophical nature of Deshoulières’s work imposed itself anew.

3. Philosophical Naturalism

In the poetry written until her reconversion to Catholicism, Deshoulières defends a comprehensive philosophical naturalism. Her metaphysics conceives the world as an interactive network of atomically structured bodies. All phenomena, including the human phenomena traditionally interpreted as spiritual, could be explained in terms of material causation. Her theory of human nature denies a substantial difference between human beings and nonrational animals. The alleged human differences, such as the power of intellection and volition, for her suggest the comparative inferiority of human nature. Her ethical theory claims that alleged moral virtues are in fact the outcroppings of physical instincts. Deshoulières’s naturalism is normative as well as descriptive. The complete immersion of the real (which includes the human person) in nature demands a respectful treatment of the natural environment.

a. Metaphysics

The clearest expression of Deshoulières’s naturalistic metaphysics is found in her early work, “Imitation of Lucretius.” Faithfully following De Rerum Natura by the Roman poet and philosopher Lucretius, Deshoulières depicts the universe as founded on a simple, original principle of matter. “The order of an extrinsic cause/ Makes, by invisible moves,/ Enter into the form of various bodies/ All the sympathy described by academics.” This material principle of the cosmos requires a divine being, or an uncaused cause, to bring it into existence. Once matter exists, however, its internal principles and activities account for the subsequent evolution of the universe. This matter already has present within it the attraction and repulsion (“the sympathy”) that will create, destroy, and alter the various bodies that will proceed from this material matrix.

This vitalist material cosmos is an atomic one. “Imitation of Lucretius” explains how the atomic structure of the universe and of the discrete bodies that emerge from this universe causes change through the charged interaction of the atoms. “These atoms conjoined with the light,/ By their extreme fluidity,/ Are always in communion/ With the governing essence.” Just as the entire universe experiences flux through the dynamic interaction of its material parts which undergo the rhythm of attraction and repulsion, each distinct body represents a microcosm where change occurs through alteration of internal atomic structure due to incessant encounters with external bodies.

In Deshoulières’s metaphysics, the human person is not exempt from this network of material causation and atomic change. Like other bodies in the cosmos, human beings emerge from and are governed by the same principle of matter. “In a cyclone of subtle matter/ Placing them everywhere in inequality,/ The entire human race is the blessed offspring./ Its multiplicity rises to infinity.” Deshoulières insists that the allegedly spiritual powers, and not only the physical traits, of the human person can be explained by this material causation. The activity of thought is caused by the functioning of the physical organ of the brain, not by the impulses of an elusive spiritual power called reason. “The more one examines, the more one digs/ Into the confusion of what is true,/ Where particular individuals move in every way,/ It is evident that our organs, rather than our reason, figure things out.” Careful examination of human intellectual activity reveals its dependence on and origination in the physical organs of the body, preeminently in the brain. “Imitation of Lucretius” repeatedly appeals to the “envelope of matter” as the sole principle which explains the actions and changes of the embodied beings (including human beings) which populate the cosmos.

The naturalist metaphysics of “Imitation of Lucretius” indicates Dechoulières’s adherence to the atomic vitalism of Lucretius and Democritus. It also indicates a more radical cast of naturalism in comparison with that of her mentor Gassendi. Whereas Gassendi affirmed the existence of an immortal human soul specially created by God in light of the Beatific Vision, Deshoulières only briefly affirms the existence of a god necessary for the initial creation of matter. Once matter exists, its internal principles and activities are the unique cause for the existence and constitution of all subsequent beings, including human beings in their entirety. For Deshoulières, the real is coterminous with material nature, even if this nature has a decidedly lyrical character due to its fundamental dynamic of attraction and repulsion.

b. Anthropology

In her poetry, Deshoulières explores the relationship of human nature to the enveloping material nature of the cosmos. As she compares human beings to other animals, she insists that the allegedly spiritual activities of human beings can be explained by physical causation. Rather than being superior to other animals, human beings are actually inferior, inasmuch as they claim to possess a reason and freedom that are in fact illusory. The mute obedience of other animals to natural instinct compares favorably with the human propensity to self-destruction in trying to create a future that vainly attempts to alter the laws of nature. Traditional claims concerning human reason, free will, and immortality are subjected to critical scrutiny.

The nature idyll “The Sheep” (1674) criticizes the faculty of reason, which philosophers often exalt as the sign of human spirituality. In actual exercise, reason appears to be subordinate to the senses and the instincts possessed by all members of the animal kingdom. This distinctively human power appears impotent when challenged by the arational forces of passion. “This proud reason about which they make so much noise/ Is not a sure remedy against the passions./ A bit of wine disturbs it; a child charms it./ Ripping apart a heart that calls it for help/ Is the only effect it produces./ Always important and severe,/ It opposes everything but resolves nothing.” Deshoulières allies her critique of the claims of human reason to epistemological skepticism. For all its vaunted power, reason habitually leads to uncertain conclusions. Emotions govern the vacillating activity of reason far more powerfully than philosophical defenders of the light of reason would admit.

Like reason, free will is constructed on an illusion concerning the difference between human and animal natures. For Deshoulières, perfect freedom is found in following natural instinct rather than eluding it in fantasies of alternatives to natural causation. The nature idyll “The Birds” (1678) explains how authentic freedom is found in fidelity to natural instinct. “Little birds that charm me!/ You want to love? You love./ You dislike some place?/ You go to another./ You are known neither for virtue nor for faults…There is no freedom except among animals.” Authentic freedom consists in the capacity to follow one’s natural impulse. The praise of the birds’ freedom to love at will suggests the libertinism of Deshoulières’s intellectual milieu.

Later in the poem, Deshoulières explains that the only true obstacles to freedom are physical ones, such as the fowler’s net. Human freedom, the chimera of free will that produces “virtues and faults,” is illusory. Human agents claim to exercise free will to create a future that could have been otherwise. In actual fact, natural causation dictates future outcomes that cannot be altered by human wish. Deshoulières’s critique of free will as a human illusion rests on a deterministic theory of action that interprets human acts, as well as animal movements, as the product of physical causes.

In the same poem, Deshoulières extends a similar critique to the human phenomenon of love. Rather than being specific to human beings and rooted in the human possession of a will, love exists among all animals in their various expressions of attraction and repulsion. For her, the entire physical universe is built upon this amatory structure. “If Love were not mixed into this change [of the landscape from winter into spring],/ We would see all things perish. Love is the soul of the universe. As it triumphs over the winters,/ Which desolate our fields by a rude war,/ It banishes the chill from an indifferent heart.” Rather than being limited to the realm of the human psyche, love governs the entire movement of atoms as they effect change in the cosmos. The affectivity of the human heart is not superior to the physical forces that surround it. Like the seasonal changes of the cosmos, alterations in human temperament are directed by the play of external natural powers.

The illusory exaltation of the intellect and the will is rooted in a false conception of the human soul. “Ode to La Rochefoucauld” (1678) contests the theory of a human soul that would exist independently of the body. Deshoulières insists that everyday experience clearly demonstrates the interpenetration between body and soul. “Although the soul is divine,/ Invisible connections unite it to the body./ Does the soul have some bitterness?/ The body beats itself and consumes itself/ And shares its anguish./ Is the body a captive of pain?/ The soul no longer feels joy./ It itself weakens as the body does.” The strict parallel between the mental state and physical state in the human person indicates the identity between soul and body. The thesis of a spiritual soul existing independently of the body is rejected as an illusion, and is contradicted by the empirical evidence of the soul’s reciprocal dependence on the body.

In many passages, Deshoulières draws the explicit conclusion that the human individual cannot be immortal from her denial of a transcendent human soul. She argues that the psyche of the human person is governed more strictly by the laws of material nature than most philosophers of the period would concede. “The Flowers” (1677) compares the inevitable death of the human person to the extinction of flowers after a brief existence. In both cases, the death undergone is total. “Sad reflections! Useless wishes [of immortality]!/ When once we cease to be,/ Lovely flowers, it is forever. One fearful instant destroys us without exception.” While human beings might experience a metaphorical survival after death as “a faint memory of our names conserved by our society,” this mnemonic after-life is clearly not the survival of the personal soul. In Deshoulières’s demythologized account of human nature, the denial of personal immortality is the most radical of her efforts to demonstrate the complete circumscription of human nature within material nature.

c. Critique of Virtue

In criticizing the human pretension to superiority over nature through its alleged possession of reason and free will, Deshoulières devotes particular attention to the human claims of moral virtue. In her later works, she operates an umasking of virtue as the simple operation of natural instinct. What is often claimed to be a moral attribute developed by free will is revealed to be the natural reaction of an embodied subject to particular stimuli in his or her material environs. Her epigrammatic “Diverse Reflections” (1686) typifies this demythologization of virtue. She critically analyzes three moral virtues in particular: wisdom, prudence, and courage.

Philosophers often claim that wisdom is acquired by human beings as they age. This virtue is alleged to be the fruit of careful reflection on alternative courses of action. Unlike the rashness of youth, this cautious thoughtfulness frees the elderly to abandon certain dangerous habits that compromise their health. According to Deshoulières, however, this enlightenment is more instinctual than intellectual. “We believe we’ve become wise/ When, after having seen the autumnal fall of leaves more than fifty times,/ We abandon the dangerous use of certain pleasures./ We delude ourselves./ Such changes are not the work of free choice./ It is only the pride cloaking humanity/ Which, using every pretext/ Gives to the cause of virtue/ What we owe to the cause of aging.” As the human body ages, with the concomitant risk of illness and accident and the growing risk of death, the human agent instinctively moderates the use of dangerous drink or food or sport. This instinctual moderation owes far more to biology than to any deliberate choice. The alleged virtue of the elderly derives more from the natural reaction of the body to the threat of destruction, than to some mysterious internal act of election.

Similarly, the capstone moral virtue of prudence is little more than the instinctual exercise of common sense in the face of imminent peril. The alleged virtue might permit the moral agent to foresee danger but in and of itself it can not remove that danger. The common estimate of prudence gravely exaggerates the power of human reason and will to create the future. “The incense we give to prudence/ Leads my mood to despair./ What is its purpose? To see in advance/ The evils we must endure./ Is it such a benefit to predict them?/ If this cruel virtue had some certain rule/ That could remove them from us,/ I’d find the worries it gives bearable enough,/ But nothing is so misleading as human prudence./ Alas! Almost always the detour it takes/ In order to help us avoid a looming misfortune/ Is the path that takes us right to it.” Like the praise of other alleged virtues, the esteem for prudence overestimates the scope of human agency. While the human agent can detect dangers in its immediate environment, it can do little to alter that environment since it is bound by the laws of material nature, and so its future course is largely determined by the causative activity of that nature.

The cardinal moral virtue of courage is similarly dismissed as the product of sensible self-protection rather than of heroic freedom. Deshoulières attacks the courage of classical pagan warriors often lauded in the pedagogical literature of the period. The politically motivated suicides of disgraced civic leaders in the classical era are a predictable response to an unbearable physical and emotional environment. “We scarcely recognize ourselves in discussions of courage/ When we elevate to the rank of the generous/ Those Greeks and Romans whose suicidal deaths / Have made the name of courage so famous./ What have they done that is so great? They left life/ When, after crushing disgrace, Life had nothing pleasant left for them./ By one single death they spared themselves a thousand.” The suicide of a disgraced politician awaiting imminent arrest and probable execution reflects rational self-interest rooted in the instinct for sparing oneself greater pain than immediate death. There is nothing particularly surprising nor meritorious in executing such an act. In the circumstances, it could not have been otherwise.

In her demythologization of virtue, Deshoulières manifests the comprehensive scope of her naturalist conception of human nature. Virtue and vice, allegedly the manifestations of free will, are simply the instinctual reactions of the moral agent to the stimuli of pain and pleasure in his or her environment. Prudence, courage, temperance, and justice permit one to negotiate the perils in one’s surroundings in the interest of self-preservation. The repertory of virtue is not different in kind from the various defensive responses to threatening stimuli evinced by the other members of the animal kingdom as they confront the challenges of the material cosmos.

d. Environmentalist Ethics

Deshoulières’s philosophical naturalism includes a deontology (or ethics of duty) as well as a metaphysics. It is not anachronistic to claim that Deshoulières defends an environmentalist ethics. The total dependence of humanity upon nature requires the human agent to treat the material environment with respect. A properly naturalistic concept of human nature emphasizes the duty to reverence the cosmos that is humanity’s sole origin and end. Conversely, a rationalistic exaltation of humanity as set over and above material nature by dint of its allegedly superior reason justifies the subordination and destruction of nature.

In Deshoulières’s primitivist account of history, humanity reverenced nature in the first stages of its development. Ancient gathering societies respected the material world they gently used for their rustic lifestyle. “Ode to La Rochefoucauld” evokes this environmentalist golden age. “In that happy country when without prejudice/ Morals were permitted to run freely,/ Humanity was not avid/ For riches and honors./ It lived on wild fruit,/ Slept under open-air blankets,/ Drank in a clear stream./ Without goods, without rank, without envy/ It entered the tomb/ As it entered life.” This primitive humanity in tranquil communion with nature possesses its own politics. It is an egalitarian as well as frugal society. Its spontaneous moral life free of the constraints of social prejudice contains Deshoulières’s habitual libertine accents.

In modern society, technology has turned humanity into nature’s enemy. The human enterprise of land clearage, farming, dams, mines, and canals has disfigured material nature. “The Stream” (1684) argues that human exaltation of its allegedly superior reason has justified this domination and destruction of nature. “It is humanity itself that tells us that by a just choice/ Heaven placed, when it formed human beings,/ the other beings under its laws./ Let us not flatter ourselves./ We are their tyrants rather than their kings./ Why do we torture you [the streams]?/ Why do we shut you up in a hundred canals?/ And why do we reverse the order of nature/ By forcing you to spring up into the air?” The error of rationalism in refusing to see humanity as a part of nature is not a purely theoretical one; by exalting humanity as a rational being superior to the rest of nature, it has justified the human destruction of the environment as a species of moral good. This critique of environmental destruction also reflects Deshoulières’s religious skepticism. Clearly alluding to the Book of Genesis’s account of the divine grant of dominion over nature to humanity, the ode argues that it was human pride rather than divine inspiration that created such theological justifications for environmental destruction.

Deshoulières proposes that justification for the destruction of nature through an appeal to an illusory superior human reason has taken dangerous political and religious forms in modern society. “The Stream” criticizes the political claim to human rights since such a claim often justifies the human mutilation of nonhuman material beings that do not allegedly possess such rights. “Do not brag to me about these imaginary goods,/ These prerogatives, these rights/ Invented by our pride.” Similarly, the theological claim that human beings are made in God’s image justifies the destruction of other creatures allegedly not made in the divine image. “The more I see the weakness and malice of humanity,/ The less of the divinity/ I recognize in its image.” Rather than enhancing human dignity and human moral conduct, the claim of imago Dei actually increases human violence since it justifies the destruction of the material environment in the name of the ontological superiority of the human.

4. Interpretation and Relevance

Critical commentary on the works of Deshoulières has tended to highlight two strands of her philosophy. Earlier philosophical analysis (Bayle) underlined her religious skepticism, in particular her denial of human immortality. Recent literary exegesis (Adam, Lachèvre) has dwelt upon her libertinism. This approach has focused on the neo-Epicurian justification of the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain as a central ethical code in her works. It has noted her ethical theory’s critical distance from traditional Christian morality, especially in matters of sexuality.

The limitation in these approaches lies in their relative lack of attention to the broader naturalist metaphysics of Deshoulières. Her religious skepticism is grounded on the metaphysical conviction that the real is nothing other than the movement of material substance, structured in atomic patterns. All claims of spiritual substance, with the possible exception of an aloof deity who provides the initial matter, are illusory. The claims for the existence of an immortal human soul are part of a greater error concerning the nature of reality itself. Similarly, her moral libertinism is rooted in a naturalist conception of human nature. Since all mental activity is an epiphenomenon of corporeal activity, specifically in the brain, moral action rightly focuses on the preservation and care of the body. The maximization of pleasure and the reduction of pain thus becomes an imperative moral duty for the human individual and community. Her neo-Epicurean moral principles rest on the naturalist thesis that human nature is entirely immersed within the web of material nature and that claims of human transcendence due to a spiritual soul are erroneous. One of the challenges for contemporary exegesis of Deshoulières is to excavate the naturalist metaphysics in which her theological skepticism and utilitarian ethics are embedded.

Another challenge for contemporary analysis and appreciation of Deshoulières’s philosophy lies in the arcane genres in which she expresses her theories. Like other philosophical salonnières of the period, Deshoulières does not use the standard academic genre of the treatise to state her claims concerning metaphysics, anthropology, and ethics. If Lucretius’s poetic version of philosophical argument can challenge the contemporary student of philosophy, Deshoulières’s bewildering variety of poetical genres can overwhelm. The pastoral, the ode, and the idyll no longer have currency in literary circles, let alone in academic philosophical circles who determine the shape of the philosophical canon. Patient literary analysis of these antiquated forms is the necessary complement to a philosophical exploration of Deshoulières’s comprehensive naturalism. Behind the quaint quatrains of the shepherds stand a substantial environmentalist metaphysics and ethics.

5. References and Further Reading

All French to English translations above are by the author of this article.

a. Primary Sources

  • Deshoulières, Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde. Oeuvres de Madame et de Mademoiselle Deshoulières, 2 vols.(Paris: H. Nicolle, 1810).
    • A digital version of this edition is available online at Gallica: Bibliothèque numérique on the webpage of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.
  • Deshoulières, Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde. Poésies de Madame Deshoulières (Paris: Mabre-Cramoisy, 1688).
    • A digital version of this edition is available online at Gallica: Bibliothèque numérique on the webpage of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Adam, Antoine. Les Libertins au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Buchet/ Chastel, 1986).
    • Adam studies the libertine milieu of Deshoulières and her colleagues.
  • Bayle, Pierre, Dictionnaire historique et critique (Rotterdam: R. Leers, 1697).
    • Bayle discusses Deshoulières’s skepticism in the articles “Hesnault” and “Ovid.” A digital version of this book is available online at Gallica: Bibliothèque numérique on the webpage of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.
  • Conley, John. The Suspicion of Virtue: Women Philosophers in Neoclassical France(Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002): 45-74.
    • The author analyzes and critiques the naturalism of Deshoulières.
  • Lachère, Frédéric. Les derniers libertins (Paris: E. Champion, 1924)
    • Lachèvre discusses Deshoulières’s salon as the link between the skepticism of Montaigne and the free thought of the Regency.
  • Perkins, Wendy. “Le libertinage de quelques poètes épicuréens à la fin du XVIIe” in Laclos et le libertinage, eds. Pomeau and Versini (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1983): 21-46.
    • Perkins analyzes the neo-Epicurean ethics of Deshoulières.

Author Information

John J. Conley
Email: jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola College of Maryland
U. S. A.

La Sablière, Marguerite Hessein de (1640—1693)

lasablieMadame de la Sablière made distinctive contributions to moral and religious philosophy in 17th century France. Her ethical theory implies that the natural moral virtues are disguised vices and that only the theological virtues can sustain an authentic moral life. Her moral rigorism appears in the severity with which she treats questions of moral agency and responsibility. In her treatment of religious knowledge, she focuses on the spiritual conditions necessary for a proper grasp of the attributes of God. Self-abandonment, marked by detachment from the faculties of imagination and intellect, is the necessary condition for an apophatic (or negative theological) recognition of God’s essence.

Madame de la Sablière has long occupied a modest niche in literary, religious, and scientific history. French literature textbooks cite her as the hostess of a prominent literary salon and as the patron of La Fontaine. French Catholic devotional tracts celebrate her as the model convert, the savante who abandoned the skepticism and sexual license of the salon to become a pious servant of the incurably ill. Several histories of science present her as one of the first woman astronomers, due to her research undertaken at the Observatory of Paris. Only in the late 20th century has La Sablière the philosopher emerged into view.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
  2. Works
  3. Philosophical Themes
    1. Critique of Virtue
    2. Theological Virtues
    3. Moral Passions
    4. Religious Epistemology
  4. Reception and Relevance
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Biography

In 1640 Marguerite Hessein was born into the Huguenot elite of Paris. Like other members of the Protestant high bourgeoisie, Hessein belonged to a family prominent in the field of finance. Her father Gilbert Hessein acquired a substantial fortune through the bank he had founded. Her mother Marguerite Menjot Hessein was the daughter of a high-ranking official in the treasury. The spiritual and social life of the family focused on the Huguenot church at Charenton, a Paris suburb where public Protestant worship was permitted. Marguerite was baptized at the church on March 18, 1640.

After the death of her mother in 1649, Marguerite Hessein’s education was placed under the care of her maternal uncle Antoine Menjot and her cousin Madeleine Gaudon de la Raillière. A medical doctor and Protestant apologist, Menjot devised a sophisticated curriculum to be taught by a series of specialized tutors. The study of the classics was so successful that the pupil would later be renowned for her mastery of both Latin and Greek, an unusual accomplishment for a woman of the period. The rigorous instruction in mathematics initiated her lifelong love for science and her avid participation, also unusual for a woman of the period, in the scientific circles of Paris. Menjot personally instructed his niece in the theological principles of Calvinism and introduced her to philosophy. This early formation in philosophy stressed contemporary philosophy, with particular emphasis on the schools of René Descartes and Pierre Gassendi.

An arranged marriage between Marguerite Hessein and Antonie de Rambouillet de la Sablière was held on March 15, 1654. Like his wife, Monsieur de la Sablière descended from an affluent Huguenot family prominent in finance. In addition to wealth, he brought artistic distinction to the marriage. Fluent in Italian, he had already established himself as a leading poet through the publication of his madrigals. Despite the economic, religious, and cultural affinities of the spouses, the marriage unraveled in its second decade. The infidelities of the husband and the physical and emotional violence he directed toward his wife became increasingly more pronounced. After failed efforts at reconciliation, Madame de la Sablière obtained a legal separation of goods and persons in 1668. Recognizing the wife as the innocent partner in the failed marriage, the court required the delinquent husband to return her dowry to her and to pay her substantial alimony. It was Monsieur de la Sablière, however, who maintained custody of the three children from their marriage.

In 1669 a newly independent Madame de la Sablière started a literary salon in her home on the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs in Paris. The salon quickly established itself as one of the capital’s cultural centers. Prominent writers habituating the salon included Molière, Racine, and Madame de Sévigné. Several salon members were prominent in the philosophical debates of the era: Fontenelle, Huet, and Queen Christina of Sweden. During this period, La Sablière also deepened her knowledge of scientific and philosophical culture. A series of tutors instructed her on the latest scientific developments: Roberval on calculus, Sauveur on geometry, and Barthélemy d’Herbelot on anatomy. She attended the public lectures of D’Alencé on physics, Verney on anatomy, and Cassini on astronomy. Actively involved in the practical experiments at Cassini’s observatory, La Sablière distinguished herself by her astronomical research.

Her principal tutor François Bernier focused on philosophy. An opponent of Descartes, he explained to her the contemporary controversies concerning Cartesian physics and metaphysics. He composed his Summary of the Philosophy of Gassendi for her use and dedicated his Pyrrhonic treatise Doubts to her. The personal philosophical opinions of La Sablière during her career as a salonnière remain uncertain. Although some chroniclers classify her as a salon Cartesian, her old mentor Antoine Menjot describes her mature philosophical position as a synthesis between Pyrrhonic skepticism and Epicureanism.

One salon member quickly became an intimate friend and protégé of La Sablière; Jean de la Fontaine. The celebrated author of Fables, La Fontaine joined La Sablière’s circle in 1670 and became her permanent houseguest in 1673. The impoverished poet frequently praised his benefactress in public. His Discourse for Madame de la Sablière attacked the philosophy of Descartes, in particular the Cartesian mechanistic theory of animal nature. During his inaugural speech as a newly elected member of the Académie française in 1684, La Fontaine praised his patron under the pseudonymn of Iris.

At the end of the 1670s La Sablière underwent a personal crisis. An affair with a military officer, Charles de la Fare, turned sour when the multiple affairs of La Fare become public knowledge in salon gossip. The death of her estranged husband in 1679 left her without the financial resources he had provided through alimony support. Finances forced her in 1680 to abandon her home for a more modest apartment on the Rue Saint-Honoré. The psychological crisis became a spiritual one, culminating in her conversion to Catholicism.

In the early 1680s La Sablière began a new life as a penitent and contemplative. La Sablière devoted herself to meditation and theological study under the spiritual direction of the Jesuit priest Rapin until 1687, and then under the Trappist abbot Rancé until her death. She also began to work as a volunteer at the Hospice des Incurables, a dangerous and unfashionable apostolate since it involved ministry to patients suffering from contagious diseases, including venereal diseases. Devoted to this new life of prayer and charity, La Sablière rented a small apartment on the grounds of the hospital and spent an increasing amount of time in this secluded cell rather than in her official residence. Old salon acquaintances, notably La Fontaine, lamented her reclusiveness and her growing attraction to monastic life.

During these years she maintained an extensive correspondence on theological matters with Rancé and composed the reflections on the moral virtues and passions that constitute her extant philosophical works. The austere life of prayer and service at the Incurables did not end La Sablière’s philosophical and scientific interests. Her well-thumbed personal library, inventoried at the time of her death, contained volumes by Descartes, Malebranche, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, and Saint Augustine. Despite the entreaties of her spiritual directors, La Sablière refused to abandon her beloved telescope. Until the last weeks of her life, she continued to observe the movements of the stars and the planets from her apartment and to confide her observations in a notebook.

Madame de la Sablière died on January 6, 1693.

2. Works

The three surviving works of Madame de la Sablière date from the last decade of her life, when she led a contemplative existence as a lay volunteer at the Hospice des Incurables. Christian Maxims is a collection of observations on the moral life, focused on the virtues, the vices, and the passions. A popular literary genre in the salons of the period, the maxime was an epigram that dissected the contradictory currents of the human heart. Sablière transformed the genre by giving it a theological armature. Her maxims repeatedly use Scripture, the sacraments, and church tradition to demonstrate her theses on the illusions of natural moral virtue. A brief spiritual treatise, Christian Thoughts explores the spirituality of total abandonment of the human soul to the will of a hidden God. This collection of spiritual counsels argues that authentic knowledge of God requires the quieting of human intellectual, volitional, and imaginative powers. Her surviving correspondence, addressed primarily to her spiritual director Jean-Armand le Bouthillier de Rancé, abbot of La Trappe, concerns the spiritual difficulties encountered by La Sablière in her effort to renounce the worldliness of her earlier life as a salonnière and to lead an ascetical life of contemplation, penance, and service amid the terminally ill. It also reflects her substantial theological culture as she comments on the works of patristic authors who analyzed the virtue of humility. Saint Gregory the Great, Saint Dorotheus, and Saint Bernard of Clairvaux are the most frequently cited.

The history of the survival of the works of La Sablière indicates how easily the work of women philosophers in the early modern period can be lost and forgotten.

Christian Maxims was first published anonymously in 1705 in an edition of the maxims of La Rochefoucauld. The title was simply Les Maximes Chrétiennes de M*****. A subsequent edition of La Rochefoucauld in 1736 reprinted La Sablière’s work anonymously. Only in 1743 did a new edition of La Rochefoucald attribute the Maximes Chrétiennes to Madame de la Sablière. The attribution cited a 1736 royal permission to publish the work granted to the publisher Étienne Ganeau as the authority for the attribution. A subsequent 1777 edition reaffirmed La Sablière as the rightful author of the work. The close match between the style and concerns of the work to her correspondence with Rancé confirmed the attribution of authorship to La Sablière. The convoluted itinerary of Christian Maxims as an anonymous work, occasionally misconstrued as the work of La Rochefoucauld, demonstrates how anonymous and pseudonymous authorship, often employed by women of aristocratic rank during this period, could lead to the loss of the works by women authors.

La Sablière’s correspondence and Christian Thoughts followed a more tortuous itinerary. In the late nineteenth century Menjot d’Elbenne, the erudite biographer of La Sablière, investigated a manuscript collection of letters housed at the Chateau of Chantilly. Labeled Letters of Madame de Sablé, the letters were addressed to Abbé de Rancé and discussed spiritual concerns related to service at the Hospice des Incurables and to the three adult children of La Sablière. Menjot d’Elbenne immediately recognized that it was La Sablière, not Sablé, who had composed the letters. An ambiguous reference to “M.D.L.S.” as the author of the collection had apparently misled an earlier manuscript editor. Fragmentary transcriptions of La Sablière’s letters by Mademoiselle de la Jonchapt, the secretary to Madame de Maintenon, provided external confirmation of the attribution to La Sablière. Pensées Chrétiennes de D.M.D.L.S., a small spiritual treatise contained in the Chantilly manuscript collection, was also clearly identified as the work of La Sablière due to external and internal evidence.

Only in Menjot d’Elbenne’s critical edition of her writings (1923) were the three extant works of La Sablière finally available to the public. Her skill as a moraliste in Christian Maxims, Christian Thoughts, and in her correspondence with Rancé was now apparent.

3. Philosophical Themes

The philosophical reflection of La Sablière focuses primarily on moral and religious questions. In the field of ethics, she dwells on the question of virtue. She critiques natural moral virtues as masks of vice, in particular as outcroppings of pride. Conversely, she exalts the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity as the necessary foundation for the conduct of a moral life. Like the moral virtues, the passions are treated with skepticism. It is the will, and not the emotions, that must ground the moral agent in the practice of authentic virtue. In her religious philosophy, she stresses the ascetical and mystical conditions necessary for a proper knowledge of the godhead shrouded in obscurity.

a. Critique of Virtue

In Christian Maxims, La Sablière analyzes the moral life in terms of its characteristics of virtue and vice. On the surface, the moral life is a civil war between the paramount virtue of humility and the cardinal vice of pride. Beneath the surface, however, the moral virtues are often nothing more than disguised expressions of vice. Without the redemptive power of grace, the moral virtues are only frail counterfeits of authentic virtue and incapable of sustaining an ethical life.

On a superficial level, the moral life is a transparent struggle between the opposed forces of virtue and vice. For La Sablière, this struggle is ultimately a conflict between the virtue of humility and the vice of pride. Humility is the central moral virtue for the upright moral agent. “The true glory of a Christian does not consist in elevating oneself above others but in humbling oneself [CM no.59].” Pride is the vice corrupting much of human moral conduct. “Pride is the source of all our commotions and all our disturbances [CM no.75].” External moral conflict is the expression of this often hidden psychological conflict between pride and humility in the soul of the moral agent.

At a deeper level, the moral constitution of vice and virtue is more ambiguous. La Sablière argues that virtue is often scarcely masked vice. Many public displays of rigorous virtuous action are secretly fueled by the vice of pride. “We often lay down severe principles of conduct out of arrogance. We like to decorate ourselves with the appearance of virtue and it costs us nothing to give others an unsupportable yoke we would never give ourselves [CM no.23].” Even apparently humble actions are often vitiated by vice. “The sentiments of humility apparent in our words are insincere if at the same time we are angrily trying to convince others to accept what we say about ourselves [CM no.24].” Like the other virtues, humility in word and action often serves strategies of conquest rooted in self-interest.

La Sablière’s deflation of natural moral virtue does not spare the cardinal virtues. Prudence, a central cardinal virtue in the neo-Aristotelian ethics of the period, is dismissed as a species of self-interested risk management. “Prudence is cowardly and timid if it is not animated by the virtue of charity [CM no.72].” This hallowed virtue is only the disguised vice of cowardice. Similarly, La Sablière contests the humanist esteem of the alleged virtues of the pagan heroes of classical antiquity. Their vaunted courage has nothing to do with authentic virtue. “The virtue of the pagans occasionally induced them to scorn the world but only Christian virtue can make being scorned by the world something desirable [CM no.48].” The pagan contempt of the world, motivated by pride and the desire to manifest one’s superiority, has nothing in common with the saint’s contempt of the world, motivated by the love of God.

The enlightened moral agent should shun the cultivation of the natural moral virtues, given his fragility and proneness to hide substantial destructive vices. “If one recognized that virtues acquired with so much effort can quickly disappear in the commotion of the world, one would not seek his or her happiness in them. On the contrary, one would flee them as an enemy who only thinks about stealing our most precious treasures [CM no.51].” From La Sablière’s perspective, efforts to cultivate the moral virtues independently of the treasures of faith and grace can only produce disguised vices that will provide the moral agent with neither temporal nor eternal happiness. The good pagan, made virtuous through the self-disciplined exercise of freedom, is illusory in a human race ravaged by sin and concupiscence.

b. Theological Virtues

Christian Maxims argues that the possession of theological virtues is necessary for a proper perception of the moral order and for a personal capacity to adhere to the goods of that order. As gifts of God’s grace, these infused habits of the soul free their moral agent to abandon moral illusions (which are fabricated by a darkened intellect) and overcome the inconstancy of a will corrupted by sin. In her exaltation of the theological virtues as the foundations of an authentic moral life, La Sablière focuses on the principal theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity.

Faith gives its believers a veridical vision of the moral order, she says, for it is an assent of the mind to truths revealed by God. It is only through faith, and not through the work of an intellect weakened by sin, that the moral agent can properly perceive the moral order and its demands. “Faith makes us regard as goods what the world regards as evils and as evils what the world regards as goods. And it is from the difference between these ideas that is born the different conduct of the just and of the sinful [CM no.11].” Rather than deepening the moral vision of the human intellect operating in the state of concupiscent weakness, faith initiates a perception of the moral order that contradicts the moral vision of fallen humanity. Rather than complementing it, faith squarely opposes the interpretation of morality proposed by the world in its confusion. Only in the light of faith, can the contours of the authentic moral order appear.

The theological virtue of hope is essential for endurance by the moral agent in the combat to be faithful to the demands of the moral order. Only hope for eternal union with God can sustain the moral agent in a spiritual warfare that contains many opportunities for despair. “If the hopes that we develop for our salvation are not rounded in God’s Word, they are false and misleading. In vain do we promise ourselves what God does not promise [CM no.80].” The hope here is none other than the hope of eternal life with God, rooted in the resurrection of Christ proclaimed by the Scriptures. The earthly hopes of self-improvement or social success are only counterfeits of authentic hope and incapable of sustaining the moral agent in the combat to adhere to the moral order.

The theological virtue of charity enjoys the primacy of the virtues grounding a proper moral life. La Sablière insists that charity is a matter of the will and not of the emotions. “The love that God demands of us is not a sensate love, but a preferential love, which commits us to sacrifice everything rather than displease Him [CM no.11].” The moral life is ultimately theocentric. For the mature moral agent, the deepest motivation for moral conduct is a love and fear of God that issues in sacrificial service.

For La Sablière, the theological virtues do not crown the natural moral virtues already operating in the moral agent. Without the theological virtues, the alleged moral virtues of the unredeemed moral agent are only the expressions of masked vice. Without faith, the perception of the moral order is illusory. Without hope, the moral combat against the world’s allures cannot be maintained. Without charity as the motive of ethical conduct, self-interest inevitably corrupts the will of the moral agent.

c. Moral Passions

Like the moral virtues, the moral passions receive a critical assessment in Christian Maxims. For La Sablière, the emotions accompanying the moral and religious activity of the upright moral agent can easily mislead. It is the posture of the will, and not the vacillating passions accompanying the will, that determines the moral constitution of the agent. The confusion between the order of the will and the order of the passions often permits the moral and religious life to deteriorate into sentimentality.

Passions constitute a major obstacle to the work of moral reformation inspired by grace. Resolutions to pursue moral conduct requiring self-change are easily countered by the emotions of the moral agent. “Generally, we easily embrace the resolution to reform ourselves. We gladly toy with the idea of virtue. But as soon as we might fight some passion, the resolution weakens. We no longer feel capable of executing an intention we had formed without difficulty but that we cannot execute without doing violence to ourselves [CM no.254].” For La Sablière, the passions are simply the enemy of the will, especially in the painful work of moral reformation. Whereas other moralists of the period distinguished between beneficent and malevolent passions, La Sablière condemns the ensemble of emotions as a lethal threat to the moral life. “The desires inspired by the passions are the wishes of the sick. We cannot satisfy them without destroying ourselves and making ourselves miserable [CM no.84.].” La Sablière’s thoroughgoing critique of the passions reflects the voluntarism of her ethical theory. It is the will alone that is central in determining the character of the moral life. It also expresses her radical Augustinian view of concupiscent humanity, however. Even the emotions of the redeemed bear the distortions of sin; reliance on the emotions for moral guidance easily leads to error and moral decline.

In her critique of the passions, La Sablière devotes particular attention to the emotions surrounding the virtue of repentance. Authentic repentance resides in sorrow for past transgressions, restitution for the damage caused by the transgressions, and a firm resolution to avoid committing similar transgressions in the future. Sorrowful feelings that appear penitential, such as remorse and regret, are not necessarily the expression of virtue. “Only the sadness of penance is a reasonable sadness. All the others are marks of weakness or of the corruption of nature [CM no.54].” It is the will’s decisions, not vague feelings of sorrow, that indicate whether the moral agent has truly embraced the path of repentance central to authentic moral reformation.

Only in prayer can the soul successfully resist the empire of the passions. This combative prayer requires a certain amount of solitude. “We must separate ourselves from the world and in a certain way from ourselves in order to hear God in retreat. The tumult of the world and of the passions often prevents us from hearing Him [CM no.76].” For La Sablière, ethics is ultimately a question of ascetical and mystical theology. The resources to sustain a moral life grounded in the theological virtues and undimmed by the sentimentality of the passions can only emerge in a life of disciplined religious meditation. Contemplative attentiveness to God’s spirit is the pathway to the union with God’s will that is the wellspring of authentic moral conduct.

d. Religious Epistemology

The faith-centered struggle to live a moral life free of illusory virtues and distorting passions reaches its culmination in the union of the human will with the divine will. Christian Thoughts [CT] describes the abandonment of the soul to God that seals the efforts of the upright moral agent to conduct a life grounded on the theological virtues. This account of mystical union as a species of psychological abandonment is also an exercise in religious epistemology. The fullest knowledge of God possible for the human person is a negative one: a grasp of God’s essence through the immediate presence of God and not through the path of images or concepts referring to God. This apophatic knowledge of God requires an abolition of the work of the imagination and of the intellect.

The essential spiritual condition for this union with and knowledge of God is complete detachment. Renunciation of the world is psychic as well as moral. “Consider everything created as if it did not exist and as if it had already returned to the nothingness toward which it runs [CT no.6].” Detachment from self is even more demanding than detachment from the world. The memory requires purification. “Forget everything that the memory has retained. Use it only for God and for our state in life [CT no.4].” Similarly, the intellect must be freed from worldly concerns. “Empty our understanding. Use its operations only for God and for the state where he has placed us [CT no.3].” The will should avoid dissipation and should focus its affections on God alone. “We must keep our mind for considering God alone and our heart for loving God alone [CT no.15].” This insistence on a severe asceticism of the human faculties of memory, intellect, and will reflects the radical theocentrism of La Sablière’s ethics. Only a complete absorption within God can permit the moral agent to conduct an authentic moral life. But it also reflects the apophatic cast of La Sablière’s theory of religious knowledge. The quieting of the faculties of memory, intellect, and will is essential for the immediate recognition of God’s being that emerges in mystical union.

Christian Thoughts evokes the union with God that is the ultimate goal of the ascetical and mystical itinerary of the moral agent. The immediate grasp of God abolishes the need for discursive reflection. “Only consider God working in our soul. We should not add any of our own reflections [CT no.10].” Using the rhetoric of the via negativa (or negative way), La Sablière describes this mature knowledge of God as a species of forgetting. “We should hold our state of being lost in God, considering only Him as our only principle [CT no.11].” Repeated references to the void, nothingness, and sense of loss typifying this state of union reinforce the apophatic nature of mature religious knowledge according to Christian Thoughts.

This account of the knowledge of and union with God affected through self-abandonment reflects the austerity of the spirituality defended by La Sablière’s spiritual director Rancé and the longstanding tradition of apophatic mysticism within Catholicism. It also echoes the spirituality of Quietism, the dissident movement in early modern Catholicism that reached its apogee of influence in the 1690s. For the Quietists, authentic union with God required the abandonment of meditation, which they based on imaginative projection and discursive reflection in favor of meditation conceived as simple self-abandonment to the will of God. For La Sablière, the most mature knowledge of God emerges in the immediate recognition of Him by a human will abandoned to Him. It is this mystical union, veiled in obscurity, that points to God more accurately than can discursive reflection on the divine attributes. Like ethics, religious epistemology ultimately flowers in mystical theology.

4. Reception and Relevance

Until recently, the canon of La Sablière has received only cursory philosophical attention. Several facts explain this eclipse of an author celebrated as a savante and as a moraliste during her lifetime. The misattribution of the works of La Sablière during the two centuries following her death primarily contributed to her name becoming obscured. Only the scholarly work of Menjot d’Elbenne in the early twentieth century permitted the reconstitution of the canon of her works. Her presence in intellectual history as the patron of La Fontaine also obscured her own philosophical contributions. Philosophical chronicles occasionally characterized her as a salon Cartesian (though there are few traces of Descartes in her actual writings) and as the protector of the anti-Cartesian La Fontaine, but her own philosophical and theological views disappeared from view. Like other salonnières of the period, La Sablière suffered from the ridicule with which the culture of the salon was treated by leading male authors of the era. In Book X of his influential Satires, the literary critic Boileau mocked La Sablière as an amateurish pedant who possessed only the veneer of literary and scientific culture. Her telescope (compared to inverted drinking glasses) and her Latin phrases (allegedly full of grammatical errors) are dismissed as a caricature of true intellectual distinction. Unsurprisingly, such misogynist stereotypes of the salonnière stamped La Sablière’s work as devoid of philosophical interest.

Recent commentaries on La Sablière’s writings have restored her status as a moraliste. Her contributions to virtue theory and to moral psychology are more evident. The theological framework in which she develops her ethical arguments, however, is still obscured. Part of the contemporary interest in the moral philosophy of La Sablière is her construction of a distinctively theological, indeed mystical, account of the mature moral life. The theological virtues emerge as the source of, and not the complement to, a life of authentic moral virtue. Sacramental practice and personal meditation are the necessary conditions for the creation and maintenance of a human will truly devoted to the moral good. Like certain contemporary Christian ethicists, La Sablière contests the value of a natural-law ethics because the “nature” on which such an ethics is based is a nature corrupted by sin and indentured to the vices of the world. Her neo-Augustinian moral philosophy is a defense of an ethical code explicitly rooted in grace, the theological virtues, and divine illumination.

5. References and Further Reading

All French to English translations above are by the author of this article.

a. Primary Sources

  • La Sablière, Marguerite Hessein de. Maximes Chrétiennes, Pensées Chrétiennes, and Lettres, in Menjot d’Elbenne, Samuel, vicomte, Madame de la Sablière; Ses Pensées Chrétiennes et ses Lettres à l’Abbé de Rancé (Paris: Plon, 1923).
    • A critical edition of the three extant works of La Sablière.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Boileau-Despréaux, Nicolas. Oeuvres complètes, ed. Françoise Escal (Paris: Gallimard, 1966).
    • In Book X of his Satires, Boileau mocks La Sablière as a superficial pedant.
  • Conley, John J. The Suspicion of Virtue: Women Philosophers in Neoclassical France (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press: 2002): 75-96.
    • An exposition and critique of La Sablière’s theological ethics.
  • Ganim, Russell. “Scientific Verses: Subversion of Cartesian Theory and Practice in the ‘Discours à Madame de la Sablière,’” in Refiguring La Fontaine: Tercentenary Essays, ed. Anne Birberick (Charlottesville, VA: Rookwood, 1996): 101-125.
    • A detailed analysis of the anti-Cartesian theories in La Sablière’s entourage.
  • Menjot d’Elbenne, Samuel, vicomte. Madame de la Sablière; Ses Pensées Chrètiennes et ses Lettres à l’Abbé de Rancé (Paris: Plon, 1923).
    • Erudite and definitive biography of La Sablière.
  • Ogilvie-Bailey, Marilyn. “La Sablière, Marguerite Hessein de la,” in Women in Science: Antiquity through the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1986): 118-119.
    • Informative sketch of La Sablière’s scientific achievements and reputation.
  • Wall, Glenda. “La Sablière, Marguerite Hessein de la,” in An Encyclopedia of Continental Women Philosophers, ed. K. Wilson (New York: Garland, 1991): 2: 1086-1087.
    • Literary sketch of La Sablière’s biography and bibliography.

Author Information

John J. Conley
Email: jconley1@loyola.edu
Loyola College in Maryland
U. S. A.

Functionalism

Functionalism is a theory about the nature of mental states. According to functionalism, mental states are identified by what they do rather than by what they are made of. This can be understood by thinking about artifacts like mousetraps and keys. In particular, the original motivation for functionalism comes from the helpful comparison of minds with computers. But that is only an analogy. The main arguments for functionalism depend on showing that it is superior to its primary competitors: identity theory and behaviorism. Contrasted with behaviorism, functionalism retains the traditional idea that mental states are internal states of thinking creatures. Contrasted with identity theory, functionalism introduces the idea that mental states are multiply realized.

Objectors to functionalism generally charge that it classifies too many things as having mental states, or at least more states than psychologists usually accept. The effectiveness of the arguments for and against functionalism depends in part on the particular variety in question, and whether it is a stronger or weaker version of the theory. This article explains the core ideas behind functionalism and surveys the primary arguments for and against functionalism.

In one version or another, functionalism remains the most widely accepted theory of the nature of mental states among contemporary theorists. Nevertheless, in view of the difficulties of working out the details of functionalist theories, some philosophers have been inclined to offer supervenience theories of mental states as alternatives to functionalism.

Table of Contents

  1. Functionalism Introduced
  2. The Core Idea
  3. Being as Doing
  4. The Case for Functionalism
  5. Searle’s Chinese Room
  6. Zombies
  7. Stronger and Weaker Forms of Functionalism
  8. Conclusion
  9. References and Further Reading
    1. References
    2. Suggested Reading

1. Functionalism Introduced

Functionalism is a theory about the nature of mental states. According to functionalists, mental states are identified by what they do rather than by what they are made of. Functionalism is the most familiar or “received” view among philosophers of mind and cognitive science.

2. The Core Idea

Consider, for example, mouse traps. Mouse traps are devices for catching or killing mice. Mouse traps can be made of most any material, and perhaps indefinitely or infinitely many designs could be employed. The most familiar sort involves a wooden platform and a metal strike bar that is driven by a coiled metal spring and can be released by a trigger. But there are mouse traps designed with adhesives, boxes, poisons, and so on. All that matters to something’s being a mouse trap, at the end of the day, is that it is capable of catching or killing mice.

Contrast mouse traps with diamonds. Diamonds are valued for their hardness, their optical properties, and their rarity in nature. But not every hard, transparent, white, rare crystal is a diamond—the most infamous alternative being cubic zirconia. Diamonds are carbon crystals with specific molecular lattice structures. Being a diamond is a matter of being a certain kind of physical stuff. (That cubic zirconia is not quite as clear or hard as diamonds explains something about why it is not equally valued. But even if it were equally hard and equally clear, a CZ crystal would not thereby be a diamond.)

These examples can be used to explain the core idea of functionalism. Functionalism is the theory that mental states are more like mouse traps than they are like diamonds. That is, what makes something a mental state is more a matter of what it does, not what it is made of. This distinguishes functionalism from traditional mind-body dualism, such as that of René Descartes, according to which minds are made of a special kind of substance, the res cogitans (the thinking substance.) It also distinguishes functionalism from contemporary monisms such as J. J. C. Smart’s mind-brain identity theory. The identity theory says that mental states are particular kinds of biological states—namely, states of brains—and so presumably have to be made of certain kinds of stuff, namely, brain stuff. Mental states, according to the identity theory, are more like diamonds than like mouse traps. Functionalism is also distinguished from B. F. Skinner’s behaviorism because it accepts the reality of internal mental states, rather than simply attributing psychological states to the whole organism. According to behaviorism, which mental states a creature has depends just on how it behaves (or is disposed to behave) in response to stimuli. In contrast functionalists typically believe that internal and psychological states can be distinguished with a “finer grain” than behavior—that is, distinct internal or psychological states could result in the same behaviors. So functionalists think that it is what the internal states do that makes them mental states, not just what is done by the creature of which they are parts.

As it has thus far been explained, functionalism is a theory about the nature of mental states. As such, it is an ontological or metaphysical theory. And this is how it will be discussed, below. But it is also worthwhile to note that functionalism comes in other varieties as well. Functionalism could be a philosophical theory about psychological explanations (that psychological states are explained as functional states) or about psychological theories (that psychological theories take the form of functional theories.) Functionalism can also be employed as a theory of mental content, both as an account of the intentionality of mental states in general (what makes some states intentional is that they function in certain ways) or of particular semantic content (what makes some state have the content “tree” is that it plays a certain role vis-à-vis trees.) Finally, functionalism may be viewed as a methodological account of psychology, the theory that psychology should be pursued by studying how psychological systems operate. (For detailed discussion of these variations, see Polger, 2004, ch. 3.)

Often philosophers and cognitive scientists have subscribed to more than one of these versions of functionalism together. Sometimes it is thought that some require others, or at least that some entail others when combined with certain background assumptions. For example, if one believes, following Franz Brentano, that “intentionality is the mark of the mental,” then any theory of intentionality can be converted into a theory of the ontological nature of psychological states. If so, intentional functionalism may entail metaphysical functionalism.

All this being said, metaphysical functionalism is the central doctrine and probably the most widely endorsed. So in what follows the metaphysical variety will be the focus.

3. Being as Doing

Before looking at the arguments for and against functionalism, it is necessary to clarify the idea that, for mental states, being is doing.

Plausibly a physical stuff kind such as diamond has a physical or structural essence, i.e., being a thing of a certain composition or constitution, quite independently of what they do or can be used to do. It happens that diamonds can cut glass, but so can many other things that are not diamonds. And if no diamond ever did or could cut glass (perhaps Descartes’ evil demon assures that all glass is impenetrable), then they would not cease to be diamonds.

But it is also plausible that not all stuffs are made up in this way. Some things may be essentially constituted by their relations to other things, and by what they can do. The most obvious examples are artifacts like mousetraps and keys. Being a key is not a matter of being a physical thing with a certain composition, but it is a matter of being a thing that can be used to perform a certain action, namely, opening a lock. Lock is likewise not a physical stuff kind, but a kind that exists only in relation to (among other things) keys. There may be metal keys, wood keys, plastic keys, digital keys, or key-words. What makes something a key is not its material composition or lack thereof, but rather what it does, or could do, or is supposed to do. (Making sense of the claim that there is something that some kinds of things are supposed to do is one of the important challenges for functionalists.)

The activities that a key does, could do, or is supposed to do may be called its functions. So one can say that keys are essentially things that have certain functions, i.e., they are functional entities. (Or the kind key is a functional kind.)

The functionalist idea is, in some forms, quite ancient. One can find in Aristotle the idea that things have their functions or purposes—their telos— essentially. In contemporary theories applied to the mind, the functions in question are usually taken to be those that mediate between stimulus (and psychological) inputs and behavioral (and psychological) outputs. Hilary Putnam’s contribution was to model these functions using the contemporary idea of computing machines and programs, where the program of the machine fixes how it mediates between its inputs and standing states, on one hand, and outputs and other standing states, on the other. Modern computers demonstrate that quite complex processes can be implemented in finite devices working by basic mechanical principles. If minds are functional devices of this sort, then one can begin to understand how physical human bodies can produce the tremendous variety of actions and reactions that are associated with our full, rich mental lives. The best theory, Putnam hypothesized, is that mental states are functional states—that the kind mind is a functional kind.

The initial inspiration for functionalism comes from the useful analogy of minds with computing machines, as noted above. Putnam was certainly not the first to notice that this comparison could be theoretically fruitful. But in his “functionalist papers” of the 1950s and 1960s, he methodically explored the utility, and oversaw the transition of the idea from mere analogy to comprehensive theory, culminating with his classic defense of the functional state theory in his 1967 paper, “The Nature of Mental States.” There Putnam advanced the case for functionalism as a serious theoretical hypothesis, and his argument goes beyond the mere claim that it is fruitful to think of minds as being in many ways similar to machines. This argument aims to establish the conclusion that the best theory is the one that holds that minds “just are” machines of a certain sort.

4. The Case for Functionalism

Many arguments for functionalism depend on the actuality or possibility of systems that have mental states but that are either physically or behaviorally distinct from human beings. These arguments are mainly negative arguments that aim to show that the alternatives to functionalism are unacceptable. For example, behaviorists famously held that psychological states are not internal states at all, whether physical or psychical. But, the argument goes, it is easy to imagine two creatures that are behaviorally indistinguishable and that differ in their mental states. This line of reasoning is one of a family of “perfect actor” or “doppelgänger” arguments, which are common fare in philosophy of mind:

P1. If behaviorism is true, it is not possible for there to be a perfect actor or doppelgänger who behaves just like me but has different mental states or none at all.

P2. But it is possible for there to be a perfect actor or doppelgänger who behaves just like me but has different mental states or none at all.

P3. Therefore, behaviorism is not true. (by modus tollens)

In a well-known version of this argument, one imagines that there could be “Super-Spartans” who never exhibit pain behavior (such as flinching, saying “ouch”) or even any dispositions to produce pain behavior (Putnam 1963).

The most famous arguments for functionalism are responses not to behaviorism but to the mind-brain identity theory. According to the identity theory, “sensations are brain processes” (Smart 1959). If mental state kinds are (identical to) kinds of brain states, then there is a one-to-one relation between mental state kinds and brain state kinds. Everything that has sensation S must have brain state B, and everything that has brain state B must have sensation S. Not only that, but this one-to-one correlation must not be accidental. It must be a law of nature, at least, and perhaps must hold with an even stronger sort of necessity. Put this way, the mind-brain identity theory seems to make a very strong claim, indeed. As Hilary Putnam notes,

the physical-chemical state in question must be a possible state of a mammalian brain, a reptilian brain, a mollusc’s brain (octopuses are mollusca, and certainly feel pain), etc. At the same time, it must not be a possible (physically possible) state of the brain of any physically possible creature that cannot feel pain. Even if such a state can be found, it must be nomologically certain that it will also be a state of the brain of any extraterrestrial life that may be found that will be capable of feeling pain before we can even entertain the supposition that it may be pain. (Putnam 1967: 436)

The obvious implication is that the mind-brain identity theory is false. Other mammals, reptiles, and mollusks can experience pain, but they do not have brains like ours. It seems to follow that there is not a one-to-one relation between sensations and brain processes, but rather a one-to-many relation. Mental states, then, are not uniquely realized (as the identity theory requires); they are instead multiply realized.

And even if (by chance) it turns out that mammals, reptiles, and mollusks all have similar brains (so that in fact there is a one-to-one correlation), certainly one can recognize the possibility that it might be discovered that terrestrial or extraterrestrial creatures who experience pains but do not have brains like those of human beings. So it is surely not necessary that there is a one-to-one relation between mental state kinds and brain states kinds, but that is exactly what the identity theory would require. This is bad news for the identity theory, but it is good news for functionalism. For functionalism says that what makes something a mental state is what it does, and it is fully compatible with the diverse brains of mammals, reptiles, and mollusks that they all have mental states because their different brains do the same things, that is, they function in the same ways. Functionalism is supported because it is a theory of mind that is compatible with the likely degree of multiple realization of mental states.

Another pair of arguments for functionalism are what can be called the Optimistic and Pessimistic Arguments. The optimistic argument leans on the possibility of building artificial minds. The Optimistic Argument holds that even if no one ever discovers a creature that has mental states but differs from humans in its brain states, surely one could build such a thing. That is, the possibility of artificial intelligence seems to require the truth of something like functionalism. Functionalism views the mind very much as an engineer does: minds are mechanisms, and there is usually more than one way to build a mechanism. The Optimistic Argument, then, is a variation on the multiple realization argument discussed above; but this version does not depend on empirical facts about how our world is in fact, as the multiple realization argument does.

The Pessimistic Argument claims that the alternatives to functionalism would leave people unable to know about and explain the mental states of one another, or of other creatures. After all, if two creatures function in the same ways, achieve the same results, have isomorphic internal states, etc., then what could justify the claim that one has mental states and the other does not? The identity theory says that the justification has to do with what kinds of stuff the creatures are made of—only the one with the right kind of brain counts as having mental states. But this flies in the face of our ordinary practices of understanding, attributing, and explaining mental states. If someone says, “I am in pain,” or “I believe that it is sunny outside,” one doesn’t have to cut the speaker open and find out whether they have a human brain in order to know that they have a pain or a belief. One knows that because the speaker not only produce those noises (as the behaviorist might say), but because they have internal states that function in certain ways. One can test this, as psychologists often do, by running experiments in a laboratory or, as ordinary people do, by asking questions and observing replies. That is, we can find out how the systems function. And if functionalism is correct, that is all we need to know in order to have knowledge of other minds. But if the identity theory is correct, then those methods are at best heuristics, and the observer may yet be wrong. One cannot know for certain that the speaker has pains or beliefs unless one knows what kind of brain the speaker has. Without knowing about brains, we can only infer that others have beliefs on the basis of the behavioral symptoms they exhibit, and we already know (see above, regarding behaviorism and Super-Spartans) that those can lead us astray. But that is crazy, the argument goes, and if one really believed it then (given that in general one doesn’t know what kinds of brains other people have) nobody would be justified in believing anything about the beliefs of other people and creatures . And that is crazy.

The trouble with the Optimistic Argument is that it is question-begging. It assumes that one can create artificial thinking things without duplicating the kinds of brain states that human beings have, and that is just what the identity theory denies. The trouble with the Pessimistic Argument is that it seems to exploits a very high standard for knowledge of other minds — namely infallibility or certainty. The objection gets its grip only if the requirement to infer facts about others minds does undermine the possibility of knowledge about those minds. But we regularly acquire knowledge by inference or induction, and there is no special reason to think that inferences about minds are more problematic than other inferences.

The multiple realization argument is much more nuanced. Its interpretation is a matter of some dispute. Although there has been increasing resistance to the argument lately, it remains the most influential reason for favoring functionalism over the alternatives. And even if the multiple realization argument is unsound, that result would only undermine one argument for functionalism and not the thesis itself.

The next two sections will consider two objections to functionalism that aim to show that the theory is untenable. Both objections assume that mental states are, as the functionalist insists, multiply realizable. The objections try to show that because of its commitment to multiple realization, functionalism must accept certain unpalatable consequences. The conclusion of each argument is that functionalism is false.

5. Searle’s Chinese Room

John Searle’s “Chinese Room Argument is aimed at computational versions of functionalism, particularly those that specify the relevant functions in terms of inputs and outputs without fixing the internal organization of the processes. Searle stipulates that “Strong AI” is the thesis than an appropriately programmed computer literally has mental states, and that its program thereby constitutes an explanation of its mental states and (following the functionalist inspiration) of human mental states (1980). Searle then describes a scenario in which a system that carries out the program consists in some books and pieces of paper, a pencil, he himself—John Searle—all inside a room. People on the outside pass questions written in Chinese into the room. And Searle, by following the directions (the program) in the books, is able to produce answers to those questions. But Searle insists that he does not understand Chinese and has no beliefs about the questions and answers. After all, one may suppose with him, he doesn’t even recognize that they are questions and answers written in Chinese, or any language at all for that matter. And he thinks it would be absurd to say that the room itself understands Chinese or has beliefs about the questions and answers. So, he concludes, the version of functionalism represented by Strong AI must be false. Having the right functions, at least when they are specified only by inputs and outputs, is not sufficient for having mental states.

Searle’s Chinese Room is a version of the “twin” or “doppelgänger” style objections to functionalism, in which some system is specified to be functionally isomorphic to a mental system, e.g., one that understands stories written in Chinese. Since functionalism holds that being is doing, two systems that do the same things (that is, that are functionally the same) should also be the same with respect to their mental states. But if Searle is correct, the system including the books and himself is functionally but not psychologically identical to a person who understands Chinese. And if so, this is incompatible with functionalism.

Searle considers a number of responses to his thought experiment, and offers his own replies. Probably the most serious response is that Searle begs the question when he asserts that the whole collection of stuff in the room including the books and himself, i.e., the whole system, does not understand. The “Systems Reply” holds that if functionalism is true then the whole system does understand Chinese, just as a Chinese speaker does even though it would be wrong to say that her brain or her tongue or some part of her understands Chinese by itself.

On the other hand, Searle’s example does dramatically illustrate a worry that has been expressed by others: Even if there are many ways of being a thinking thing, it does not follow that anything goes. In the Chinese Room thought experiment, nothing is specified about the details of instructions that Searle follows, the program. It is simply stipulated that it produces the correct outputs appropriate to the inputs. But many philosophers think that it would undermine the claim that the room understands if, for example, the program turned out to be a giant look-up table, a prepared list of all possible questions with the corresponding appropriate answer (Block 1978). The giant look-up table seems like too “dumb” a way to implement the system to count as understanding. So it’s not unreasonable to say that Searle has shown that input-output functionalism can’t be the whole story about mental states. Still, that’s a much more modest conclusion than Searle aimed for.

6. Zombies

Searle’s Chinese Room objection focuses on contentful mental states like belief and understanding, what are generally called intentional states. But some philosophers conclude that functionalism is a good theory of intentional states but that it nevertheless fails because it cannot explain other sorts of mental states—in particular, they say that it cannot explain sensations and other conscious mental states.

Putting the point in terms of Searle’s Chinese Room: the whole system might, in some sense, understand Chinese or produce responses that are about the questions; but, in Thomas Nagel’s famous phrase, there is nothing that “it is like” to be the Chinese Room. The whole system does not enjoy what it is doing, it does not experience sensations or emotions, and it does not feel pains or pleasures. But Searle himself does have experiences and sensations—he is a conscious being. So, the reasoning goes, even if functionalism works for intentional states, it does not work for consciousness.

Early versions of this concern were discussed under the name “absent qualia.” But the current fashion is to cast the discussion in term of twins or doppelgängers called zombies. (This terminology was introduced by Robert Kirk 1974, but has recently, for lack of a better expression, taken on a life of its own.) The general idea is that there might be two creatures which are physically or functionally identical but that differ in the mental states in a particularly dramatic way: one has normal conscious mental states, and the other has none at all. The second twin is the philosophical “zombie.”

The logical structure of the zombie argument is just the same as with the other twin and doppelgänger arguments, like the Super-Spartans discussed above:

P1*. If functionalism is true, it is not possible for me to have a zombie twin, i.e., a doppelgänger who functions just like me but has no mental states.

P2*. But it is possible for me to have a zombie twin.

P3*. Therefore, functionalism is not true. (by modus tollens)

There are several differences between the premises of the zombies argument and those of the earlier argument against behaviorism. First, while most versions of functionalism entail P1*, it is not obvious that all must. Fred Dretske, for example, endorses a version of functionalism that rejects P1* (1995). But more crucially, the justification for P2* is far less clear than that for P2. P2 makes a very weak claim, because mere behavior—movement, rather than what some philosophers would call action—is relatively easy to generate. This much as been commonplace among those who theorize about the mind at least as far back as Descartes’ familiarity with mechanical statues in European water gardens. P2* makes a potentially much stronger claim. It seems to suggest that the zombie could be not just behaviorally identical but also functionally identical in any arbitrary sense of function and in as much specificity as one might want. But this is quite controversial. In the most controversial form, one might suppose that “functional” identity could be arbitrarily fine-grained so as to include complete physical identity. In this variation, the twins would be physically identical creatures, one of whom has conscious mental states and the other of whom lacks consciousness altogether.

The challenge for the functionalist, as Ned Block has argued, is to find a notion of function and a corresponding version of functionalism that solve “the problem of inputs and outputs” (Block 1978). Functionalism must be specified in terms of functions (inputs and outputs) that are sufficiently general to allow for multiple realization of mental states, but sufficiently specific to avoid attributing mental states to just about everything. This is tricky. A version of functionalism that is too specific will rule out certain genuinely psychological systems, and thereby prove to be overly “chauvinistic.” A version of functionalism that is too general will attribute mental states to all sorts of things that one doesn’t ordinarily take to have them, and thereby prove to be overly “liberal.” Is there any non-arbitrary cut-off between liberalism and chauvinism? Is there any way to navigate between this Scylla and Charybdis? This is the big unanswered question for functionalists.

7. Stronger and Weaker Forms of Functionalism

At this point two clarifications are in order. These clarifications reveal some ways in which functionalism comes in stronger or weaker versions.

The first clarification pertains to the varieties of functionalism. As noted in Section 2, there are many versions of functionalism. Here the focus has been on metaphysical versions. But the variations described earlier (metaphysical, intentional, semantic, explanatory, methodological, and theoretical) represent only one dimension of the ways in which various functionalisms differ. Functionalist theories can also be distinguished according to which mental phenomena they are directed toward. The standard way of classifying mental states is as intentional (such as beliefs and desires) or conscious or qualitative (such as sensations and feelings.) Of course some philosophers and psychologists believe that all mental states turn out to be of one sort. (Most commonly they hold that all kinds of mental states are intentional states of one sort or another.) But that need not be a factor here, for the classification is only for expository purposes. Specifically, one can hold that functionalism is a theory of intentional states, of conscious states, or of both. The strongest claim would be that functionalism applies to all mental states. William Lycan (1987) seems to hold this view. Weaker versions of functionalism apply to only one sort of mental state or the other. For example, Jaegwon Kim (2005) appears to hold that something like functionalism applies to intentional states but not to qualitative states.

The second clarification pertains to the scope or completeness of a functionalist theory. Functionalism claims that the nature of mental states is determined by what they do, by how they function. So a belief that it is sunny, for example, might be constituted in part by its relations to certain other beliefs (such as that the sun is a star), desires (such as the desire to be on a beach), inputs (such as seeing the sun), and outputs (such as putting on sunglasses.) Now consider the other beliefs and desires (in the above example) that partially constitute the nature of the belief that it is sunny. In the strongest versions of functionalism, those beliefs and desires are themselves functional states, defined by their relations to inputs, outputs, and other mental states that are in turn functionally constituted; and so on. In this case, every mental state is completely or purely constituted by its relations to other things, without remainder. Nothing can exist as a mental state on its own, only in relation to the others. In contrast, weaker versions of functionalism could allow some mental states to be basic and non-functional For example, if functionalism applies to all mental states, one could hope to explain intentional states functionally while allowing for conscious mental states to be basic. Then the belief that it is sunny might be constituted, in part, by its relations to certain sensations of warmth or yellowness, but those sensations might not be functional states. Generally speaking, philosophers who do not specify otherwise are assuming that functionalism should be the strong or pure variety. Impure or weak versions of functionalism—what Georges Rey calls “anchored” versions—do not succeed in explaining the mental in terms of purely non-mental ingredients. So whatever other value they might have, they fall short as metaphysical theories of the nature of mental states. Some would deny that weak theories should count as versions of functionalism at all.

8. Conclusion

There are many more variations among functionalist theories than can be discussed herein, but the above clarifications are sufficient to give a flavor of the various nuances. It is safe to say that in one version or another, functionalism remains the most widely accepted theory of the nature of mental states among contemporary theorists. Nevertheless, recently, perhaps in view of the difficulties of working out the details of functionalist theories, some philosophers have been inclined to offer supervenience theories of mental states as alternatives to functionalism. But as Jaegwon Kim correctly pointed out, supervenience simply allows us to pose the question about the nature of mental states, it is not an answer. The question is: Why do mental states supervene on the physical states of the creatures that have them, or at least of the world altogether? Functionalism provides one possible answer: Mental states supervene on physical states because mental states are functional states, i.e., they are realized by physical states. Much remains to be said about such a theory, and to many philosophers the arguments for it do not seem as decisive as when they were initially offered. But there is no denying that it is an intriguing and potentially powerful theory.

9. References and Further Reading

a. References

  • Block, N. (ed.) 1980a. Readings in Philosophy of Psychology, Volume One. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Block, N. (ed.) 1980b. Readings in Philosophy of Psychology, Volume Two. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Block, N. and J. Fodor. 1972. What Psychological States Are Not. Philosophical Review 81: 159-181.
  • Chalmers, D. 1995. Facing up to the problem of consciousness. Journal of Consciousness Studies, 2, 3: 200-219.
  • Cummins, R. 1975. Functional analysis. The Journal of Philosophy LXXII, 20: 741-765.
  • Fodor, J. 1968. Psychological Explanation. New York: Random House.
  • Fodor, J. 1974. Special sciences, or the disunity of science as a working hypothesis. Synthese 28: 97-115. Reprinted in Block 1980a.
  • Kim, J. 2005. Physicalism, or Something Near Enough. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
  • Kirk, R. 1974. Zombies v. Materialists. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 48: 135-152.
  • Lewis, D. 1970. How to Define Theoretical Terms. Journal of Philosophy 68: 203-211.
  • Lewis, D. 1972. Psychophysical and Theoretical Identifications. The Australasian Journal of Philosophy 50: 249-258.
  • Lewis, D. 1980. Mad Pain and Martian Pain. In Block (ed.) 1980b.
  • Lycan, W. 1981. Form, Function, and Feel. Journal of Philosophy 78: 24-50.
  • Lycan, W. 1987. Consciousness. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Millikan, R. 1989. In Defense of Proper Functions. Philosophy of Science 56: 288-302.
  • Polger, T. 2000. Zombies Explained. In Dennett’s Philosophy: A Comprehensive Assessment, D. Ross, A. Brook, and D. Thompson (Eds). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Putnam, H. 1960. Minds and Machines. In Hook (ed) Dimensions of Mind (New York: New York University Press). Reprinted in Putnam (1975c).
  • Putnam, H. 1963. Brains and Behavior. Analytical Philosophy, Second Series, ed. R. J. Butler (Oxford: Basil Blackwell): 211-235. Reprinted in Putnam (1975c).
  • Richardson, R. 1979. Functionalism and Reductionism. Philosophy of Science 46: 533-558.
  • Richardson, R. 1982. How not to reduce a functional psychology. Philosophy of Science, 49, 1: 125-137.
  • Searle, J. 1980. Minds, Brains, and Programs. The Behavioral and Brain Sciences 3, 3: 417-424.
  • Shapiro, L. 2000. Multiple Realizations, The Journal of Philosophy, 97, 635-654.
  • Shapiro, L. 2004. The Mind Incarnate, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Shoemaker, S. 1975. Functionalism and Qualia. Philosophical Studies 27: 291-315. Reprinted in Block (1980a).
  • Shoemaker, S. 1984. Identity, Cause, and Mind. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Smart J. J. C. 1959. Sensations and Brain Processes. Philosophical Review, LXVIII: 141-156.
  • Sober, E. 1985. Panglossian Functionalism and the Philosophy of Mind. Synthese 64: 165-193.
  • Wright, L. 1973. Functions. Philosophical Review 82, 2: 139-168.

b. Suggested Reading

  • Block, N. 1978. Troubles with functionalism. C. W. Savage (ed.), Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, Vol. IX (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press). Reprinted in Block (1980a).
  • Block, N. 1980c. Introduction: What is functionalism? In Block (1980b).
  • Kim, J. 1996. Philosophy of Mind. Boulder, CO: Westview.
  • Polger, T. 2004. Natural Minds. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Putnam, H. 1967. Psychological Predicates. Reprinted in Block (1980) and elsewhere as “The Nature of Mental States.”
  • Rey, G. 1997. Contemporary Philosophy of Mind. Boston: Blackwell Publishers.
  • Shoemaker, S. 1981. Some Varieties of Functionalism. Philosophical Topics 12, 1: 83-118. Reprinted in Shoemaker (1984).
  • Van Gulick, R. 1983. Functionalism as a Theory of Mind. Philosophy Research Archives: 185-204.

Author Information

Thomas W. Polger
Email: thomas.polger@uc.edu
University of Cincinnati
U. S. A.

Abortion

This article gives an overview of the moral and legal aspects of abortion and evaluates the most important arguments. The central moral aspect concerns whether there is any morally relevant point during the biological process of the development of the fetus from its beginning as a unicellular zygote to birth itself that may justify not having an abortion after that point. Leading candidates for the morally relevant point are: the onset of movement, consciousness, the ability to feel pain, and viability. The central legal aspect of the abortion conflict is whether fetuses have a basic legal right to live, or, at least, a claim to live. The most important argument with regard to this conflict is the potentiality argument, which turns on whether the fetus is potentially a human person and thus should be protected. The question of personhood depends on both empirical findings and moral claims.

The article ends with an evaluation of a pragmatic account. According to this account, one has to examine the different kinds of reasons for abortion in a particular case to decide about the reasonableness of the justification given. Take the example of a young, raped woman. The account suggests that it would seem cruel and callous to force her to give birth to “her” child. So, if  this pragmatic account is correct, some abortions may be morally justifiable whereas other abortions may be morally reprehensible.

Table of Contents

  1. Preliminary Distinctions
    1. Three Views on Abortion
    2. The Standard Argument
    3. The Modified Standard Argument
  2. Personhood
  3. Moral Aspects of the Abortion Conflict
    1. Moral Rights
    2. At Birth
    3. Viability
    4. First Movement
    5. Consciousness and the Ability to Feel Pain
    6. Unicellular Zygote
    7. Thomson and the Argument of The Sickly Violinist
  4. Legal Aspects of the Abortion Conflict
    1. The Account of Quasi-Rights
    2. The Argument of Potentiality
  5. A Pragmatic Account
    1. First Order Reasons
      1. Rape
      2. Endangerment of the Woman’s Life
      3. Serious Mentally or Physically Disabled Fetuses
    2. Second Order Reasons
      1. A Journey to Europe
      2. Financial and Social Reasons
    3. First Order Reasons vs. Second Order Reasons
  6. Public Policy and Abortion
  7. Clinical Ethics Consultation and Abortion
  8. References and Further Reading

1. Preliminary Distinctions

One of the most important issues in biomedical ethics is the controversy surrounding abortion. This controversy has a long history and is still heavily discussed among researchers and the public—both in terms of morality and in terms of legality. The following basic questions may characterize the subject in more detail: Is abortion morally justifiable? Does the fetus (embryo, conceptus, and zygote) have any moral and/or legal rights? Is the fetus a human person and, thus, should be protected? What are the criteria for being a person? Is there any morally relevant break along the biological process of development from the unicellular zygote to birth? This list of questions is not meant to be exhaustive, but it describes the issues of the following analysis.

a. Three Views on Abortion

There are three main views: first, the extreme conservative view (held by the Catholic Church); second, the extreme liberal view (held by Singer); and third, moderate views which lie between both extremes. Some opponents (anti-abortionists, pro-life activists) holding the extreme view, argue that human personhood begins from the unicellular zygote and thus – according to the religious stance – one should not have an abortion by virtue of the imago dei of the human being (for example, Schwarz 1990). To have an abortion would be, by definition, homicide. The extreme liberal view is held by proponents (abortionists). They claim that human personhood begins immediately after birth or a bit later (Singer). Thus, they consider the relevant date is at birth or a short time later (say, one month). The proponents of the moderate views argue that there is a morally relevant break in the biological process of development – from the unicellular zygote to birth – which determines the justifiability and non-justifiability of having an abortion. According to them, there is a gradual process from being a fetus to being an infant where the fetus is not a human being but a human offspring with a different moral status.

The advantage of the extreme conservative view is the fact that it defines human personhood from the beginning of life (the unicellular zygote); there is no slippery slope. However, it seems implausible to say that the zygote is a human person. The advantage of the extreme liberal view is that its main claim is supported by a common philosophical usage of the notion “personhood” and thus seems more sound than the extreme conservative view because the offspring is far more developed; as the unicellular zygote. This view also faces severe problems; for example, it is not at all clear where the morally relevant difference is between the fetus five minutes before birth and a just born offspring. Some moderate views have commonsense plausibility especially when it is argued that there are significant differences between the developmental stages. The fact that they also claim for a break in the biological process, which is morally relevant, seems to be a relapse into old and unjustified habits. As Gillespie stresses in his article “Abortion and Human Rights” (1984, 94-102) there is no morally relevant break in the biological process of development. But, in fact, there are differences, which make a comparative basis possible without having to solve the problem of drawing a line. How should one decide?

b. The Standard Argument

The standard argument is the following practical syllogism:

  1. The killing of human beings is prohibited.
  2. A fetus is a human being.
  3. The killing of fetuses is prohibited.

Hence, abortion is not allowed since homicide is prohibited. It seems obvious to question the result of the practical syllogism since one is able to argue against both premises. First, there are possible situations where the first premise could be questioned by noting, for example that killing in self-defense is not prohibited. Second, the second premise could also be questioned since it is not at all clear whether fetuses are human beings in the sense of being persons, although they are of course human beings in the sense of being members of the species of homo sapiens. Consecutively, one would deny that fetuses are persons but admit that a young two year old child may be a person. Although, in the end, it may be difficult to claim that every human being is a person. For example, people with severe mental handicaps or disorder seem not to have personhood. That is, if personhood is defined with regard to specific criteria like the capacity to reason, or to have consciousness, self-consciousness, or rationality, some people might be excluded. But, in fact, this does not mean that people with severe mental handicaps who lack personhood can be killed. Even when rights are tied to the notion of personhood, it is clearly prohibited to kill disabled people. Norbert Hoerster, a well-known German philosopher, claims that fetuses with severe handicaps can be – like all other fetuses – aborted, as born human beings with severe handicaps they have to be protected and respected like all other human beings, too (1995, 159).

c. The Modified Standard Argument

However, it seems appropriate to modify the standard argument and to use a more sophisticated version. Replace the notion “human being” with “human life form.” The new practical syllogism is:

  1. The killing of human life forms is prohibited.
  2. A fetus is a human life form.
  3. The killing of fetuses is prohibited.

The objection against the first premise of the standard argument still holds for the new more sophisticated version. But, the second modified premise is much stronger than the previous one because one has to determine what a human life form really is. Is a fetus a human life form? But, even if the fetus is a human life form, it does not necessarily follow that it should be protected by that fact, simpliciter. The fetus may be a human life form but it hardly seems to be a person (in the ordinary sense of the notion) and thus has no corresponding basic right to live. However, as already stated, this kind of talk seems to go astray because the criteria for personhood may be suitable for just-borns but not appropriate for fetuses, embryos, or unicellular zygotes, like some biological (human being), psychological (self-consciousness), rational (ability to reasoning), social (sympathy/love), or legal (being a human life form with rights) criteria may indicate (for example, Jane English 1984). Jane English persuasively argues in “Abortion and the Concept of a Person” that even if the fetus is a person, abortion may be justifiable in many cases, and if the fetus is no person, the killing of fetuses may be wrong in many cases.

2. Personhood

What does it mean to claim that a human life form is a person? This is an important issue since the ascription of rights is at stake. I previously stated that it is unsound to say that a fetus is a person or has personhood since it lacks, at least, rationality and self-consciousness. It follows that not every human being is also a person according to the legal sense, and, thus, also lacks moral rights (extreme case). The fetus is by virtue of his genetic code a human life form but this does not mean that this would be sufficient to grant it legal and moral rights. Nothing follows from being a human life form by virtue of one’s genes, especially not that one is able to derive legal or moral rights from this very fact (for example, speciesism). Is a human person exclusively defined by her membership of the species Homo sapiens sapiens and thus should be protected? To accept this line of argumentation would entail the commitment of the existence of normative empirical features. It seems premature to derive the prohibition to kill a life form from the bare fact of its genetic feature – including the human life form – unless one argues that human beings do have the basic interest of protecting their offspring. Is a human life form a moral entity? This seems to be a good approach. The argument runs as follows: It seems plausible to claim that human beings create values and, if they have the basic interest of protecting their offspring, human beings may establish a certain morality by which they can argue, for example, for the prohibition of abortions. The moral judgment can be enforced through legal norms (see below).

To be more precise about the assumption of the existence or non-existence of normative, empirical features: Critics of the view to tie the right to live and the biological category of being a human being claim that the protagonists effect the is-ought fallacy. Why is it unsound to take the bare fact of being a member of the biological species Homo sapiens as a solid basis for granting the right to live? The linkage seems only justified when there are sound factual reasons. If there are none, the whole line of reasoning would “hang in the air” so that one could also easily argue for the right to live for cats and dogs. Only factual relevant features may be important for the linkage. What could these relevant features look like?

Jane English presents in her article “Abortion and the Concept of a Person” several features of personhood which characterize the human person. Her notion of personhood can be grouped into five sectors (English 1984, pp. 152): (i) the biological sector (being a human being, having extremities, eating and sleeping); (ii) the psychological sector (perception, emotions, wishes and interests, ability to communicate, ability to make use of tools, self-consciousness); (iii) the rational sector (reasoning, ability to make generalizations, to make plans, learning from experience); (iv) the social sector (to belong to different groups, other people, sympathy and love); and (v) the legal sector (to be a legal addressee, ability to make contracts, to be a citizen). According to English, it is not necessary for a human life form to comply with all five sectors and different aspects to count as a person. A fetus lies right in the penumbra where the concept of personhood is hard to apply. There is no core of necessary and sufficient features that could be ascribed to a human life form in order to be sure that these features constitute a person (English 1984, 153).

Mary Anne Warren claims that a human life form should qualify as a person when, at least, some of the following aspects (especially i-iii) are at stake: (i) consciousness and the ability to feel pain; (ii) reasoning; (iii) a self-motivated activity; (iv) ability to communicate; and (v) the existence of a self-concept (for example, individual, racial) and self-consciousness (Warren 1984, 110-113). Warren argues that the fetus is no person since it lacks the criteria of personhood and, thus, an abortion is justified.

The aim is not to give an airtight definition of the concept of personhood. The main question is whether a fetus could qualify as a person. The following can be stated: The fetus is a human offspring but is not a legal, social, and rational person in the ordinary sense of the notions. Some aspects of the psychological sector for example, the ability to feel and perceive can be ascribed to the fetus but not to the embryo, conceptus, or the (unicellular) zygote. It seems implausible to say that a fetus (or embryo, conceptus, zygote) is a person, unless one additionally claims that the genetic code of the fetus is a sufficient condition. However, this does not mean, in the end, that one could always justify an abortion. It only shows that the fetus could hardly be seen as a human person.

It is hard to keep the legal and moral aspects of the conflict of abortion apart. There are overlaps which are due to the nature of things since legal considerations are based on the ethical realm. This can also be seen according to the notion person. What a person is is not a legal question but a question which is to be decided within a specific ethics. If one characterizes the notion of a person along some criteria, then the question of which criteria are suitable or not will be discussed with regard to a specific moral approach (for example, Kantianism, utilitarianism, virtue ethics). The relevant criteria, in turn, may come from different areas like the psychological, rational, or social sphere. If the criteria are settled, this influences the legal sector because the ascription of legal rights – especially the right to live in the abortion debate – is tied to persons and respectively to the concept of personhood.

3. Moral Aspects of the Abortion Conflict

The main question with regard to the moral sphere concerns identification of the right developmental point of the fetus (or the embryo, conceptus, zygote) to decide which break may morally justify an abortion or not (proponents of the moderate view and the extreme liberal view claim that there is such a break). The main arguments in the debate will be evaluated in the following. Before we analyze the arguments, it is necessary to say something about moral rights.

a. Moral Rights

Some authors claim that the talk of moral rights and moral obligations is an old never-ending tale. There are no “moral rights” or “moral obligations” per se; at least, in the sense that there are also moral rights and moral obligations apart from legal rights and legal obligations. There is no higher ethical authority which may enforce a specific moral demand. Rights and obligations rest on law. According to ethics, one should better say “moral agreements” (for example, Gauthier). The proponents claim that moral agreements do have a similar status to legal rights and legal obligations but stress that no person has an enforceable demand to have her moral rights prevail over others. The suitability is the essential aspect of the metaphysics of rights and obligations. Only the formal constraint establishes rights and obligations within a given society (for example, Hobbes); the informal constraint within a given society – though it may be stronger – is not able to do so. Without a court of first instance there are no rights and obligations. Only by using the legal system is one able to establish specific moral rights and specific moral obligations. Those authors claim that there are no absolute moral rights and moral obligations which are universally valid; moral agreements are always subjective and relative. Hence, there are also no (absolute) moral rights which the fetus (embryo, conceptus, or zygote) may call for. The only solution may be that the survival of the fetus rests on the will of the human beings in a given moral society. According to their view, it is only plausible to argue that an abortion is morally reprehensible if the people in a given society do have a common interest not to abort and make a moral agreement which is enforced by law.

b. At Birth

Proponents of the liberal view contend that the morally significant break in the biological development of the fetus is at birth. This means that it is morally permitted to have an abortion before birth and morally prohibited to kill the offspring after birth. The objection against this view is simple because there seems to be no morally relevant difference between a short time (say five minutes) before birth and after it. Factually, the only biological difference is the physical separation of the fetus from the mother. However it seems unsound to interpret this as the morally significant difference; the bare evidence with regard to the visibility of the offspring and the physical separation (that is, the offspring is no longer dependent on the woman’s body) seems insufficient.

c. Viability

Proponents of the moderate view often claim that the viability criterion is a hot candidate for a morally significant break because the dependence of the nonviable fetus on the pregnant woman gives her the right to make a decision about having an abortion. The aspect of dependence is insufficient in order to determine the viability as a possible break. Take the following counter-example: A son and his aged mother who is nonviable without the intensive care of her son; the son has no right to let his mother die by virtue of her given dependence. However, one may object that there is a difference between “needing someone to care for you” and “needing to live off a particular person’s body.” Furthermore, one may stress that the nonviable and the viable fetus both are potential human adults. But as we will see below the argument of potentiality is flawed since it is unclear how actual rights could be derived from the bare potentiality of having such rights at a later time. Hence, both types of fetuses cannot make claim for a right. There is also another objection that cannot be rebutted: the viability of the fetus regarding the particular level of medical technology. On the one hand, there is a temporal relativity according to medical technology. The understanding of what constitutes the viability of the fetus has developed over time according to the technical level of embryology in the last centuries and decades. Today, artificial viability allows physicians to rescue many premature infants who would have previously died. On the other hand, there exists a local relativity according to the availability of medical supplies in and within countries which determines whether the life of a premature infant will be saved. The medical supply may vary greatly. Consequently, it seems inappropriate to claim that viability as such should be regarded as a significant break by being a general moral justification against abortions.

d. First Movement

The first movement of the fetus is sometimes regarded as a significant break because proponents stress its deeper meaning which usually rests on religious or non-religious considerations. Formerly the Catholic Church maintained that the first movement of the fetus shows that it is the breathing of life into the human body (animation) which separates the human fetus from animals. This line of thinking is out-of-date and the Catholic Church no longer uses it. Another point is that the first movement of the fetus that women experience is irrelevant since the real first movement of the fetus is much earlier. Ultrasonic testing shows that the real first movement of the fetus is somewhere between the 6th and 9th week. But even if one considers the real first movement problems may arise. The physical ability to move is morally irrelevant. One counter-example: What about an adult human being who is quadriplegic and is unable to move? It seems out of the question to kill such people and to justify the killing by claiming that people who are disabled and simply lack the ability to move are, therewith, at other people’s disposal.

e. Consciousness and the Ability to Feel Pain

In general, proponents of moderate views believe that consciousness and the ability to feel pain will develop after about six months. However the first brain activities are discernable after the seventh week so that it is possible to conclude that the fetus may feel pain after this date. In this respect, the ability to suffer is decisive for acknowledging a morally significant break. One may object to this claim, that the proponents of this view redefine the empirical feature of “the ability to suffer” as a normative feature (is-ought fallacy). It is logically unsound to conclude from the bare fact that the fetus feels pain that it is morally reprehensible or morally prohibited per se to abort the fetus.

f. Unicellular Zygote

Proponents of the extreme conservative view claim that the morally significant break in the biological development of the fetus is given with the unicellular human zygote. They argue that the unicellular zygote is a human person, and thus, it is prohibited to have an abortion because one kills a human being (for example, Schwarz).

The extreme conservative proponents argue that biological development from the fetus to a human being is an incremental process which leaves no room for a morally significant break (liberals deny this line of thinking). If there is no morally significant break, then the fetus has the same high status of a newborn, or the newborn has the same low status of the fetus.

To many opponents of the “extreme” conservative position, it seems questionable to claim that a unicellular zygote is a person. At best, one may maintain that the zygote will potentially develop into a human being. Except the potentiality argument is flawed since it is impossible to derive current rights from the potential ability of having rights at a later time. Opponents (for example, Gert) also object to any attempt to base conclusions on religious considerations that they believe cannot stand up to rational criticism. For these reasons, they argue that the conservative view should be rejected.

g. Thomson and the Argument of The Sickly Violinist

Judith Jarvis Thomson presents an interesting case in her landmark article “A Defense of Abortion” (1971) in order to show that, even if the fetus has a right to live, one is still able to justify an abortion for reasons of a woman’s right to live/integrity/privacy. Thomson’s famous example is that of the sickly violinist: You awake one morning to find that you have been kidnapped by a society of music lovers in order to help a violinist who is unable to live on his own by virtue of his ill-health. He has been attached to your kidneys because you alone have the only blood type to keep him alive. You are faced with a moral dilemma because the violinist has a right to live by being a member of the human race; there seems to be no possibility to unplug him without violating this right and thus killing him. However, if you leave him attached to you, you are unable to move for months, although you did not give him the right to use your body in such a way (Thomson 1984, 174-175).

First, Thomson claims that the right to live does not include the right to be given the means necessary for survival. If the right to live entails the right to those means, one is not justified in preventing the violinist from the on-going use of one’s kidneys. The right to the on-going use of the kidneys necessarily implies that the violinist’s right to his means for survival always trumps the right to another person’s body. Thomson refuses this and claims that “the fact that for continued life that violinist needs the continued use of your kidneys does not establish that he has a right to be given the continued use of your kidneys” (Thomson 1984, 179). She argues that everybody has a right of how his own body is used. That is, the violinist has no right to use another person’s body without her permission. Therefore, one is morally justified in not giving the violinist the use of one’s own kidneys.

Second, Thomson contends that the right to live does not include the right not to be killed. If the violinist has the right not to be killed, then another person is not justified in removing the plug from her kidneys although the violinist has no right to their use. According to Thomson, the violinist has no right to another person’s body and hence one cannot be unjust in unplugging him: “You surely are not being unjust to him, for you gave him no right to use your kidneys, and no one else can have given him any such right” (Thomson 1984, 180). If one is not unjust in unplugging oneself from him, and he has no right to the use of another person’s body, then it cannot be wrong, although the result of the action is that the violinist will be killed.

4. Legal Aspects of the Abortion Conflict

What is the legal status of the fetus (embryo, conceptus, and zygote)? Before the question is answered, one should pay some attention to the issue of the genesis of a legal system. Which ontological status do legal rights have? Where do they come from? Usually we accept the idea that legal rights do not “fall from the blue sky” but are made by human beings. Other conceptions which had been provided in the history of human kind are:

  1. rights rest on God’s will;
  2. rights rest on the strongest person; or
  3. rights rest on a specific human feature like a person’s wisdom or age.

However, let us take the following description for granted: There is a legal community in which the members are legal entities with (legal) claims and legal addressees with (legal) obligations. If someone refuses the addressee’s legal obligation within such a system, the legal entity has the right to call the legal instance in order to let his right be enforced. The main question is whether the fetus (or the embryo, conceptus, zygote) is a legal person with a basic right to live or not and, furthermore, whether there will be a conflict of legal norms, that is a conflict between the fetus’ right to live and the right of self-determination of the pregnant woman (principle of autonomy). Is the fetus a legal entity or not?

a. The Account of Quasi-Rights

It was previously stated that the fetus as such is no person and that it seems unsound to claim that fetuses are persons in the ordinary sense of the notion. If rights are tied to the notion of personhood, then it seems appropriate to say that fetuses do not have any legal rights. One can object that animals of higher consciousness (or even plants, see Korsgaard 1996, 156) have some “rights” or quasi-rights because it is prohibited to kill them without good reason (killing great apes and dolphins for fun is prohibited in most countries). Their “right” not to be killed is based on the people’s will and their basic interest not to kill higher developed animals for fun. But, it would be wrong to assume that those animals are legal entities with “full” rights, or that they have only “half” rights. Thus, it seems reasonable to say that animals have “quasi-rights.” There is a parallel between the so-called right of the fetus and the quasi-rights of some animals: both are not persons in the normal sense of the notion but it would cause us great discomfort to offer them no protection and to deliver them to the vagaries of the people. According to this line of argument, it seems sound to claim that fetuses also have quasi-rights. It does not follow that the quasi-rights of the fetuses and the quasi-rights of the animals are identical; people would normally stress that the quasi-rights of fetuses are of more importance than that of animals.

However, there are some basic rights of the pregnant woman, for example, the right of self-determination, the right of privacy, the right of physical integrity, and the right to live. On the other hand, there is the existential quasi-right of the fetus, that is, the quasi-right to live. If the presumption is right that legal rights are tied to the notion of personhood and that there is a difference between rights and quasi-rights, then it seems right that the fetus has no legal right but “just” a quasi-right to live. If this is the case, what about the relation between the existential quasi-right of the fetus and the basic legal rights of the pregnant woman? The answer seems obvious: quasi-rights cannot trump full legal rights. The fetus has a different legal status that is based on a different moral status (see above). On this view there is no legal conflict of rights.

b. The Argument of Potentiality

Another important point in the debate about the ascription of legal rights to the fetus is the topic of potential rights. Joel Feinberg discusses this point in his famous article “Potentiality, Development, and Rights” (1984, 145-151) and claims that the thesis that actual rights can be derived from the potential ability of having such rights is logically flawed because one is only able to derive potential rights from a potential ability of having rights. Feinberg maintains that there may be cases where it is illegal or wrong to have an abortion even when the fetus does not have any rights or is not yet a moral person. To illustrate his main argument – that rights do not rest on the potential ability of having them – Feinberg considers Stanley Benn’s argument which I slightly modified:

If person X is President of the USA and thus is Commander in Chief of the army, then person X had the potential ability to become the President of the USA and Commander in Chief of the army in the years before his rule.

But, it does not follow that:

The person X has the authority to command the army as potential President of the USA.

Thus, it seems incorrect to derive actual rights from the bare potential ability to have legal rights at a later time. It should be added that Benn – despite his criticism on the argument of potential rights – also claims that there are valid considerations which do not refer to the talk of rights and may provide plausible reasons against infanticide and late abortions even when fetuses and newborns are lawless beings with no personhood.

5. A Pragmatic Account

There is always a chance that women get pregnant when they have sex with their (heterosexual) partners. There is not a 100% certainty of not getting pregnant under “normal circumstances”; there is always a very small chance even by using contraception to get pregnant. However, what does the sphere of decisions look like? A pregnancy is either deliberate or not. If the woman gets deliberately pregnant, then both partners (respectively the pregnant woman) may decide to have a baby or to have an abortion. In the case of having an abortion there may be good reasons for having an abortion with regard to serious health problems, for example, a (seriously) disabled fetus or the endangerment of the woman’s life. Less good reasons seem to be: vacation, career prospects, or financial and social grievances. If the pregnancy is not deliberate, it is either self-caused in the sense that the partners knew about the consequences of sexual intercourses and the contraception malfunctioned or it is not self-caused in the sense of being forced to have sex (rape). In both cases the fetus may be aborted or not. The interesting question concerns the reasons given for the justification of having an abortion.

There are at least two different kinds of reasons or justifications: The first group will be called “first order reasons”; the second “second order reasons.” First order reasons are reasons of justifications which may plausibly justify an abortion, for example, (i) rape, (ii) endangerment of the woman’s life, and (iii) a serious mentally or physically disabled fetus. Second order reasons are reasons of justifications which are, in comparison to first order reasons, less suitable in providing a strong justification for abortion, for example, (i) a journey, (ii) career prospects, (iii) by virtue of financial or social grievances.

a. First Order Reasons

i. Rape

It would be cruel and callous to force the pregnant woman who had been raped to give birth to a child. Judith Jarvis Thomson maintains in her article “A Defense of Abortion” that the right to live does not include the right to make use of a foreign body even if this means having the fetus aborted (Thomson 1984, pp. 174 and pp. 177). Both the fetus and the raped woman are “innocent,” but this does not change “the fact” that the fetus has any rights. It seems obvious in this case that the raped woman has a right to abort. Forcing her not to abort is to remind her of the rape day-by-day which would be a serious mental strain and should not be enforced by law or morally condemned.

However, this assumption would be premature from John Noonan’s viewpoint according to his article “An Almost Absolute Value in History” (Noonan 1970, 51-59). He claims that

the fetus as human [is] a neighbor; his life [has] parity with one’s own […] [which] could be put in humanistic as well as theological terms: do not injure your fellow man without reasons. In these terms, once the humanity of the fetus is perceived, abortion is never right except in self-defense. When life must be taken to save life, reason alone cannot say that a mother must prefer a child’s life to her own. With this exception, now of great rarity, abortion violates the rational humanist tenet of the equality of human lives.

Hence, the woman has no right to abort the fetus even if she had been raped and got pregnant against her will. This is the consequence of Noonan’s claim since he only permits having an abortion in self-defense while Thomson argues that women, in general, have a right to abort the fetus when the fetus is conceived as an intruder (for example, due to rape). But, it remains unclear what Noonan means by “self-defense.” At the end of his article he states that “self-sacrifice carried to the point of death seemed in extreme situations not without meaning. In the less extreme cases, preference for one’s own interests to the life of another seemed to express cruelty or selfishness irreconcilable with the demands of love” (Noonan 1970). On this view, even in the standard case of self-defense — for example, either the woman’s life or the life of the fetus — the pregnant woman’s death would not be inappropriate and in less extreme cases the raped woman would express cruelty or selfishness when she aborts the fetus — a judgment not all people would agree with.

ii. Endangerment of the Woman’s Life

Furthermore, there is no good reason to proceed with a pregnancy when the woman’s life is in serious danger. Potential life should not be more valued then actual life. Of course, it is desirable to do everything possible to rescue both but it should be clear that the woman’s life “counts more” in this situation. To force her at the risk of her life means to force her to give up her right of self-defense and her right to live. There seems to be no good reason to suspend her basic right of self-defense.

iii. Serious Mentally or Physically Disabled Fetuses

It is hard to say when exactly a fetus is seriously mentally or physically disabled because this hot issue raises the vital question of whether the future life of the disabled fetus is regarded as worth living (problem of relativity). Hence, there are simple cases and, of course, borderline cases which lie in the penumbra and are hard to evaluate. Among the simple cases take the following example: Imagine a human torso lacking arms and legs that will never develop mental abilities like self-consciousness, the ability to communicate, or the ability to reason. It seems quite obvious to some people that such a life is not worth living. But what about the high number of borderline cases? Either parents are not entitled to have a healthy and strong offspring, nor are the offspring entitled to become healthy and strong. Society should not force people to give birth to seriously disabled fetuses or morally worse to force mothers who are willing to give birth to a disabled fetus to have an abortion (for example, Nazi Germany). It seems clear that a rather small handicap of the fetus is not a good reason to abort it.

Often radical groups of disabled persons claim that, if other people hold the view that it is all right to abort fetuses with (serious) genetic handicaps, the same people therewith deny the basic right to live of disabled adults with serious handicaps (see Singer debate). This objection is unreasonable since fetuses in contrast to adult human beings have no basic interest in continuing to live their lives. Disabled fetuses may be aborted like other fetuses, disabled (adult) human persons have to be respected like other people.

b. Second Order Reasons

i. A Journey to Europe

With regard to the reasons of justification according to the second group, there is a specific view which is based on the argument that it is the decision of the woman to have an abortion or not.

There is a related view that rests on the assumption of the pregnant woman who claims that the fetus is a part of her body like a limb so that she has the right to do what ever she wants to do with the fetus. The argument is wrong. The fetus is certainly not a simple part of the pregnant woman but, rather, a dependent organism that relies on the woman.

The following example, the journey to Europe from North America, is based on the feminist argument but it is somewhat different in stressing another point in the line of argumentation: A young woman is pregnant in the seventh month and decides to make a journey to Europe for a sight-seeing tour. Her pregnancy is an obstacle to this and she decides to have an abortion. She justifies her decision by claiming that it will be possible for her to get pregnant whenever she wants but she is only able to make the journey now by virtue of her present career prospects. What can be said of her decision? Most authors may feel a deep discomfort not to morally condemn the action of the woman or not to reproach her for her decision for different reasons. But, there seems only two possible answers which may count as a valid basis for morally blaming the woman for her decision: First, if the young woman lives in a moral community where all members hold the view that it is immoral to have an abortion with regard to the reason given, then her action may be morally reprehensible. Furthermore, if the (moral) agreement is enforced by law, the woman also violated the particular law for which she has to take charge of. Second, one could also blame her for not showing compassion for her potential child. People may think that she is a callous person since she prefers to make the journey to Europe instead of giving birth to her almost born child (seventh month). If the appeal to her mercy fails, one will certainly be touched by her “strange” and “inappropriate” action. However, the community would likely put some informal pressure on the pregnant woman to influence her decision not to have an abortion. But some people may still contend that this social pressure will not change anything about the fact that the fetus has no basic right to live while claiming that the woman’s decision is elusive.

ii. Financial and Social Reasons

A woman got pregnant (not deliberately) and wants to have an abortion by virtue of her bad financial and social background because she fears that she will be unable to offer the child an appropriate life perspective. In this case, the community should do everything possible to assist the woman if she wants to give birth to her child. Or, some may argue, that society should offer to take care of her child in special homes with other children or to look for other families who are willing to house another child. According to this line of thinking, people may claim that the financial or social background should not be decisive for having an abortion if there is a true chance for help.

c. First Order Reasons vs. Second Order Reasons

There is a difference between the first order reasons and the second order reasons. We already saw that the first order reasons are able to justify an abortion while the second order reasons are less able to do so. That is because people think that the second order reasons are weaker than the reasons of the first group. It seems that the human ability to show compassion for the fetus is responsible for our willingness to limit the woman’s basic right of autonomy where her reasons are too elusive. However, one may state that there are no strong compulsive reasons which could morally condemn the whole practice of abortion. Some people may not unconvincingly argue that moral agreements and legal rights are due to human beings so that reasons for or against abortion are always subjective and relative. According to this view, one is only able to contend the “trueness” or “wrongness” of a particular action in a limited way. Of course, there are other people who argue for the opposite (for example, Kantians, Catholic Church). One reason why people have strong feelings about the conflict of abortion is that human beings do have strong intuitive feelings, for example, to feel compassion for fetuses as helpless and most vulnerable human entities. But moral intuitionism falls short by being a valid and objective basis for moral rights.

In the end, it is a question of a particular moral approach whether one regards an abortion as morally justifiable or not. But not every approach is justified. There is no anything goes.

6. Public Policy and Abortion

One of the most difficult issues is how to make a sound policy that meets the needs of most people in a given society without focusing on the extreme conservative view, or the extreme liberal view, or the many moderate views on the conflict of abortion. The point is simple, one cannot wait until the philosophical debate is settled, for maybe there is no one solution available. But, in fact, people in a society must know what the policy is; that is, they have to know when and under what circumstances abortion is permitted or altogether prohibited. What are the reasons for a given policy? Do they rest on religious beliefs or do they depend on cultural claims? Whose religious beliefs and whose cultural claims? Those beliefs and claims of most people or of the dominant group in a given society ? What about the problem of minority rights? Should they be respected or be refused? These are hard questions; no one is able to yet give a definite response.

But, of course, the problem of abortion has to be “solved,” at least, with regard to practical matters. This means that a good policy does not rest on extreme views but tries to cover as many points of views, although being aware of the fact that one is not able to please every person in society. This would be an impossible task. It seems that one should adopt a moderate view rather than the proposed extreme views. This is not because the moderate view is “correct” but because one needs a broad consensus for a sound policy. The hardliners in the public debate on the conflict of abortion, be they proponents or opponents, may not be aware of the fact that neither view is sustainable for most people.

A sound way for governments with regard to a reasonable policy could be the acceptance of a more or less neutral stance that may function as a proper guide for law. But, in fact, the decisive claim of a “neutral stance” is, in turn, questionable. All ethical theories try to present a proper account of a so-called neutral stance but there is hardly any theory that could claim to be sustainable with regard to other approaches. However, the key seems to be, again, to accept a middle way to cover most points of views. In the end, a formation of a policy seeks a sound compromise people could live with. But this is not the end of the story. One should always try to find better ways to cope with hard ethical problems. The conflict of abortion is of that kind and there is no evidence to assume otherwise.

7. Clinical Ethics Consultation and Abortion

The vital issue of how one chooses whether or not to have an abortion is of utmost importance since people, in particular women, want to have a proper “guideline” that can support them in their process of ethical decision-making. According to pregnant women, the most crucial point seems not to be whether abortion is morally legitimate or not but, rather, how one should deliberate in the particular case. In fact, observations regularly show that women will nearly have the same number of abortions in contexts in which it is legal or not.

Gert is right in claiming that “the law can allow behavior that some people regard as morally unacceptable, such as early abortion, and it can prohibit behavior that some people regard as morally acceptable, such as late abortion. No one thinks that what the law decides about abortion settles the moral issue” (Gert 2004, 138). But what follows from that? What aspects should one consider and how should one decide in a particular case?

It would be best to consult a neutral person who has special knowledge and experiences in medicine and medical ethics (for example, clinical ethics consultation). Most people are usually not faced with hard conflicts of abortion in their daily lives and get simply swamped by it; they are unable to determine and evaluate all moral aspects of the given case and to foresee the relevant consequences of the possible actions (for example, especially with regard to very young women who get pregnant by mistake). They need professional help without being dominated by the person in order to clarify their own (ethical) stance.

However, the conflict of abortion as such may not be solvable, in the end, but the experienced professional is able to provide persons with feasible solutions for the particular case.

8. References and Further Reading

  • Boonin, David (2002), A Defense of Abortion Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Boylan, Michael (2002), “The Abortion Debate in the 21st Century” in Medical Ethics, ed. Michael Boylan. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.
  • Chadwick, Ruth, Kuhse, Helga, Landman, Willem et al. (2007), The Bioethics Reader. Editor’s Choice Oxford: Blackwell Publishers.
  • English, Jane (1984), “Abortion and the Concept of a Person,” in: The Problem of Abortion, 151-161.
  • Feinberg, Joel (1984), “Potentiality, Development, and Right,” in: The Problem of Abortion, 145-150.
  • Feinberg, Joel (1984), The Problem of Abortion, Belmont: Wadsworth.
  • Gauthier, David (1986), Morals by Agreement, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Gert, Bernard (2004), Common Morality. Deciding What to Do, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Gillespie, Norman (1984), “Abortion and Human Rights,” in: The Problem of Abortion, 94-102.
  • Gordon, John-S. (2005), “Die moralischen und rechtlichen Dimensionen der Abtreibungsproblematik,” in: Conjectura, 43-62.
  • Hoerster, Norbert (1995), Abtreibung im säkularen Staat, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp.
  • Hobbes, Thomas (1996), Leviathan, Ed. Richard Tuck Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Korsgaard, Christine (1996), The Sources of Normativity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Noonan, John T. (1970), “An Almost Absolute Value in History,” in: The Morality of Abortion: Legal and Historical Perspectives, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 51-59.
  • Noonan, John T. (1970), The Morality of Abortion: Legal and Historical Perspectives, Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
  • Schwarz, Stephen (1990), Moral Questions of Abortion, Chicago: Loyola University Press.
  • Singer, Peter (1993), Practical Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Sumner, Wayne (1980), Abortion and Moral Theory, Princeton: Princeton University Press.
  • Thomson, Judith J. (1984), “A Defense of Abortion,” in: The Problem of Abortion, 173-188.
  • Tooley, Michael (1983), Abortion and Infanticide, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Warren, Mary A. (1984), “On the Moral and Legal Status of Abortion,” in: The Problem of Abortion, 102-119.
  • Warren, Mary A. (1997), “Abortion,” in: A Companion to Ethics, Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 303-314.

Author Information

John-Stewart Gordon
Email: john-stewart.gordon@rub.de
Ruhr-University Bochum
Germany

Charles Sanders Peirce (1839—1914)

peirceC.S. Peirce was a scientist and philosopher best known as the earliest proponent of pragmatism. An influential thinker and polymath, Peirce is among the greatest of American minds. His thought was a seminal influence upon William James, his life long friend, and upon John Dewey, his one-time student. James and Dewey went on to popularize pragmatism thereby achieving what Peirce’s inability to gain lasting academic employment prevented him from doing.

Pragmatism takes the meaning of a concept to depend upon its practical bearings. The upshot of this maxim is that a concept is meaningless if it has no practical or experiential effect on the way we conduct our lives or inquiries. Similarly, within Peirce’s theory of inquiry, the scientific method is the only means through which to fix belief, eradicate doubt and progress towards a final steady state of knowledge.

Although Peirce applied scientific principles to philosophy, his understanding and admiration of Kant also colored his work. Peirce was analytic and scientific, devoted to logical and scientific rigor, and an architectonic philosopher in the mold of Kant or Aristotle. His best-known theories, pragmatism and the account of inquiry, are both scientific and experimental but form part of a broad architectonic scheme. Long considered an eccentric figure whose contribution to pragmatism was to provide its name and whose importance was as an influence upon James and Dewey, Peirce’s significance in his own right is now largely accepted.

Table of Contents

  1. Peirce’s Life
  2. Peirce’s Works and Influence
  3. The Interpretation of Peirce’s Philosophy
  4. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Peirce’s Life

Charles Sanders Peirce was born September 10th, 1839, in Cambridge, MA to Benjamin Peirce, the brilliant Harvard mathematician and astronomer, and Sarah Hunt Mills, the daughter of Senator Elijah Hunt Mills. Peirce led a privileged early life; parental indulgences meant his father refused to discipline his children for fear of suppressing their individuality. Further, the academic and intellectual climate of the family home meant intellectual dignitaries were frequent visitors to the Peirce household. These visitors included mathematicians and men of science, poets, lawyers and politicians. This environment saw young Charles Peirce’s precocious intellect readily indulged.

Peirce was the second of five children and four talented brothers, one of whom, James Mills Peirce (his elder brother), followed their father to a mathematics professorship at Harvard. Another brother, Herbert Henry Davis Peirce, carved out a distinguished career in the Foreign Service whilst Peirce’s youngest brother, Benjamin Mills Peirce, showed promise as an engineer but died young. The talent of the Peirce brothers, and particularly Charles, stems in large part from the colossal intellect and influence of their father.

Benjamin Peirce was instrumental in the development of American Sciences in the 19th Century through his own intellectual achievements and by lobbying Washington for funds. He was influential in the creation of Harvard’s Lawrence Scientific School and in the foundation of a National Academy of the Sciences. A further role, which was to prove important in Charles Peirce’s life, was Peirce Senior’s influential position in the U.S Coastal and Geodetic Survey from 1852 until his death in 1880. Benjamin Peirce provided a mighty role model, guiding the prodigious development of the young Peirce’s intellect through heuristic teaching. This gave Peirce a love of science and commitment to rigorous inquiry from a young age.

The influence of Benjamin Peirce on Charles’ intellect and, through refusing discipline, his fierce independence of spirit, is immense. The devotion to mathematical thoroughness and love of science colored Peirce’s endeavors for the rest of his life. Further, Peirce’s free spirited independence of mind undoubtedly contributed to the stubbornness and arrogance that surfaced in moments of adversity to compound the professional difficulties that he continually faced.

Despite some problems in school due to Peirce’s unsettled behavior, he graduated from Harvard in 1859. Peirce remained consistently in the lower quarter of his class but his indifference to the work and disdain at the intellectual requirements asked of him seem to be the cause of his poor performance. He remained at Harvard as a resident for a further year receiving a Master of Arts degree. Further, in 1863, he graduated from Harvard’s Lawrence Scientific School with the first Bachelor of Science degree awarded Summa cum Laude.

By 1863, with his education complete and having secured employment with the U.S Coastal Survey, Peirce’s marriage to Harriet Melusina Fay, a feminist campaigner of good Cambridge patrician stock, appeared to lay the foundation for a fruitful career and stable life. Peirce’s star began to burn brightly and in 1865 he delivered a lecture series at Harvard and gave the Lowell Institute Lectures a year later at age twenty-six. He published early well-received responses to Kant’s system of categories in 1867 and to Descartes account of knowledge, science and doubt in 1868.

His research in geodesy and gravimetrics at the U.S. Coastal Survey gained him international respect and, through European research tours, enabled him to make contact with British and European logicians. During an early research tour of Europe, Peirce’s work on Boolean logic and relatives gained him respect and attention from the British Logicians W.S. Jevons and Augustus De Morgan. In 1867, The Academy of Arts and Science elected Peirce as a member and The National Academy of Sciences followed suit in 1877. Peirce also began extra work at the Harvard Observatory in 1869 and published a book from his research there, the 1878 Photometric Researches.

Other work in Philosophy saw Peirce begin the now legendary Metaphysical Club in 1872 with, amongst others, William James. He also published his best-known body of work, The Popular Science Monthly series, in 1877 and 1878. This included “The Fixation of Belief” and “How to Make Our Ideas Clear,” a continuation of his earlier anti-Cartesian thoughts and the first developed statements of his theories of inquiry and pragmatism. By 1879, Peirce obtained an academic appointment at Johns Hopkins University, teaching logic for the philosophy department. Here he continued to make strides in logic, developing a theory of relatives and quantifiers (independently of Frege). He published this work with his student O.H. Mitchell in the 1883 Studies in Logic. This volume contained a range of collaborative papers from Peirce and his JHU students.

All looked well for Peirce by the early 1880’s, and with the promise of tenure at Johns Hopkins he felt he could commit himself to a life pursuing his greatest love, logic. However, the beginnings of Peirce’s downfall were already stirring during this early successful period. Peirce’s work for the U.S. Coastal Survey and Harvard Observatory had led to tensions with the President of the Harvard Corporation, C.W. Elliot, about pay. Also, Peirce’s rise through the ranks of the Coastal Survey was partly nepotistic and at the expense of other men who expected to take the positions he gained. Further, the death of Benjamin Peirce in 1880 left Peirce without his most powerful backer in the Coastal Survey.

This need not have mattered had the Johns Hopkins appointment gone smoothly but earlier occurrences had also damaged this opportunity. Peirce had separated from his wife in 1876 and openly liased with a French mistress. Peirce’s wife had long suspected him of extra-marital affairs, even with the wives of his Coastal Survey colleagues, but the public nature of this particular liaison proved too much for her and she left him. Peirce lived openly with his mistress during the period from separation in 1876 to divorce in 1883 when he and his mistress married, seven days after the decree fini.

The affair itself need not have caused excessive moral consternation, but the indecorous manner in which it was conducted resulted in outrage: both the patrician families of Cambridge, and academic establishment of Harvard and Johns Hopkins were appalled. The President of JHU, Daniel Coit Gilman, withdrew renewal of all contracts in Philosophy, and later reinstated all positions but that of Peirce, thereby “resigning” Peirce from his post. Peirce had lost the only academic position he was ever to hold. His problems continued to mount.

The Coastal Survey, now his only means of income, was subject to government audit after accusations of wide spread financial impropriety. Although subsequent reports exonerated Peirce, the new climate led him into difficulties with work, and his inclination to complete it. By 1891 Peirce had left his only secure means of income at the Coastal Survey and, living on a Pennsylvanian farm purchased from inheritance in 1888, he retreated to a life of hardship and academic isolation with his now frail and consumptive second wife, Juliette.

Despite repeated efforts by friends to find him work, Peirce’s poor reputation consistently saw him rejected. Such was Peirce’s low standing that a lecture series organized by William James and Josiah Royce in 1898 (initially in the hope that it might open a door to a position at Harvard) took place in a private home in Cambridge. It seems that fear of Peirce’s potential to corrupt the morals of the young led the Harvard Corporation to refuse permission for Peirce to lecture on campus. Later lectures at Harvard in 1903 did take place on campus after the Corporation had softened its stance, but the academic establishment, particularly at Harvard, never came to accept or forgive Peirce.

Lecture series, such as those organized by James and Royce, along with hack writing for dictionaries and popular magazines, were Peirce’s main philosophical outlet and primary source of income. Attempts to secure money from the Carnegie Institution to fund a full statement of his philosophical system in 1902 failed and between the 1890’s and his death from cancer in April 1914, Peirce lived in a state of penury struggling to find an outlet for his work. Some important publications appeared in The Monist during the 1890’s and again in1907 following a brief renewal of interest in his work. This was due in large part to James’ acknowledgment of his role in founding pragmatism. However, Peirce’s published work petered out into a series of rejections and incomplete projects and although he did not stop writing until his death, he failed to publish a mature account of his philosophy whilst alive. Peirce died lost and unappreciated by all but a few of his American contemporaries.

2. Peirce’s Works and Influence

During his lifetime, Peirce’s philosophy influenced, and took influence from, the work of William James. The two men where close friends and exchanged ideas for most of their adult lives. However, despite similarities and mutual influence, they strove hard to distinguish their own brand of pragmatism from each other’s. This is particularly so after James’ California Union Address where he attributed the discovery of the doctrine to Peirce and identified the early papers, “The Fixation of Belief” and “How to Make our Ideas Clear,” as the source of pragmatism. Peirce thought James too “nominalistic” in his pragmatism and too wary of logic; James thought Peirce too dense and obscure in his formulations. Nevertheless, the connections between the two founding fathers of pragmatism are clear.

Also well-acknowledged is the influence of Peirce upon John Dewey and a generation of young Johns Hopkins logic students and colleagues including: Oscar Mitchell, Fabien Franklin and Christine Ladd-Franklin. Peirce’s work at JHU had a profound effect upon his students and, although John Dewey initially found Peirce’s logic classes obscure and not like logic as he understood it, he later came to realize the importance of Peirce’s approach. Peirce’s own response to Dewey’s pragmatism was much the same as his response to James’: too “nominalistic.” Dewey, however, fully acknowledged the influence and importance of Peirce, even hailing his work as more pragmatic in spirit than that of William James.

Within the field of logic, Peirce’s greatest passion, he also exercised some influence in his own lifetime. Peirce’s development of Boolean algebra influenced the logician and mathematician Ernst Schröder, with whom Peirce exchanged correspondence and mutual admiration. The outcome of this influence is an interesting and often unacknowledged effect upon the development of modern logic: it is Peirce’s account of quantification and logical syntax that leads to twentieth century logic, not Frege’s. Of course, Frege’s work is important and predates much of Peirce’s development by five years or so, but at the time, it was all but ignored. It is from Peirce that we can trace a direct line of influence and development, through Schröder to Peano, and finally to Russell and Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica.

Beyond his work in the development of pragmatism and modern logic, Peirce identified his own ideas with that of James’ Harvard colleague, Josiah Royce. Peirce felt that of all his contemporaries, Royce’s work most closely reflected his own, and indeed, Peirce’s semiotics and metaphysics greatly influenced Royce. Royce’s respect for Peirce’s work continued with the relish that Royce displayed at the chance to edit the eighty thousand or so pages of unpublished manuscripts sold to Harvard in 1914 by Juliette Peirce, after Charles’ death. Unfortunately, Royce died in 1916, too soon to accomplish anything with the disorganized manuscripts. However, by bringing the papers to Harvard, Royce effectively secured the long-term influence of Peirce beyond his own lifetime.

The editorial task of organizing the Peirce papers did not continue smoothly after Royce’s death, but eventually passed to a young C.I. Lewis, who had already shown some appreciation of Peirce’s work in the development of logic in his 1918 publication A Survey of Symbolic Logic. Although Lewis quickly found the task of editing Peirce’s manuscripts not to his taste, his contact with them allowed him to develop answers to his own philosophical problems and much of Peirce’s systematicity is reflected in Lewis’ work. Instead, the Peirce papers that inspired both Royce and Lewis came to fruition under the joint editorship of Charles Hartshorne and Paul Weiss. Their editorial work culminated in six volumes of The Collected Papers of C.S. Peirce between 1931 and 1935, and for fifty years this was the most important primary source in Peirce scholarship. Hartshorne and Weiss remained interested in Peirce’s work throughout their working lives. Further, both men supervised the young Richard Rorty, which may account for some of his early favorable accounts of Peirce. Of course, Rorty later rejected the value and status of Peirce as a pragmatist.

In the late 1950’s, The Collected Papers, begun by Hartshorne and Weiss, were completed with two volumes, edited by Arthur Burks. Burks had, prior to his editorship of The Collected Papers, worked on some Peirce inspired accounts of names and indexical reference. Burks’ readings of Peirce on names and indices have recently inspired the Referential/Reflexive account of names and indexical expressions by the Stanford philosopher, John Perry.

Other than The Collected Papers and the influence that it has had, Peirce was published posthumously in 1923 in a volume called Chance, Love and Logic, edited by Morris Cohen who worked on the Harvard manuscripts to create this small volume. Along with an appendix in Ogden and Richards’ 1923, The Meaning of Meaning, based mainly on Peirce’s correspondence with his English friend, Victoria Lady Welby, Peirce exercised his most interesting and most contentious influence.

The young Cambridge philosopher and mathematician, F.P. Ramsey, knew of these early volumes, and was greatly interested by them. Ramsey clearly acknowledges the influence of Peirce in his 1926 article, “Truth and Probability,” where he claims to base certain parts of his paper upon Peirce’s work. Ramsey’s interest in Peirce is not contentious. The influence of Ramsey upon the later Wittgenstein is also widely acknowledged. However, the subject of some speculation is the influence of Peirce upon Wittgenstein, via Ramsey. There is no direct acknowledgment of Peirce by Wittgenstein, but Ramsey’s review of the Tractatus recommends Peirce’s type/token distinction to Wittgenstein, a recommendation that Wittgenstein accepted. Wittgenstein did not hide the effect of Ramsey’s advice on his later work, and although the exact nature of the advice is unknown, it is common knowledge that Ramsey thought the Tractatus could overcome its problems by moving towards pragmatism. Potentially then, Peirce can claim an indirect influence over the later Wittgenstein.

The effect of Peirce’s work, through The Collected Papers and early posthumous publications, is not merely of historical interest though. His work is in many ways still alive in contemporary debate. Within pragmatism, the work of both Susan Haack and Christopher Hookway has a distinctly Peircian flavor. Susan Haack in particular has vigorously defended Peirce’s claim to pragmatism against the anti-Peircian strain of Rorty’s new pragmatism. A further influence in contemporary debate has been the presence of Peircian views in the Philosophy of Science. Peirce’s views on science combine distinctly Popperian and Kuhnian views and Popper even names Peirce as one of the greatest of philosophers. Also within the philosophy of science, Peirce’s theories of induction and probability have influenced the work of R.B. Braithewaite. Further, Peirce’s theory of the economics of research is now coming to be understood as a potential response to problems like Hempel’s Paradox of the Ravens and Goodman’s New Puzzle of Induction.

In other areas, some modern epistemologists have embraced virtue epistemology, an attempt to conduct the theory of knowledge by defining the qualities of the knower or true believer rather than knowledge or true belief directly. Two of the leading players in this approach to epistemology, Christopher Hookway and Linda Zagzebski, both acknowledge the thought of Peirce upon their work, and as a precursor to their discipline. Also, Jaakko Hintikka and Risto Hilpinen et al. point out the debt that their long running project, to define semantic concepts like quantifiers and propositions in terms of zero-sum games, owes to Peirce’s work.

Apart from these strictly analytic influences, Peirce also exercises some influence in European philosophy. Particularly noteworthy is the influence of Peirce upon the Neo-Kantian philosophies of Karl-Otto Apel and Helmut Pape, which emphasize a more Kantian reading of Peirce’s philosophy. Perhaps most important, though, is Peirce’s influence upon Jürgen Habermas. Habermas uses and refines crucial elements of Peirce’s account of inquiry in his own political and social philosophy. Particularly central is Peirce’s notion of a community of inquirers. For Peirce, the community of inquirers is a trans-historical notion, acting as a regulative ideal for the growth of knowledge through science. Habermas adapts the Peircian notion of community in two ways. First, the regulative ideal becomes a more concrete notion ranging across actual communities and political and social dialogue occurring within them. Second, the scientific and epistemological purpose of the intersubjective community becomes a social and political purpose on Habermas’ view. Clearly, Habermas uses Peirce’s ideas in ways that move away from simple Peircian concerns. Nonetheless, Peirce’s ideas are of importance to him.

Besides these influences, the potential for further and continued involvement of Peirce’s thought in philosophical debate has grown considerably over the last few years as the tools of Peirce scholarship have entered a new period. The Collected Papers edited by Hartshorne, Weiss and Burks, have been an invaluable source for anyone interested in Peirce, but the editorial policy employed there is idiosyncratic in the way it gathers Peirce’s work together. The Collected Papers takes Peirce’s manuscripts from across a fifty-year period and edits them topically. Often, Peirce’s views from early and late work are presented together as though they are a single connected thought on some topic. This has the effect of making Peirce’s thought seem disjointed and often self-contradictory within the space of two or three passages. However, new tools are now emerging and since the early 1980’s, the reorganization of Peirce’s manuscripts in chronological order by the Peirce Edition Project has given rise to eight volumes of a projected thirty. This reorganized edition, published as The Writings of C.S. Peirce, has already led to an increased understanding of the subtle development of Peirce’s ideas. The hope is that as The Writings of C.S. Peirce continues to grow, our understanding will grow also and with this greater understanding will come increased involvement of Peirce’s ideas in contemporary debate.

3. The Interpretation of Peirce’s Philosophy

Peirce’s approach to philosophy is that of an established scientist; he treated philosophy as an interactive and experimental discipline. This scientific approach to Philosophy, which Peirce labeled “laboratory philosophy,” reflects important themes throughout his work. Pragmatism, for instance, takes the meaning of a concept to depend upon its practical bearings. The upshot of this maxim is that a concept is meaningless if it has no practical or experiential effect on the way we conduct our lives or inquiries. Similarly, within Peirce’s theory of inquiry, the scientific method is the only means through which to fix belief, eradicate doubt and progress towards a final steady state of knowledge.

Clearly then, Peirce is a scientifically minded philosopher, and on some readings appears to trump the Vienna positivists to a verificationist principle of meaning and scientific vision of philosophy. In other respects, though, Peirce often focuses on topics outside the remit of scientific and naturalistic philosophy. For instance, Peirce wrote extensively on issues in metaphysics where he defined universal categories of experience or phenomena, after Kant. He also constructed vast systems of signs and semiotics. Of course, all of these endeavors are colored, in some respects, by his distinctly scientific turn of mind. However, the point is that Peirce’s philosophical writings cover more than half a century and a wide range of topics.

The breadth of Peirce’s philosophical interests has lead to some difficulty in interpreting his work as a whole. How, for instance, do his metaphysical writings relate to his work on truth and inquiry? Thomas Goudge (1950) argues that Peirce’s works consist of two conflicting strands, one naturalistic and hard headedly scientific, the other metaphysical and transcendental. Others take Peirce’s work, both naturalistic and transcendental, to be part of an interrelated system. Murray Murphey (1961) argues that Peirce never quite succeeded in integrating his various philosophical themes into a unified whole and identifies four separate attempts. However, the view that a single architectonic system exists has since replaced this view. Important work by Christopher Hookway (1985), Douglas Anderson (1995) and Nathan Houser (1992) shows how fruitful this treatment of Peirce is and now constitutes the orthodox position in interpreting his work. Their view treats Peirce’s philosophy as a panoramic connected vision, containing themes, issues and areas that Peirce worked upon and moved between at various points in his life. However, treating Peirce’s work as a connected whole can prove awkward when encountering this material for the first time.

Peirce is a difficult philosopher to understand at times, his work is full of cumbersome terminology and often assumes knowledge of his other work. Often, trying to understand Peirce’s theories on individual topics is an involved task in itself; attempting to understand how it fits into a broader, interrelated, system can seem like an unwelcome complication. One approach, then, is to tackle Peirce’s work topic by topic without too much emphasis upon the interconnectedness of this work. The most common topics are Peirce’s account of truth and inquiry or his pragmatism. If the systematic nature of Peirce’s philosophy is approached at all, it is after some familiarity with individual topics has been attained. This approach is not without its merits since it makes Peirce more immediately digestible. However, it can have the effect of leaving certain important elements in Peirce’s work unappreciated. For instance, why is there an all-pervasive penchant for triads, or “threes,” in Peirce’s work? This is a common Peircian theme and is best appreciated by understanding the systematic vision that Peirce has for his philosophy.

The difficulty, then, is finding a balance between the completeness of the architectonic approach to Peirce’s work, and its related complexity. The strategy employed here is to introduce Peirce’s work through a series of entries which detail both his broader philosophical system and individual topics within it. The hope is that the reader can approach Peirce’s work topic by topic through reading the relatively self-contained entries on individual elements of his philosophy. However, the provision of an introductory entry giving an overview of Peirce’s philosophical system enables the reader to see how these individual topics hang together within his broader vision.

4. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Peirce, C.S. 1931-58. The Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, eds. C. Hartshorne, P. Weiss (Vols. 1-6) and A. Burks (Vols. 7-8). (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press).
    • The first wide spread presentation of Peirce’s work both published and unpublished; its topical arrangement makes it misleading but it is still the first source for most people.
  • Peirce, C.S. 1982-. The Writings of Charles S. Peirce: A Chronological Edition, eds. M. Fisch, C. Kloesel, E. Moore, N. Houser et al. (Bloomington IN: Indiana University Press).
    • The ongoing vision of the late Max Fisch and colleagues to produce an extensive presentation of Peirce’s views on a par with The Collected Papers, but without its idiosyncrasies. Currently published in eight volumes (of thirty) up to 1884, it is rapidly superseding its predecessor).
  • Peirce, C.S. 1992-94. The Essential Peirce, eds. N. Houser and C. Kloesel (Vol. 1) and the Peirce Edition Project (Vol. 2), (Bloomington IN: Indiana University Press).
    • A crucial two volume reader of the cornerstone works of Peirce’s writings. Equally important are the introductory commentaries, particularly by Nathan Houser in Volume 1.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Anderson, D. 1995. The Strands of System. (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press).
    • A systematic reading of Peirce’s thought which, in its introduction, makes an in-depth breakdown of the elements of the system and their relation to each other. Its main body reproduces two important papers by Peirce with accompanying commentary.
  • Brent, J. 1993. Charles Sanders Peirce: A Life. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press).
    • The definitive biography of Peirce, it takes a warts-and-all approach to Peirce’s character and life, and attempts to show the relationship between the events of his life, and his philosophical development.
  • Goudge, T. 1950. The Thought of C.S. Peirce. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press).
    • Early and important view of Peirce’s philosophy which emphasizes an unbridgeable schism between the scientific and metaphysical strands of Peirce’s work. Long superseded but still a good secondary source.
  • Hookway, C.J. 1985. Peirce. (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul).
    • Important treatment of Peirce as a systematic philosopher but with emphasis on Peirce’s Kantian inheritance and later rejection of the transcendental approach to truth, logic and inquiry.
  • Murphey, M. 1961. The Development of Peirce’s Philosophy. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).
    • Early work that identifies four periods and separate systems in Peirce’s work. Again, superseded by the single system interpretation of Anderson, Hookway and Houser et al.

Author Information

Albert Atkin
Email: pip99aka@sheffield.ac.uk
University of Sheffield
United Kingdom