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.
  • Stump, Eleonore. 2002. “Aquinas’ Metaphysics of Incarnation” in eds. Davis, Stephen T.; Kendall, Daniel, SJ; O’Collins, Gerald, S.J. eds. The Incarnation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. pp. 197-220.
  • Swinburne, Richard. 1989. “Could God Become Man?” in ed. Godfrey Vesey, The Philosophy in Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp.53-70.
  • Swinburne, Richard. 1994. The Christian God. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Author information

David Werther
Email: dwerther@dcs.wisc.edu
University of Wisconsin, Madison
U. s. A.

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844—1900)

NietzscheNietzsche was a German philosopher, essayist, and cultural critic. His writings on truth, morality, language, aesthetics, cultural theory, history, nihilism, power, consciousness, and the meaning of existence have exerted an enormous influence on Western philosophy and intellectual history.

Nietzsche spoke of “the death of God,” and foresaw the dissolution of traditional religion and metaphysics. Some interpreters of Nietzsche believe he embraced nihilism, rejected philosophical reasoning, and promoted a literary exploration of the human condition, while not being concerned with gaining truth and knowledge in the traditional sense of those terms. However, other interpreters of Nietzsche say that in attempting to counteract the predicted rise of nihilism, he was engaged in a positive program to reaffirm life, and so he called for a radical, naturalistic rethinking of the nature of human existence, knowledge, and morality. On either interpretation, it is agreed that he suggested a plan for “becoming what one is” through the cultivation of instincts and various cognitive faculties, a plan that requires constant struggle with one’s psychological and intellectual inheritances.

Nietzsche claimed the exemplary human being must craft his/her own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending that life—such as God or a soul.  This way of living should be affirmed even were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the “eternal recurrence” of all events. According to some commentators, Nietzsche advanced a cosmological theory of “will to power.” But others interpret him as not being overly concerned with working out a general cosmology. Questions regarding the coherence of Nietzsche’s views–questions such as whether these views could all be taken together without contradiction, whether readers should discredit any particular view if proven incoherent or incompatible with others, and the like–continue to draw the attention of contemporary intellectual historians and philosophers.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Periodization of Writings
  3. Problems of Interpretation
  4. Nihilism and the Revaluation of Values
  5. The Human Exemplar
  6. Will to Power
  7. Eternal Recurrence
  8. Reception of Nietzsche’s Thought
  9. References and Further Reading
    1. Nietzsche’s Collected Works in German
    2. Nietzsche’s Major Works Available in English
    3. Important Works Available in English from Nietzsche’s Nachlass
    4. Biographies
    5. Commentaries and Scholarly Researches
    6. Academic Journals in Nietzsche Studies

1. Life

Because much of Nietzsche’s philosophical work has to do with the creation of self—or to put it in Nietzschean terms, “becoming what one is”— some scholars exhibit uncommon interest in the biographical anecdotes of Nietzsche’s life. Taking this approach, however, risks confusing aspects of the Nietzsche legend with what is important in his philosophical work, and many commentators are rightly skeptical of readings derived primarily from biographical anecdotes.

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche was born October 15, 1844, the son of Karl Ludwig and Franziska Nietzsche. Karl Ludwig Nietzsche was a Lutheran Minister in the small Prussian town of Röcken, near Leipzig. When young Friedrich was not quite five, his father died of a brain hemorrhage, leaving Franziska, Friedrich, a three-year old daughter, Elisabeth, and an infant son. Friedrich’s brother died unexpectedly shortly thereafter (reportedly, the legend says, fulfilling Friedrich’s dream foretelling of the tragedy). These events left young Friedrich the only male in a household that included his mother, sister, paternal grandmother and an aunt, although Friedrich drew upon the paternal guidance of Franziska’s father. Young Friedrich also enjoyed the camaraderie of a few male playmates.

Upon the loss of Karl Ludwig, the family took up residence in the relatively urban setting of Naumburg, Saxony. Friedrich gained admittance to the prestigious Schulpforta, where he received Prussia’s finest preparatory education in the Humanities, Theology, and Classical Languages. Outside school, Nietzsche founded a literary and creative society with classmates including Paul Deussen (who was later to become a prominent scholar of Sanskrit and Indic Studies). In addition, Nietzsche played piano, composed music, and read the works of Emerson and the poet Friedrich Hölderlin, who was relatively unknown at the time.

In 1864 Nietzsche entered the University of Bonn, spending the better part of that first year unproductively, joining a fraternity and socializing with old and new acquaintances, most of whom would fall out of his life once he regained his intellectual focus. By this time he had also given up Theology, dashing his mother’s hopes of a career in the ministry for him. Instead, he choose the more humanistic study of classical languages and a career in Philology. In 1865 he followed his major professor, Friedrich Ritschl, from Bonn to the University of Leipzig and dedicated himself to the studious life, establishing an extracurricular society there devoted to the study of ancient texts. Nietzsche’s first contribution to this group was an essay on the Greek poet, Theognis, and it drew the attention of Professor Ritschl, who was so impressed that he published the essay in his academic journal, Rheinisches Museum. Other published writings by Nietzsche soon followed, and by 1868 (after a year of obligatory service in the Prussian military), young Friedrich was being promoted as something of a “phenomenon” in classical scholarship by Ritschl, whose esteem and praise landed Nietzsche a position as Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the University of Basel in Switzerland, even though the candidate had not yet begun writing his doctoral dissertation. The year was 1869 and Friedrich Nietzsche was 24 years old.

At this point in his life, however, Nietzsche was a far cry from the original thinker he would later become, since neither he nor his work had matured. Swayed by public opinion and youthful exuberance, he briefly interrupted teaching in 1870 to join the Prussian military, serving as a medical orderly at the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War. His service was cut short, however, by severe bouts of dysentery and diphtheria. Back in Basel, his teaching responsibilities at the University and a nearby Gymnasium consumed much of his intellectual and physical energy. He became acquainted with the prominent cultural historian, Jacob Burkhardt, a well-established member of the university faculty. But, the person exerting the most influence on Nietzsche at this point was the artist, Richard Wagner, whom Nietzsche had met while studying in Leipzig. During the first half of the decade, Wagner and his companion, Cosima von Bülow, frequently entertained Nietzsche at Triebschen, their residence near Lake Lucerne, and then later at Bayreuth.

It is commonplace to say that at one time Nietzsche looked to Wagner with the admiration of a dutiful son. This interpretation of their relationship is supported by the fact that Wagner would have been the same age as Karl Ludwig, had the elder Nietzsche been alive. It is also commonplace to note that Nietzsche was in awe of the artist’s excessive displays of a fiery temperament, bravado, ambition, egoism, and loftiness— typical qualities demonstrating “genius” in the nineteenth century. In short, Nietzsche was overwhelmed by Wagner’s personality. A more mature Nietzsche would later look back on this relationship with some regret, although he never denied the significance of Wagner’s influence on his emotional and intellectual path, Nietzsche’s estimation of Wagner’s work would alter considerably over the course of his life. Nonetheless, in light of this relationship, one can easily detect Wagner’s presence in much of Nietzsche’s early writings, particularly in the latter chapters of The Birth of Tragedy and in the first and fourth essays of 1874’s Untimely Meditations. Also, Wagner’s supervision exerted considerable editorial control over Nietzsche’s intellectual projects, leading him to abandon, for example, 1873’s Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks, which Wagner scorned because of its apparent irrelevance to his own work. Such pressures continued to bridle Nietzsche throughout the so-called early period. He broke free of Wagner’s dominance once and for all in 1877, after a series of emotionally charged episodes. Nietzsche’s fallout with Wagner, who had moved to Bayreuth by this time, led to the publication of 1878’s Human, All-Too Human, one of Nietzsche’s most pragmatic and un-romantic texts—the original title page included a dedication to Voltaire and a quote from Descartes.  If Nietzsche intended to use this text as a way of alienating himself from the Wagnerian circle, he surely succeeded. Upon its arrival in Bayreuth, the text ended this personal relationship with Wagner.

It would be an exaggeration to say that Nietzsche was not developing intellectually during the period, prior to 1877. In fact, figures other than Wagner drew Nietzsche’s interest and admiration. In addition to attending Burkhardt’s lectures at Basel, Nietzsche studied Greek thought from the Pre-Socratics to Plato, and he learned much about the history of philosophy from Friedrich Albert Lange’s massive History of Materialism, which Nietzsche once called “a treasure trove” of historical and philosophical names, dates, and currents of thought. In addition, Nietzsche was taken by the persona of the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, which Nietzsche claimed to have culled from close readings of the two-volume magnum opus, The World as Will and Representation.

Nietzsche discovered Schopenhauer while studying in Leipzig. Because his training at Schulpforta had elevated him far above most of his classmates, he frequently skipped lectures at Leipzig in order to devote time to [CE1] Schopenhauer’s philosophy. For Nietzsche, the most important aspect of this philosophy was the figure from which it emanated, representing for him the heroic ideal of a man in the life of thought: a near-contemporary thinker participating in that great and noble “republic of genius,” spanning the centuries of free thinking sages and creative personalities. That Nietzsche could not countenance Schopenhauer’s “ethical pessimism” and its negation of the will was recognized by the young man quite early during this encounter. Yet, even in Nietzsche’s attempts to construct a counter-posed “pessimism of strength” affirming the will, much of Schopenhauer’s thought remained embedded in Nietzsche’s philosophy, particularly during the early period. Nietzsche’s philosophical reliance on “genius”, his cultural-political visions of rank and order through merit, and his self-described (and later self-rebuked) “metaphysics of art” all had Schopenhauerian underpinnings. Also, Birth of Tragedy’s well-known dualism between the cosmological/aesthetic principles of Dionysus and Apollo, contesting and complimenting each other in the tragic play of chaos and order, confusion and individuation, strikes a familiar chord to readers acquainted with Schopenhauer’s description of the world as “will” and “representation.”

Despite these similarities, Nietzsche’s philosophical break with Schopenhauerian pessimism was as real as his break with Wagner’s domineering presence was painful. Ultimately, however, such triumphs were necessary to the development and liberation of Nietzsche as thinker, and they proved to be instructive as Nietzsche later thematized the importance of “self-overcoming” for the project of cultivating a free spirit.

The middle and latter part of the 1870s was a time of great upheaval in Nietzsche’s personal life. In addition to the turmoil with Wagner and related troubles with friends in the artist’s circle of admirers, Nietzsche suffered digestive problems, declining eyesight, migraines, and a variety of physical aliments, rendering him unable to fulfill responsibilities at Basel for months at a time. After publication of Birth of Tragedy, and despite its perceived success in Wagnerian circles for trumpeting the master’s vision for Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft (“The Art Work of the Future”) Nietzsche’s academic reputation as a philologist was effectively destroyed due in large part to the work’s apparent disregard for scholarly expectations characteristic of nineteenth-century philology. Birth of Tragedy was mocked as Zukunfts-Philologie (“Future Philology”) by Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, an up-and-coming peer destined for an illustrious career in Classicism, and even Ritschl characterized it as a work of “megalomania.” For these reasons, Nietzsche had difficulty attracting students. Even before the publication of Birth of Tragedy, he had attempted to re-position himself at Basel in the department of philosophy, but the University apparently never took such an endeavor seriously. By 1878, his circumstances at Basel deteriorated to the point that neither the University nor Nietzsche was very much interested in seeing him continue as a professor there, so both agreed that he should retire with a modest pension [CE2] . He was 34 years  old and now apparently liberated, not only from his teaching duties and the professional discipline he grew to despise, but also from the emotional and intellectual ties that dominated him during his youth. His physical woes, however, would continue to plague him for the remainder of his life.

After leaving Basel, Nietzsche enjoyed a period of great productivity. And, during this time, he was never to stay in one place for long, moving with the seasons, in search of relief for his ailments, solitude for his work, and reasonable living conditions, given his very modest budget. He often spent summers in the Swiss Alps in Sils Maria, near St. Moritz, and winters in Genoa, Nice, or Rappollo on the Mediterranean coast. Occasionally, he would visit family and friends in Naumburg or Basel, and he spent a great deal of time in social discourse, exchanging letters with friends and associates.

In the latter part of the 1880s, Nietzsche’s health worsened, and in the midst of an amazing flourish of intellectual activity which produced On the Genealogy of Morality, Twilight of the Idols, The Anti-Christ, and several other works (including preparation for what was intended to be his magnum opus, a work that editors later titled Will to Power) Nietzsche suffered a complete mental and physical breakdown. The famed moment at which Nietzsche is said to have succumbed irrevocably to his ailments occurred January 3, 1889 in Turin (Torino) Italy, reportedly outside Nietzsche’s apartment in the Piazza Carlos Alberto while embracing a horse being flogged by its owner.

After spending time in psychiatric clinics in Basel and Jena, Nietzsche was first placed in the care of his mother, and then later his sister (who had spent the latter half of the 1880’s attempting to establish a “racially pure” German colony in Paraguay with her husband, the anti-Semitic political opportunist Bernhard Foerster). By the early 1890s, Elisabeth had seized control of Nietzsche’s literary remains, which included a vast amount of unpublished writings. She quickly began shaping his image and the reception of his work, which by this time had already gained momentum among academics such as Georg Brandes. Soon the Nietzsche legend would grow in spectacular fashion among popular readers. From Villa Silberblick, the Nietzsche home in Weimar, Elisabeth and her associates managed Friedrich’s estate, editing his works in accordance with her taste for a populist decorum and occasionally with an ominous political intent that (later researchers agree) corrupted the original thought[CE3] . Unfortunately, Friedrich experienced little of his fame, having never recovered from the breakdown of late 1888 and early 1889. His final years were spent at Villa Silberblick in grim mental and physical deterioration, ending mercifully August 25, 1900. He was buried in Röcken, near Leipzig. Elisabeth spent one last year in Paraguay in 1892-93 before returning to Germany, where she continued to exert influence over the perception of Nietzsche’s work and reputation, particularly among general readers, until her death in 1935. Villa Silberblick stands today as a monument, of sorts, to Friedrich and Elisabeth, while the bulk of Nietzsche’s literary remains is held in the Goethe-Schiller Archiv, also in Weimar.

2. Periodization of Writings

Nietzsche scholars commonly divide his work into periods, usually with the implication that discernable shifts in Nietzsche’s circumstances and intellectual development justify some form of periodization in the corpus. The following division is typical:

(i.) before 1869—the juvenilia

Cautious Nietzsche biographers work to separate the facts of Nietzsche’s life from myth, and while a major part of the Nietzsche legend holds that Friedrich was a precocious child, writings from his youth bear witness to that part of the story. During this time Nietzsche was admitted into the prestigious Gymnasium Schulpforta; he composed music, wrote poetry and plays, and in 1863 produced an autobiography (at the age of 19). He also produced more serious and accomplished works on themes related to philology, literature, and philosophy. By 1866 he had begun contributing articles to a major philological journal, Rheinisches Museum, edited by Nietzsche’s esteemed professor at Bonn and Leipzig, Friedrich Ritschl. With Ritschl’s recommendation, Nietzsche was appointed professor of Greek Language and Literature at the University of Basel in January 1869.

(ii.) 1869-1876–the early period

Nietzsche’s writings during this time reflect interests in philology, cultural criticism, and aesthetics. His inaugural public lecture at Basel in May 1869, “Homer and Classical Philology” brought out aesthetic and scientific aspects of his discipline, portending Nietzsche’s attitudes towards science, art, philology and philosophy. He was influenced intellectually by the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer and emotionally by the artist Richard Wagner. Nietzsche’s first published book, The Birth of Tragedy, appropriated Schopenhaurian categories of individuation and chaos in an elucidation of primordial aesthetic drives represented by the Greek gods Apollo and Dionysus. This text also included a Wagnerian precept for cultural flourishing: society must cultivate and promote its most elevated and creative types—the artistic genius. In the Preface to a later edition of this work, Nietzsche expresses regret for having attempted to elaborate a “metaphysics of art.” In addition to these themes, Nietzsche’s interest during this period extended to Greek philosophy, intellectual history, and the natural sciences, all of which were significant to the development of his mature thought. Nietzsche’s second book-length project, The Untimely Meditations, contains four essays written from 1873-1876. It is a work of acerbic cultural criticism, encomia to Schopenhauer and Wagner, and an unexpectedly idiosyncratic analysis of the newly developing historical consciousness. A fifth meditation on the discipline of philology is prepared but left unpublished. Plagued by poor health, Nietzsche is released from teaching duties in February 1876 (his affiliation with the university officially ends in 1878 and he is granted a small pension).

(iii.) 1877-1882—the middle period

During this time Nietzsche liberated himself from the emotional grip of Wagner and the artist’s circle of admirers, as well as from those ideas which (as he claims in Ecce Homo) “did not belong” to him in his “nature” (“Human All Too Human: With Two Supplements” 1).  Reworking earlier themes such as tragedy in philosophy, art and truth, and the human exemplar, Nietzsche’s thinking now comes into sharper focus, and he sets out on a philosophical path to be followed the remainder of his productive life. In this period’s three published works Human, All-Too Human (1878-79), Dawn (1881), and The Gay Science (1882), Nietzsche takes up writing in an aphoristic style, which permits exploration of a variety of themes. Most importantly, Nietzsche lays out a plan for  “becoming what one is” through the cultivation of instincts and various cognitive faculties, a plan that requires constant struggle with one’s psychological and intellectual inheritances. Nietzsche discovers that “one thing is needful” for the exemplary human being: to craft an identity from otherwise dissociated events bringing forth the horizons of one’s existence. Self-realization, as it is conceived in these texts, demands the radicalization of critical inquiry with a historical consciousness and then a “retrograde step” back (Human aphorism 20) from what is revealed in such examinations, insofar as these revelations threaten to dissolve all metaphysical realities and leave nothing but the abysmal comedy of existence. A peculiar kind of meaningfulness is thus gained by the retrograde step: it yields a purpose for existence, but in an ironic form, perhaps esoterically and without ground; it is transparently nihilistic to the man with insight, but suitable for most; susceptible to all sorts of suspicion, it is nonetheless necessary and for that reason enforced by institutional powers. Nietzsche calls the one who teaches the purpose of existence a “tragic hero” (GS 1), and the one who understands the logic of the retrograde step a “free spirit.” Nietzsche’s account of this struggle for self-realization and meaning leads him to consider problems related to metaphysics, religion, knowledge, aesthetics, and morality.

(iv.) Post-1882—the later period

Nietzsche transitions into a new period with the conclusion of The Gay Science (Book IV) and his next published work, the novel Thus Spoke Zarathustra, produced in four parts between 1883 and 1885. Also in 1885 he returns to philosophical writing with Beyond Good and Evil. In 1886 he attempts to consolidate his inquiries through self-criticism in Prefaces written for the earlier published works, and he writes a fifth book for The Gay Science. In 1887 he writes On the Genealogy of Morality. In 1888, with failing health, he produces several texts, including The Twilight of the Idols, The Anti-Christ, Ecce Homo, and two works concerning his prior relationship with Wagner. During this period, as with the earlier ones, Nietzsche produces an abundance of materials not published during his lifetime. These works constitute what is referred to as Nietzsche’s Nachlass. (For years this material has been published piecemeal in Germany and translated to English in various collections.) Philosophically, during this period, Nietzsche continues his explorations on morality, truth, aesthetics, history, power, language and identity. For some readers, he appears to be broadening the scope of his ideas to work out a cosmology involving the all encompassing “will to power” and the curiously related and enigmatic “eternal recurrence of the same.” Prior claims regarding the retrograde step are re-thought, apparently in favor of seeking some sort of breakthrough into the “abyss of light” (Zarathustra’s “Before Sunrise”) or in an encounter with “decadence” (“Expeditions of a Untimely Man” 43, in Twilight of the Idols). The intent here seems to be an overcoming or dissolution of metaphysics.  These developments are matters of contention, however, as some commentators maintain that statements regarding Nietzsche’s “cosmological vision” are exaggerated. And, some will even deny that he achieves (nor even attempts) the overcoming described above. Despite such complaints, interpreters of Nietzsche continue to reference these ineffable concepts.

3. Problems of Interpretation

Nietzsche’s work in the beginning was heavily influenced, either positively or negatively, by the events of his young life. His early and on-going interest in the Greeks, for example, can be attributed in part to his Classical education at Schulpforta, for which he was well-prepared as a result of his family’s attempts to steer him into the ministry. Nietzsche’s intense association with Wagner no doubt enhanced his orientation towards the philosophy of Schopenhauer, and it probably promoted his work in aesthetics and cultural criticism. These biographical elements came to bear on Nietzsche’s first major works, while the middle period amounts to a confrontation with many of these influences. In Nietzsche’s later  writings  we find the development of concepts that seem less tangibly related to the biographical events of his life.

Let’s outline four of these concepts, but not before adding a word of caution regarding how this outline should be received. Nietzsche asserts in the opening section of Twilight of the Idols that he “mistrusts systematizers” (“Maxims and Arrows” 26), which is taken by some readers to be a declaration of his fundamental stance towards philosophical systems, with the additional inference that nothing resembling such a system must be permitted to stand in interpretations of his thought. Although it would not be illogical to say that Nietzsche mistrusted philosophical systems, while nevertheless building one of his own, some commentators point out two important qualifications. First, the meaning of Nietzsche’s stated “mistrust” in this brief aphorism can and should be treated with caution. In Beyond Good and Evil Nietzsche claims that philosophers today, after millennia of dogmatizing about absolutes, now have a “duty to mistrust” philosophy’s dogmatizing tendencies (BGE 34). Yet, earlier in that same text, Nietzsche  claimed that all philosophical interpretations of nature are acts of will  power (BGE 9) and that his interpretations are subject to the same critique (BGE 22).   In Thus Spoke Zarathustra’s “Of Involuntary Bliss” we find Zarathustra speaking of his own “mistrust,” when he describes the happiness that has come to him in the “blissful hour” of the third part of that book. Zarathustra attempts to chase away this bliss while waiting for the arrival of his unhappiness, but his happiness draws “nearer and nearer to him,” because he does not chase after it. In the next scene we find Zarathustra dwelling in the “light abyss” of the pure open sky, “before sunrise.” What then is the meaning of this “mistrust”? At the very least, we can say that Nietzsche does not intend it to establish a strong and unmovable absolute, a negative-system, from which dogma may be drawn. Nor, possibly, is Nietzsche’s mistrust of systematizers absolutely clear. Perhaps it is a discredit to Nietzsche as a philosopher that he did not elaborate his position more carefully within this tension; or, perhaps such uncertainty has its own ground.  Commentators such as Mueller-Lauter have noticed ambivalence in Nietzsche’s work on this very issue, and it seems plausible that Nietzsche mistrusted systems while nevertheless constructing something like a system countenancing this mistrust. He says something akin to this, after all, in Beyond Good and Evil, where it is claimed that even science’s truths are matters of interpretation, while admitting that this bold claim is also an interpretation and “so much the better” (aphorism 22). For a second cautionary note, many commentators will argue along with Richard Schacht that, instead of building a system, Nietzsche is concerned only with the exploration of problems, and that his kind of philosophy is limited to the interpretation and evaluation of cultural inheritances (1995). Other commentators will attempt to complement this sort of interpretation and, like Löwith, presume that the ground for Nietzsche’s explorations may also be examined. Löwith and others argue that this ground concerns Nietzsche’s encounter with historical nihilism. The following outline should be received, then, with the understanding that Nietzsche’s own iconoclastic nature, his perspectivism, and his life-long projects of genealogical critique and the revaluation of values, lend credence to those anti-foundational readings which seek to emphasize only those exploratory aspects of Nietzsche’s work while refuting even implicit submissions to an orthodox interpretation of “the one Nietzsche” and his “one system of thought.” With this caution, the following outline is offered as one way of grounding Nietzsche’s various explorations.

The four major concepts presented in this outline are:

  • (i)  Nihilism and the Revaluation of Values, which is embodied by a historical event, “the death of God,” and which entails, somewhat problematically, the project of transvaluation;
  • (ii) The Human Exemplar, which takes many forms in Nietzsche’s thought, including the “tragic artist”, the “sage”, the “free spirit”, the “philosopher of the future”, the Übermensch (variously translated in English as “Superman,” “Overman,” “Overhuman,” and the like), and perhaps others (the case could be made, for example, that in Nietzsche’s notoriously self-indulgent and self-congratulatory Ecce Homo, the role of the human exemplar is played by “Mr. Nietzsche” himself);
  • (iii) Will to Power (Wille zur Macht), from a naturalized history of morals and truth developing through subjective feelings of power to a cosmology;
  • (iv)  Eternal Recurrence or Eternal Return (variously in Nietzsche’s work, “die ewige Wiederkunft” or “die ewige Wiederkehr”) of the Same (des Gleich), a solution to the riddle of temporality without purpose.

 

4. Nihilism and the Revaluation of Values

Although Michael Gillespie makes a strong case that Nietzsche misunderstood nihilism, and in any event Nietzsche’s Dionysianism would be a better place to look for an anti-metaphysical breakthrough in Nietzsche’s corpus (1995, 178), commentators as varied in philosophical orientation as Heidegger and Danto have argued that nihilism is a central theme in Nietzsche’s philosophy. Why is this so? The constellation of Nietzsche’s fundamental concepts moves within his general understanding of modernity’s historical situation in the late nineteenth century. In this respect, Nietzsche’s thought carries out the Kantian project of “critique” by applying the nineteenth century’s developing historical awareness to problems concerning the possibilities of knowledge, truth, and human consciousness. Unlike Kant’s critiques, Nietzsche’s examinations find no transcendental ego, given that even the categories of experience are historically situated and likewise determined. Unlike Hegel’s notion of historical consciousness, however, history for Nietzsche has no inherent teleology. All beginnings and ends, for Nietzsche, are thus lost in a flood of indeterminacy. As early as 1873, Nietzsche was arguing that human reason is only one of many peculiar developments in the ebb and flow of time, and when there are no more rational animals nothing of absolute value will have transpired (“On truth and lies in a non-moral sense”). Some commentators would prefer to consider these sorts of remarks as belonging to Nietzsche’s “juvenilia.” Nevertheless, as late as 1888’s “Reason in Philosophy” from Twilight of the Idols, Nietzsche derides philosophers who would make a “fetish” out of reason and retreat into the illusion of a “de-historicized” world. Such a philosopher is “decadent,” symptomatic of a “declining life”. Opposed to this type, Nietzsche valorizes the “Dionysian” artist whose sense of history affirms “all that is questionable and terrible in existence.”

Nietzsche’s philosophy contemplates the meaning of values and their significance to human existence. Given that no absolute values exist, in Nietzsche’s worldview, the evolution of values on earth must be measured by some other means. How then shall they be understood? The existence of a value presupposes a value-positing perspective, and values are created by human beings (and perhaps other value-positing agents) as aids for survival and growth. Because values are important for the well being of the human animal, because belief in them is essential to our existence, we oftentimes prefer to forget that values are our own creations and to live through them as if they were absolute. For these reasons, social institutions enforcing adherence to inherited values are permitted to create self-serving economies of power, so long as individuals living through them are thereby made more secure and their possibilities for life enhanced. Nevertheless, from time to time the values we inherit are deemed no longer suitable and the continued enforcement of them no longer stands in the service of life. To maintain allegiance to such values, even when they no longer seem practicable, turns what once served the advantage to individuals to a disadvantage, and what was once the prudent deployment of values into a life denying abuse of power. When this happens the human being must reactivate its creative, value-positing capacities and construct new values.

Commentators will differ on the question of whether nihilism for Nietzsche refers specifically to a state of affairs characterizing specific historical moments, in which inherited values have been exposed as superstition and have thus become outdated, or whether Nietzsche means something more than this. It is, at the very least, accurate to say that for Nietzsche nihilism has become a problem by the nineteenth century. The scientific, technological, and political revolutions of the previous two hundred years put an enormous amount of pressure on the old world order. In this environment, old value systems were being dismantled under the weight of newly discovered grounds for doubt. The possibility arises, then, that nihilism for Nietzsche is merely a temporary stage in the refinement of true belief. This view has the advantage of making Nietzsche’s remarks on truth and morality seem coherent from a pragmatic standpoint, in that with this view the problem of nihilism is met when false beliefs have been identified and corrected. Reason is not a value, in this reading, but rather the means by which human beings examine their metaphysical presuppositions and explore new avenues to truth.

Yet, another view will have it that by nihilism Nietzsche is pointing out something even more unruly at work, systemically, in the Western world’s axiomatic orientation. Heidegger, for example, claims that with the problem of nihilism Nietzsche is showing us the essence of Western metaphysics and its system of values (“The Word of Nietzsche: ‘God is dead’”). According to this view, Nietzsche’s philosophy of value, with its emphasis on the value-positing gesture, implies that even the concept of truth in the Western worldview leads to arbitrary determinations of value and political order and that this worldview is disintegrating under the weight of its own internal logic (or perhaps “illogic”). In this reading, the history of truth in the occidental world is the  “history of an error” (Twilight of the Idols), harboring profoundly disruptive antinomies which lead, ultimately, to the undoing of the Western philosophical framework. This kind of systemic flaw is exposed by the historical consciousness of the nineteenth century, which makes the problem of nihilism seem all the more acutely related to Nietzsche’s historical situation. But to relegate nihilism to that situation, according to Heidegger, leaves our thinking of it incomplete.

Heidegger makes this stronger claim with the aid of Nietzsche’s Nachlass. Near the beginning of the aphorisms collected under the title, Will To Power (aphorism 2), we find this note from 1887: “What does nihilism mean? That the highest values devalue themselves. The aim is lacking; ‘Why?’ finds no answer.”  Here, Nietzsche’s answer regarding the meaning of nihilism has three parts.

(i) The first part makes a claim about the logic of values: ultimately, given the immense breadth of time, even “the highest values devalue themselves.” What does this mean? According to Nietzsche, the conceptual framework known as Western metaphysics was first articulated by Plato, who had pieced together remnants of a declining worldview, borrowing elements from predecessors such as Anaximander, Parmenides, and especially Socrates, in order to overturn a cosmology that had been in play from the days of Homer and which found its fullest and last expression in the thought of Heraclitus. Plato’s framework was popularized by Christianity, which added egalitarian elements along with the virtue of pity. The maturation of Western metaphysics occurs during modernity’s scientific and political revolutions, wherein the effects of its inconsistencies, malfunctions, and mal-development become acute. At this point, according to Nietzsche, “the highest values devalue themselves,” as modernity’s striving for honesty, probity, and courage in the search for truth, those all-important virtues inhabiting the core of scientific progress, strike a fatal blow against the foundational idea of absolutes. Values most responsible for the scientific revolution, however, are also crucial to the metaphysical system that modern science is destroying. Such values are threatening, then, to bring about the destruction of their own foundations. Thus, the highest values are devaluing themselves at the core. Most importantly, the values of honesty, probity, and courage in the search for truth no longer seem compatible with the guarantee, the bestowal, and the bestowing agent of an absolute value. Even the truth of “truth” now falls prey to the workings of nihilism, given that Western metaphysics now appears groundless in this logic.

For some commentators, this line of interpretation leaves Nietzsche’s revaluation of values lost in contradiction. What philosophical ground, after all, could support revaluation if this interpretation were accurate? For this reason, readers such as Clark work to establish a coherent theory of truth in Nietzsche’s philosophy, which can apparently be done by emphasizing various parts of the corpus to the exclusion of others. If, indeed, a workable epistemology may be derived from reading specific passages, and good reasons can be given for prioritizing those passages, then consistent grounds may exist for Nietzsche having leveled a critique of morality. Such readings, however, seem incompatible with Nietzsche’s encounter with historical nihilism, unless nihilism is taken to represent merely a temporary stage in the refinement of Western humanity’s acquisition of knowledge.

With the stronger claim, however, Nietzsche’s critique of the modern situation implies that the “highest values [necessarily] devalue themselves.” Western metaphysics brings about its own disintegration, in working out the implications of its inner logic. Nietzsche’s name for this great and terrible event, capturing popular imagination with horror and disgust, is the “death of God.” Nietzsche acknowledges that a widespread understanding of this event, the “great noon” at which all “shadows of God” will be washed out, is still to come. In Nietzsche’s day, the God of the old metaphysics is still worshiped, of course, and would be worshiped, he predicted, for years to come. But, Nietzsche insisted, in an intellectual climate that demands honesty in the search for truth and proof as a condition for belief, the absence of foundations has already been laid bare. The dawn of a new day had broken, and shadows now cast, though long, were receding by the minute.

(ii) The second part of the answer to the question concerning nihilism states that “the aim is lacking.” What does this mean? In Beyond Good and Evil Nietzsche claims that the logic of an existence lacking inherent meaning demands, from an organizational standpoint, a value-creating response, however weak this response might initially be in comparison to how its values are then taken when enforced by social institutions (aphorisms 20-23).  Surveys of various cultures show that humanity’s most indispensable creation, the affirmation of meaning and purpose, lies at the heart of all fundamental values. Nihilism stands not only for that apparently inevitable process by which the highest values devalue themselves. It also stands for that moment of recognition in which human existence appears, ultimately, to be in vain. Nietzsche’s surveys of cultures and their values, his cultural anthropologies, are typically reductive in the extreme, attempting to reach the most important sociopolitical questions as neatly and quickly as possible. Thus, when examining so-called Jewish, Oriental, Roman, or Medieval European cultures Nietzsche asks, “how was meaning and purpose proffered and secured here? How, and for how long, did the values here serve the living? What form of redemption was sought here, and was this form indicative of a healthy life? What may one learn about the creation of values by surveying such cultures?” This version of nihilism then means that absolute aims are lacking and that cultures naturally attempt to compensate for this absence with the creation of goals.

(iii) The third part of the answer to the question concerning nihilism states that “‘why?’ finds no answer.” Who is posing the question here? Emphasis is laid on the one who faces the problem of nihilism. The problem of value-positing concerns the one who posits values, and this one must be examined, along with a corresponding evaluation of relative strengths and weaknesses. When, indeed, “why?” finds no answer, nihilism is complete. The danger here is that the value-positing agent might become paralyzed, leaving the call of life’s most dreadful question unanswered. In regards to this danger, Nietzsche’s most important cultural anthropologies examined the Greeks from Homer to the age of tragedy and the “pre-Platonic” philosophers. Here was evidence, Nietzsche believed, that humanity could face the dreadful truth of existence without becoming paralyzed. At every turn, the moment in which the Greek world’s highest values devalued themselves, when an absolute aim was shown to be lacking, the question “why?” nevertheless called forth an answer. The strength of Greek culture is evident in the gods, the tragic art, and the philosophical concepts and personalities created by the Greeks themselves. Comparing the creativity of the Greeks to the intellectual work of modernity, the tragic, affirmative thought of Heraclitus to the pessimism of Schopenhauer, Nietzsche highlights a number of qualitative differences. Both types are marked by the appearance of nihilism, having been drawn into the inevitable logic of value-positing and what it would seem to indicate. The Greek type nevertheless demonstrates the characteristics of strength by activating and re-intensifying the capacity to create, by overcoming paralysis, by willing a new truth, and by affirming the will. The other type displays a pessimism of weakness, passivity, and weariness—traits typified by Schopenhauer’s life-denying ethics of the will turning against itself. In Nietzsche’s 1888 retrospection on the Birth of Tragedy in Ecce Homo, we read that “Hellenism and Pessimism” would have made a more precise title for the first work, because Nietzsche claims to have attempted to demonstrate how

the Greeks got rid of pessimism—with what they overcame it….Precisely tragedy is the proof that the Greeks were no pessimists: Schopenhauer  blundered in this as he blundered in everything (“The Birth of Tragedy” in Ecce Homo section 1).

From Twilight of the Idols, also penned during that sublime year of 1888, Nietzsche writes that tragedy “has to be considered the decisive repudiation” of pessimism as Schopenhauer understood it:

affirmation of life, even in its strangest and sternest problems, the will to life rejoicing in its own inexhaustibility through the sacrifice of its highest types—that is what I called Dionysian….beyond [Aristotelian] pity and terror, to realize in oneself the eternal joy of becoming—that joy which also encompasses joy in destruction (“What I Owe the Ancients” 5).

Nietzsche concludes the above passage by claiming to be the “last disciple of the philosopher Dionysus” (which by this time in Nietzsche’s thought came to encompass the whole of that movement which formerly distinguished between Apollo and Dionysus). Simultaneously, Nietzsche declares himself, with great emphasis, to be the “teacher of the eternal recurrence.”

The work to overcome pessimism is tragic in a two-fold sense: it maintains a feeling for the absence of ground, while responding to this absence with the creation of something meaningful. This work is also unmodern, according to Nietzsche, since modernity either has yet to ask the question “why?,” in any profound sense or, in those cases where the question has been posed, it has yet to come up with a response. Hence, a pessimism of weakness and an incomplete form of nihilism prevail in the modern epoch. Redemption in this life is denied, while an uncompleted form of nihilism remains the fundamental condition of humanity. Although the logic of nihilism seems inevitable, given the absence of absolute purpose and meaning, “actively” confronting nihilism and completing our historical encounter with it will be a sign of good health and the “increased power of the spirit” (Will to Power aphorism 22). Thus far, however, modernity’s attempts to “escape nihilism” (in turning away) have only served to “make the problem more acute” (aphorism 28). Why, then, this failure? What does modernity lack?

5. The Human Exemplar

How and why do nihilism and the pessimism of weakness prevail in modernity? Again, from the notebook of 1887 (Will to Power, aphorism 27), we find two conditions for this situation:

1. the higher species is lacking, i.e., those whose inexhaustible fertility and power keep up the faith in man….[and] 2. the lower species (‘herd,’ ‘mass,’ ‘society,’) unlearns modesty and blows up its needs into cosmic and metaphysical values. In this way the whole of existence is vulgarized: insofar as the mass is dominant it bullies the exceptions, so they lose their faith in themselves and become nihilists.

With the fulfillment of “European nihilism” (which is no doubt, for Nietzsche, endemic throughout the Western world and anyplace touched by “modernity”), and the death of otherworldly hopes for redemption, Nietzsche imagines two possible responses:  the easy response, the way of the “herd” and “the last man,” or the difficult response, the way of the “exception,” and the Übermensch.

Ancillary to any discussion of the exception, per se, the compatibility of the Übermensch concept with other movements in Nietzsche’s thought, and even the significance that Nietzsche himself placed upon it, has been the subject of intense debate among Nietzsche scholars. The term’s appearance in Nietzsche’s corpus is limited primarily to Thus Spoke Zarathustra and works directly related to this text. Even here, moreover, the Übermensch is only briefly and very early announced in the narrative, albeit with a tremendous amount of fanfare, before fading from explicit consideration. In addition to these problems, there are debates concerning the basic nature of the Übermensch itself, whether “Über-” refers to a transitional movement or a transmogrified state of being, and whether Nietzsche envisioned the possibility of a community of Übermenschen, as opposed to a solitary figure among lesser types. So, what should be made of Nietzsche’s so-called “overman” (or even “superman”) called upon to arrive after the “death of God”?

Whatever else may be said about the Übermensch, Nietzsche clearly had in mind an exemplary figure and an exception among humans, one “whose inexhaustible fertility and power keep up the faith in man.” For some commentators, Nietzsche’s distinction between overman and the last man has political ramifications. The hope for an overman figure to appear would seem to be permissible for one individual, many, or even a social ideal, depending on the culture within which it appears. Modernity, in Nietzsche’s view, is in such a state of decadence that it would be fortunate, indeed, to see the emergence of even one such type, given that modern sociopolitical arrangements are more conducive to creating the egalitarian “last man” who “blinks” at expectations for rank, self-overcoming, and striving for greatness. The last men are “ the most harmful to the species because they preserve their existence as much at the expense of the truth as at the expense of the future” (“Why I am a Destiny” in Ecce Homo 1). Although Nietzsche never lays out a precise political program from these ideas, it is at least clear that theoretical justifications for complacency or passivity are antithetical to his philosophy. What, then, may be said about Nietzsche as political thinker?   Nietzsche’s political sympathies are definitely not democratic in any ordinary way of thinking about that sort of arrangement. Nor are they socialist or  Marxist.

Nietzsche’s political sympathies have been called “aristocratic,” which is accurate enough only if one does not confuse the term with European royalty, landed gentry, old money or the like and if one keeps in mind the original Greek meaning of the term, “aristos,” which meant “the good man, the man with power.” A certain ambiguity exists, for Nietzsche, in the term “good man.” On the one hand, the modern, egalitarian “good man,” the “last man,” expresses hostility for those types willing to impose measures of rank and who would dare to want greatness and to strive for it. Such hostilities are born out of ressentiment and inherited from Judeo-Christian moral value systems. (Beyond Good and Evil 257-260 and On the Genealogy of Morals essay 1). “Good” in this sense is opposed to “evil,” and the “good man” is the one whose values support the “herd” and whose condemnations are directed at those whose thoughts and actions might disrupt the complacent normalcy of modern life. On the other hand, the kind of “good man” who might overcome the weak pessimism of “herd morality,” the man of strength, a man to confront nihilism, and thus a true benefactor to humanity, would be decidedly “unmodern” and “out of season.” Only such a figure would “keep up the faith in man.” For these reasons, some commentators have found in Nietzsche an existentialist program for the heroic individual dissociated in varying degrees from political considerations. Such readings however ignore or discount Nietzsche’s interest in historical processes and the unavoidable inference that although Nietzsche’s anti-egalitarianism might lead to questionably “unmodern” political conclusions, hierarchy nevertheless implies association.

The distinction between the good man of active power and the other type also points to ambiguity in the concept of freedom. For the hopeless, human freedom is conceived negatively in the “freedom from” restraints, from higher expectations, measures of rank, and the striving for greatness. While the higher type, on the other hand, understands freedom positively in the “freedom for” achievement, for revaluations of values, overcoming nihilism, and self-mastery.

Nietzsche frequently points to such exceptions as they have appeared throughout history—Napoleon is one of his favorite examples. In modernity, the emergence of such figures seems possible only as an isolated event, as a flash of lightening from the dark cloud of humanity. Was there ever a culture, in contrast to modernity, which saw these sorts of higher types emerge in congress as a matter of expectation and design? Nietzsche’s early philological studies on the Greeks, such as Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks, The Pre-Platonic Philosophers, “Homer on Competition,” and “The Greek State,” concur that, indeed, the ancient world before Plato produced many exemplary human beings, coming forth independently of each other but “hewn from the same stone,” made possible by the fertile cultural milieu, the social expectation of greatness, and opportunities to prove individual merit in various competitive arenas. Indeed, Greek athletic contests, festivals of music and tragedy, and political life reflected, in Nietzsche’s view, a general appreciation for competition, rank, ingenuity, and the dynamic variation of formal structures of all sorts. Such institutions thereby promoted the elevation of human exemplars. Again, the point must be stressed here that the historical accuracy of Nietzsche’s interpretation of the Greeks is no more relevant to his philosophical schemata than, for example, the actual signing of a material document is to a contractarian political theory. What is important for Nietzsche, throughout his career, is the quick evaluation of social order and heirarchies, made possible for the first time in the nineteenth century by the newly developed “historical sense” (BGE 224) through which Nietzsche draws sweeping conclusions regarding, for example, the characteristics of various moral and religious epochs (BGE 32 and 55), which are themselves pre-conditioned by the material origins of consciousness, from which a pre-human animal acquires the capacity (even the “right”) to make promises and develops into the “sovereign individual” who then bears responsibility for his or her actions and thoughts (GM II.2).

Like these rather ambitious conclusions, Nietzsche’s valorization of the Greeks is partly derived from empirical evidence and partly confected in myth, a methodological concoction that Nietzsche draws from his philological training. If the Greeks, as a different interpretation would have them, bear little resemblance to Nietzsche’s reading, such a difference would have little relevance to Nietzsche’s fundamental thoughts. Later Nietzsche is also clear that his descriptions of the Greeks should not be taken programmatically as a political vision for the future (see for example GS 340).

The “Greeks” are one of Nietzsche’s best exemplars of hope against a meaningless existence, hence his emphasis on the Greek world’s response to the “wisdom of Silenus” in Birth of Tragedy. (ch. 5). If the sovereign individual represents history’s “ripest fruit”, the most recent millennia have created, through rituals of revenge and punishment, a “bad conscience.” The human animal thereby internalizes material forces into feelings of guilt and duty, while externalizing a spirit thus created with hostility towards existence itself (GM II.21). Compared to this typically Christian manner of forming human experiences, the Greeks deified “the animal in man” and thereby kept “bad conscience at bay” (GM II.23).

In addition to exemplifying the Greeks in the early works, Nietzsche lionizes the “artist-genius” and the “sage;” during the middle period he writes confidently, at first, and then longingly about the “scientist,” the “philosopher of the future,” and the “free spirit;” Zarathustra’s decidedly sententious oratory heralds the coming of the Übermensch; the periods in which “revaluation” comes to the fore finds value in the destructive influences of the “madman,” the “immoralist,” the “buffoon,” and even the “criminal.” Finally, Nietzsche’s last works reflect upon his own image, as the “breaker of human history into two,” upon “Mr. Nietzsche,” the “anti-Christian,” the self-anointed clever writer of great books, the creator of Zarathustra, the embodiment of human destiny and humanity’s greatest benefactor: “only after me,” Nietzsche claims in Ecce Homo, “is it possible to hope again” (“Why I am a Destiny” 1). It should be cautioned that important differences exist in the way Nietzsche conceives of each of these various figures, differences that reflect the development of Nietzsche’s philosophical work throughout the periods of his life. For this reason, none of these exemplars should be confused for the others. The bombastic “Mr. Nietzsche” of Ecce Homo is no more the “Übermensch” of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, for example, than the “Zarathustra” character is a “pre-Platonic philosopher” or the alienated, cool, sober, and contemptuous “scientist” is a “tragic artist,” although these figures will frequently share characteristics. Yet, a survey of these exceptions shows that Nietzsche’s philosophy, in his own estimation, needs the apotheosis of a human exemplar, perhaps to keep the search for meaning and redemption from abdicating the earth in metaphysical retreat, perhaps to avert the exhaustion of human creativity, to reawaken the instincts, to inspire the striving for greatness, to remind us that “this has happened once and is therefore a possibility,” or perhaps simply to bestow the “honey offering” of a very useful piece of folly. This need explains the meaning of the parodic fourth book of Zarathustra, which opens with the title character reflecting on the whole of his teachings: “I am he…who once bade himself, and not in vain: ‘Become what you are!’” The subtitle of Nietzsche’s autobiographical Ecce Homo, “How One Becomes What One Is,” strikes a similar chord.

6. Will to Power

The exemplar expresses hope not granted from metaphysical illusions. After sharpening the critique of art and genius during the positivistic period, Nietzsche seems more cautious about heaping praise upon specific historical figures and types, but even when he could no longer find an ideal exception, he nevertheless deemed it requisite to fabricate one in myth. Whereas exceptional humans of the past belong to an exalted “republic of genius,” those of the future, those belonging to human destiny, embody humanity’s highest hopes. As a result of this development, some commentators will emphasize the “philosophy of the future” as one of Nietzsche’s most important ideas. Work pursued in service of the future constitutes for Nietzsche an earthly form of redemption. Yet, exemplars of type, whether in the form of isolated individuals like Napoleon, or of whole cultures like the Greeks, are not caught up in petty historical politics or similar mundane endeavors. According to Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols, their regenerative powers are necessary for the work of interpreting the meaning and sequence of historical facts.

My Conception of the genius—Great men, like great epochs, are explosive material in whom tremendous energy has been accumulated; their prerequisite has always been, historically and psychologically, that a protracted assembling, accumulating, economizing and preserving has preceded them—that there has been no explosion for a long time. If the tension in the mass has grown too great the merest accidental stimulus suffices to call the “genius,” the “deed,” the great destiny, into the world. Of what account then are circumstances, the epoch, the Zeitgeist, public opinion!…Great human beings are necessary, the epoch in which they appear is accidental… (“Expeditions of an Untimely Man,” 44).

It is with this understanding of the “great man” that Nietzsche, in Ecce Homo, proclaims even himself a great man, “dynamite,”“breaking the history of humanity in two” (“Why I am a Destiny” 1 and 8). A human exemplar, interpreted affirmatively in service of a hopeful future, is a “great event” denoting qualitative differences amidst the play of historical determinations. Thus, it belongs, in this reading, to Nietzsche’s cosmological vision of an indifferent nature marked occasionally by the boundary-stones of noble and sometimes violent uprisings.

To what extent is Nietzsche entitled to such a vision? Unlike nihilism, pessimism, and the death of God, which are historically, scientifically, and sometimes logically derived, Nietzsche’s “yes-saying” concepts seem to be derived from intuition, although Nietzsche will frequently support even these great hopes with bits of inductive reasoning. Nietzsche attempts to describe the logical structure of great events, as if a critical understanding of them pertains to their recurrence in modernity: great men have a “historical and psychological prerequisite.” Historically, there must be a time of waiting and gathering energy, as we find, for example, in the opening scene of Zarathustra. The great man and the great deed belong to a human destiny, one that emerges in situations of crisis and severe want. Psychologically, they are the effects of human energy stored and kept dormant for long periods of time in dark clouds of indifference. Primal energy gathers to a point before a cataclysmic event, like a chemical reaction with an electrical charge, unleashes some decisive, episodic force on all humanity. From here, the logic unfolds categorically: all great events, having occurred, are possibilities. All possibilities become necessities, given an infinite amount of time. Perhaps understanding this logic marks a qualitative difference in the way existence is understood. Perhaps this qualitative difference will spark the revaluation of values. When a momentous event takes place, the exception bolts from the cloud of normalcy as a point of extreme difference. In such ways, using this difference as a reference, as a “boundary-stone” on the river of eternal becoming, the meaning of the past is once again determined and the course of the future is set for a while, at least until a coming epoch unleashes the next great transvaluative event. Conditions for the occurrence of such events, and for the event of grasping this logic itself, are conceptualized, cosmologically in this reading, under the appellation “will to power.”

Before developing this reading further, it should be noted some commentators argue that the cosmological interpretation of will to power makes too strong a claim and that the extent of will to power’s domain ought to be limited to what the idea might explain as a theory of moral psychology, as the principle of an anthropology regarding the natural history of morals, or as a response to evolutionary theories placed in the service of utility. Such commentators will maintain that Nietzsche either in no way intends to construct a new meta-theory, or if he does then such intentions are mistaken and in conflict with his more prescient insights. Indeed, much evidence exists to support each of these positions. As an enthusiastic reader of the French Moralists of the eighteenth century, Nietzsche held the view that all human actions are motivated by the desire “to increase the feeling of power” (GS 13). This view seems to make Nietzsche’s insights regarding moral psychology akin to psychological egoism and would thus make doubtful the popular notion that Nietzsche advocated something like an egoistic ethic. Nevertheless, with this bit of moral psychology, a debate exists among commentators concerning whether Nietzsche intends to make dubious morality per se or whether he merely endeavors to expose those life-denying ways of moralizing inherited from the beginning of Western thought. Nietzsche, at the very least, is not concerned with divining origins. He is interested, rather, in measuring the value of what is taken as true, if such a thing can be measured. For Nietzsche, a long, murky, and thereby misunderstood history has conditioned the human animal in response to physical, psychological, and social necessities (GM II) and in ways that have created additional needs, including primarily the need to believe in a purpose for its very existence (GS 1). This ultimate need may be uncritically engaged, as happens with the incomplete nihilism of those who wish to remain in the shadow of metaphysics and with the laisser aller of the last man who overcomes dogmatism by making humanity impotent (BGE 188). On the other hand, a critical engagement with history is attempted in Nietzsche’s genealogies, which may enlighten the historical consciousness with a sort of transparency regarding the drive for truth and its consequences for determining the human condition. In the more critical engagement, Nietzsche attempts to transform the need for truth and reconstitute the truth drive in ways that are already incredulous towards the dogmatizing tendency of philosophy and thus able to withstand the new suspicions (BGE 22 and 34). Thus, the philosophical exemplar of the future stands in contrast, once again, to the uncritical man of the nineteenth century whose hidden metaphysical principles of utility and comfort fail to complete the overcoming of nihilism (Ecce Homo, “Why I am a Destiny” 4). The question of whether Nietzsche’s transformation of physical and psychological need with a doctrine of the will to power, in making an affirmative principle out of one that has dissolved the highest principles hitherto, simply replaces one metaphysical doctrine with another, or even expresses completely all that has been implicit in metaphysics per se since its inception continues to draw the interest of Nietzsche commentators today. Perhaps the radicalization of will to power in this way amounts to no more than an account of this world to the exclusion of any other. At any rate, the exemplary type, the philosophy of the future, and will to power comprise aspects of Nietzsche’s affirmative thinking. When the egoist’s “I will” becomes transparent to itself a new beginning is thereby made possible. Nietzsche thus attempts to bring forward precisely that kind of affirmation which exists in and through its own essence, insofar as will to power as a principle of affirmation is made possible by its own destructive modalities which pulls back the curtain on metaphysical illusions and dogma founded on them.

The historical situation that conditions Nietzsche’s will to power involves not only the death of God and the reappearance of pessimism, but also the nineteenth century’s increased historical awareness, and with it the return of the ancient philosophical problem of emergence. How does the exceptional, for example, begin to take shape in the ordinary, or truth in untruth, reason in un-reason, social order and law in violence, a being in becoming? The variation and formal emergence of each of these states must, according to Nietzsche, be understood as a possibility only within a presumed sphere of associated events. One could thus also speak of the “emergence,” as part of this sphere, of a given form’s disintegration. Indeed, the new cosmology must account for such a fate. Most importantly, the new cosmology must grant meaning to this eternal recurrence of emergence and disintegration without, however, taking vengeance upon it. This is to say that in the teaching of such a worldview, the “innocence of becoming” must be restored.  The problem of emergence attracted Nietzsche’s interest in the earliest writings, but he apparently began to conceptualize it in published texts during the middle period, when his work freed itself from the early period’s “metaphysics of aesthetics.” The opening passage from 1878’s Human, All Too Human gives some indication of how Nietzsche’s thinking on this ancient problem begins to take shape:

Chemistry of concepts and feelings. In almost all respects, philosophical problems today are again formulated as they were two thousand years ago: how can something arise from its opposite….? Until now, metaphysical philosophy has overcome this difficulty by denying the origin of the one from the other, and by assuming for the more highly valued things some miraculous origin…. Historical philosophy, on the other hand, the very youngest of all philosophical methods, which can no longer be even conceived of as separate from the natural sciences, has determined in isolated cases (and will probably conclude in all of them) that they are not opposites, only exaggerated to be so by the metaphysical view….As historical philosophy explains it, there exists, strictly considered, neither a selfless act nor a completely disinterested observation: both are merely sublimations. In them the basic element appears to be virtually dispersed and proves to be present only to the most careful observer. (Human, All Too Human, 1)

It is telling that Human begins by alluding to the problem of “emergence” as it is brought to light again by the “historical philosophical method.” A decidedly un-scientific “metaphysical view,” by comparison, looks rather for miraculous origins in support of the highest values. Next, in an unexpected move, Nietzsche relates the general problem of emergence to two specific issues, one concerning morals (“selfless acts”) and the other, knowledge—which is taken to include judgment (“disinterested observations”): “in them the basic element appears to be virtually dispersed” and discernable “only to the most careful observer.”

The logical structure of emergence, here, appears to have been borrowed from Hegel and, to be sure, one could point to many Hegelian traces in Nietzsche’s thought. But previously in 1874’s “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life,” from Untimely Meditations, Nietzsche had steadfastly refuted the dialectical logic of a “world historical process,” the Absolute Idea, and cunning reason. What, then, is “the basic element”, dispersed in morals and knowledge? How is it dispersed so that only the careful observer can detect it? The most decisive moment in Nietzsche’s development of a cosmology seems to have occurred when Nietzsche plumbed the surface of his early studies on the pathos and social construction of truth to discover a more prevalent feeling, one animating all socially relevant acts. In Book One of the The Gay Science (certainly one of the greatest works in whole corpus) Nietzsche, in the role of “careful observer,” identifies, with a bit of moral psychology, the one motive spurring all such acts:

On the doctrine of the feeling of power. Benefiting and hurting others are ways of exercising one’s power upon others: that is all one desires in such cases…. Whether benefiting or hurting others involves sacrifices for us does not affect the ultimate value of our actions. Even if we offer our lives, as martyrs do for their church, this is a sacrifice that is offered for our desire for power or for the purpose of preserving our feeling of power. Those who feel “I possess Truth”—how many possessions would they not abandon in order to save this feeling!…Certainly the state in which we hurt others is rarely as agreeable, in an unadulterated way, as that in which we benefit others; it is a sign that we are still lacking power, or it shows a sense of frustration in the face of this poverty….(aphorism 13).

The “ultimate value” of our actions, even concerning those intended to pursue or preserve “truth,” are not measured by the goodness we bring others, notwithstanding the fact that intentionally harmful acts will be indicative of a desperate want of power. Nietzsche, here, asserts the significance of enhancing the feeling of power, and with this aphorism from 1882 we are on the way to seeing how “the feeling of power” will replace, for Nietzsche, otherworldly measures of value, as we read in finalized form in the second aphorism of 1888’s The Anti-Christ:

What is good?—All that heightens the feeling of power, the will to power, power itself in man. What is bad?—All that proceeds from weakness.  What is happiness?—The feeling that power increases—that a resistance is overcome.

No otherworldly measures exist, for Nietzsche. Yet, one should not conclude from this absence of a transcendental measure that all expressions of power are qualitatively the same. Certainly, the possession of a Machiavellian virtù will find many natural advantages in this world, but Nietzsche locates the most important aspect of “overcoming resistance” in self-mastery and self-commanding. In Zarathustra’s chapter, “Of Self-Overcoming,” all living creatures are said to be obeying something, while “he who cannot obey himself will be commanded. That is the nature of living creatures.” It is important to note the disjunction: one may obey oneself or one may not. Either way, one will be commanded, but the difference is qualitative. Moreover, “commanding is more difficult than obeying” (BGE 188 repeats this theme). Hence, one will take the easier path, if unable to command, choosing instead to obey the directions of another. The exception, however, will command and obey the healthy and self-mastering demands of a willing self. But why, we might ask, are all living things beholden to such commanding and obeying? Where is the proof of necessity here? Zarathustra answers:

Listen to my teaching, you wisest men! Test in earnest whether I have crept into the heart of life itself and down to the roots of its heart! Where I found a living creature, there I found will to power; and even in the will of the servant, I found the will to be master (Z “Of the Self-Overcoming”).

Here, apparently, Nietzsche’s doctrine of the feeling of power has become more than an observation on the natural history and psychology of morals. The “teaching” reaches into the heart of life, and it says something absolute about obeying and commanding. But what is being obeyed, on the cosmological level, and what is being commanded? At this point, Zarathustra passes on a secret told to him by life itself: “behold [life says], I am that which must overcome itself again and again…And you too, enlightened man, are only a path and a footstep of my will: truly, my will to power walks with the feet of your will to truth.” We see here that a principle, will to power, is embodied by the human being’s will to truth, and we may imagine it taking other forms as well. Reflecting on this insight, for example, Zarathustra claims to have solved “the riddle of the hearts” of the creator of values: “you exert power with your values and doctrines of good and evil, you assessors of values….but a mightier power and a new overcoming grow from out of your values…” That mightier power growing in and through the embodiment and expression of human values is will to power.

It is important not to disassociate will to power, as a cosmology, from the human being’s drive to create values. To be sure, Nietzsche is still saying that the creation of values expresses a desire for power, and the first essay of 1887’s On the Genealogy of Morality returns to this simple formula. Here, Nietzsche appropriates a well-known element of Hegel’s Phenomenology, the structural movement of thought between basic types called “masters and slaves.” This appropriation has the affect of emphasizing the difference between Nietzsche’s own historical “genealogies” and that of Hegel’s “dialectic” (as is worked out in Deleuze’s study of Nietzsche). Master and slave moralities, the truths of which are confirmed independently by feelings that power has been increased, are expressions of the human being’s will to power in qualitatively different states of health. The former is a consequence of strength, cheerful optimism and naiveté, while the latter stems from impotency, pessimism, cunning and, most famously, ressentiment, the creative reaction of a “bad conscience” coming to form as it turns against itself in hatred. The venom of slave morality is thus directed outwardly in ressentiment and inwardly in bad conscience. Differing concepts of “good,” moreover, belong to master and slave value systems. Master morality complements its good with the designation, “bad,” understood to be associated with the one who is inferior, weak, and cowardly. For slave morality, on the other hand, the designation, “good” is itself the complement of “evil,” the primary understanding of value in this scheme, associated with the one possessing superior strength. Thus, the “good man” in the unalloyed form of “master morality” will be the “evil man,” the man against whom ressentiment is directed, in the purest form of “slave morality.” Nietzsche is careful to add, at least in Beyond Good and Evil, that all modern value systems are constituted by compounding, in varying degrees, these two basic elements. Only a “genealogical” study of how these modern systems came to form will uncover the qualitative strengths and weaknesses of any normative judgment.

The language and method of The Genealogy hearken back to The Gay Science’s “doctrine of the feeling of power.” But, as we have seen, in the period between 1882 and 1887, and from out of the psychological-historical description of morality, truth, and the feeling of power, Nietzsche has given agency to the willing as such that lives in and through the embrace of power, and he generalizes the willing agent in order to include “life” and “the world” and the principle therein by which entities emerge embodied. The ancient philosophical problem of emergence is resolved, in part, with the cosmology of a creative, self-grounding, self-generating, sustaining and enhancing will to power. Such willing, most importantly, commands, which at the same time is an obeying: difference emerges from out of indifference and overcomes it, at least for a while. Life, in this view, is essentially self-overcoming, a self-empowering power accomplishing more power to no other end. In a notebook entry from 1885, Will to Power’s aphorism 1067, Nietzsche’s cosmological intuitions take flight:

And do you know what “the world” is to me? Shall I show it to you in my mirror? This world: a monster of energy, without beginning, without end…as force throughout, as a play of forces and waves of forces…a sea of forces flowing and rushing together, eternally changing and eternally flooding back with tremendous years of recurrence…out of the play of contradictions back to the joy of concord, still blessing itself as that which must return eternally, as a becoming that knows no satiety, no disgust, no weariness; this my Dionysian world of the eternally self-creating, the eternally self-destroying, this mystery world of the two-fold voluptuous delight, my “beyond good and evil,” without goal, unless the joy of the circle is itself a goal….This world is the will to power—and nothing besides! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing besides!

Nietzsche discovers, here, the words to articulate one of his most ambitious concepts. The will to power is now described in terms of eternal and world-encompassing creativity and destructiveness, thought over the expanse of “tremendous years” and in terms of “recurrence,” what Foucault has described as the “play of domination” (1971). In some respects Nietzsche has indeed rediscovered the temporal structure of Heraclitus’ child at play, arranging toys in fanciful constructions of what merely seems like everything great and noble, before tearing down this structure and building again on the precipice of a new mishap. To live in this manner, according to Nietzsche in The Gay Science, to affirm this kind of cosmology and its form of eternity, is to “live dangerously” and to “love fate” (amor fati).

In spite of the positivistic methodology of The Genealogy, beneath the surface of this natural history of morals, will to power pumps life into the heart of both master and slave conceptual frameworks. Moreover, will to power stands as a necessary condition for all value judgments. How, one might ask, are these cosmological intuitions derived? How is knowledge of both will to power and its eternally recurring play of creation and destruction grounded? If they are to be understood poetically, then the question “why?” is misplaced (Zarathustra, “Of Poets”). Logically, with respect to knowledge, Nietzsche insists that principles of perception and judgment evolve co-dependently with consciousness, in response to physical necessities. The self is organized and brought to stand within the body and by the stimuli received there. This means that all principles are transformations of stimuli and interpretations thereupon: truth is “a mobile army of metaphors” which the body forms before the mind begins to grasp. Let us beware, Nietzsche cautions, of saying that the world possesses any sort of order or coherence without these interpretations (GS 109), even to the extent that Nietzsche himself conceives will to power as the way of all things. If all principles are interpretive gestures, by the logic of Nietzsche’s new cosmology, the will to power must also be interpretive (BGE 22). One aspect of the absence of absolute order is that interpretive gestures are necessarily called-forth for the establishment of meaning. A critical requirement of this interpretive gesture becoming transparent is that the new interpretation must knowingly affirm that all principles are grounded in interpretation. According to Nietzsche, such reflexivity does not discredit his cosmology: “so much the better,” since will to power, through Nietzsche’s articulation, emerges as the thought that now dances playfully and lingers for a while in the midst of what Vattimo might call a “weakened” (and weakening) “ontology” of indifference. The human being is thereby “an experimental animal” (GM II). Its truths have the seductive power of the feminine (BGE 1); while Nietzsche’s grandest visions are oriented by the “experimental” or “tempter” god, the one later Nietzsche comes to identify with the name Dionysus (BGE 295).

The philosopher of the future will posses a level of critical awareness hitherto unimagined, given that his interpretive gestures will be recognized as such. Yet, a flourishing life will still demand, one might imagine, being able to suspend, hide, or forget—at the right moments—the creation of values, especially the highest values. Perhaps the cartoonish, bombastic language of The Genealogy’s master and slave morality, to point to an example, which was much more soberly discussed in the previous year’s Beyond Good and Evil, is employed esoterically by Nietzsche for the rhetorical effect of producing a grand and spectacular diversion, hiding the all-important creative gesture that brought forth the new cosmology as a supreme value: “This world is the will to power and nothing besides!—And you yourselves are also this will to power–and nothing besides!” With this teaching, Nietzsche leaves underdeveloped many obvious themes, such as how the world’s non-animate matter may (or may not) be involved with will to power or whether non-human life-forms take part fully and equally in the world’s movement of forces. To have a perspective, for Nietzsche, seems sufficient for participating in will to power, but does this mean that non-human animals, which certainly seem to have perspectives, and without question participate in the living of life, have the human being’s capacity (or any capacity for that matter) to command themselves? Or, do trees and other forms of vegetation? Apparently, they do not. Such problems involve, again, the question of freedom, which interests Nietzsche primarily in the positive form. Of more importance to Nietzsche is that which pertains solely to the human being’s marshalling of forces but, even here (or perhaps especially here), a hierarchy of differences may be discerned. Some human forms of participation in will to power are noble, others ignoble. But, concerning these sorts of activities, Nietzsche stresses in Beyond Good and Evil (aphorism 9) the difference between his own cosmology, which at times seems to re-establish the place of nobility in nature, and the “stoic” view, which asserts the oneness of humanity with divine nature:

“According to nature” you want to live? Oh you noble Stoics, what deceptive words these are! Imagine a being like nature, wasteful beyond measure, indifferent beyond measure, without purposes and consideration, without mercy and justice, fertile and desolate and uncertain at the same time; imagine indifference itself as a power—how could you live according to this indifference? Living—is that not precisely wanting to be other than this nature? Is not livingestimating, preferring, being unjust, being limited, wanting to be different? ….But this is an ancient, eternal story: what formerly happened with the Stoics still happens today, too, as soon as any philosophy begins to believe in itself. It always creates the world in its own image; it cannot do otherwise. Philosophy is this tyrannical drive itself; the most spiritual will to power, to the “creation of  the world,” to the causa prima.

Strauss claims that here Nietzsche is replacing “divine nature” and its egalitarian coherence with “noble nature” and its expression of hierarchies, the condition for which is difference, per se, emerging in nature from indifference (1983). Other commentators have suggested that Nietzsche, here, betrays all of philosophy, lacking any sense of decency with this daring expose—that what is left after the expression of such a forbidden truth is no recourse to meaning.

The most generalized form of the philosophical problem of emergence and disintegration, of the living, valuing, wanting to be different, willing power, is described here in terms of the difference-creating gesture embodied by the human being’s essential work, its “creation of the world” and first causes. Within nature, one might say, energy disperses and accumulates in various force-points: nature’s power to create these force-points is radically indifferent, and this indifference towards what has been created also characterizes its power. Periodically, something exceptional is thrust out from its opposite, given that radical indifference is indifferent even towards itself (if one could speak of ontological conditions in such a representative tone, which Nietzsche certainly does from time to time). Nature is disturbed, and the human being, having thus become aware of its own identity and of others, works towards preserving itself by tying things down with definitions; enhancing itself, occasionally, by loosening the fetters of old, worn-out forms; creating and destroying in such patterns, so as to make humanity and even nature appear to conform to some bit of tyranny. From within the logic of will to power, narrowly construed, human meaning is thus affirmed. “But to what end?” one might ask. To no end, Nietzsche would answer. Here, the more circumspect view could be taken, as is found in Twilight of the Idol’s “The Four Great Errors”: “One is a piece of fate, one belongs to the whole, one is in the whole, there exist nothing which could judge, measure, compare, condemn our being, for that would be to judge, measure, compare, condemn the whole….But nothing exists apart from the whole!” Nietzsche conceptualizes human fate, then, in his most extreme vision of will to power, as being fitted to a whole, “the world,” which is itself “nothing besides” a “monster of energy, without beginning, without end…eternally changing and eternally flooding back with tremendous years of recurrence.” In such manner, will to power expresses itself not only through the embodiment of humanity, its exemplars, and the constant revaluation of values, but also in time. Dasein, for Nietzsche, is suspended on the cross between these ontological movements—between an in/different playing of destruction/creation—and time. But, what temporal model yields the possibility for these expressions? How does Nietzsche’s experimental philosophy conceptualize time?

7. Eternal Recurrence

The world’s eternally self-creating, self-destroying play is conditioned by time. Yet, Nietzsche’s skepticism concerning what can be known of telos, indeed his refutation of an absolute telos independent of human fabrication, demands a view of time that differs from those that place willing, purposiveness, and efficient causes in the service of goals, sufficient reason, and causa prima. Another formulation of this problem might ask, “what is the history of willing, if not the demonstration of progress and/or decay?”

Nietzsche’s solution to the riddle of time, nevertheless, radicalizes the Christian concept of eternity, combining a bit of simple observation and sure reasoning with an intuition that produces curious, but innovative results. The solution takes shape as Nietzsche fills the temporal horizons of past and future with events whose denotations have no permanent tether. Will to power, the Heraclitean cosmic-child, plays-on without preference to outcomes. Within the two-fold limit of this horizon, disturbances emerge from their opposites, but one cannot evaluate them, absolutely, because judgment implicates participation in will to power, in the ebb and flow of events constituting time. The objective perspective is not possible, since the whole consumes all possibilities, giving form to and destroying all that has come to fulfillment. Whatever stands in this flux, does so in the midst of the whole, but only for a while. It disturbs the whole, but does so as part of the whole. As such, whatever stands is measured, on the one hand, by the context its emergence creates. On the other hand, whatever stands is immeasurable, by virtue of the whole, the logic of which would determine this moment to have occurred in the never-ending flux of creation and destruction. Even to say that particular events seem better or worse suited to the functionality of the whole, or to its stability, or its health, or that an event may be measured absolutely by its fitted-ness in some other way, presupposes a standpoint that Nietzsche’s cosmology will not allow. One is left only to describe material occurrences and to intuit the passing of time.

The second part of Nietzsche’s solution to the riddle of time reasons that the mere observation of an occurrence, whether thought to be a simple thing or a more complex event, is enough to demonstrate the occurrence’s possibility. If “something” has happened, then its happening, naturally, must have been possible. Each simple thing or complex event is linked, inextricably, to a near infinite number of others, also demonstrating the possibilities of their happenings. If all of these possibilities could be presented in such a way as to account for their relationships and probabilities, as for example on a marvelously complex set of dice, then it could be shown that each of these possibilities will necessarily occur, and re-occur, given that the game of dice continues a sufficient length of time.

Next, Nietzsche considers the nature of temporal limits and duration. He proposes that no beginning or end of time can be determined, absolutely, in thought. No matter what sort of temporal limits are set by the imagination, questions concerning what lies beyond these limits never demonstrably cease. The question, “what precedes or follows the imagined limits of past and future?” never contradicts our understanding of time, which is thus shown to be more culturally and historically determined than otherwise admitted.

Finally, rather than to imagine a past and future extended infinitely on a plane of sequential moments, or to imagine a time in which nothing happens or will happen, Nietzsche envisions connecting what lies beyond the imagination’s two temporal horizons, so that time is represented in the image of a circle, through which a colossal, but definitive number of possibilities are expressed. Time is infinite with this model, but filled by a finite number of material possibilities, recurring eternally in the never-ending play of the great cosmic game of chance.

What intuition led Nietzsche to interpret the cosmos as having no inherent meaning, as if it were playing itself out and repeating itself in eternally recurring cycles, in the endless creation and destruction of force-points without purpose? How does this curious temporal model relate to the living of life?  In his philosophical autobiography, Ecce Homo, Nietzsche grounds eternal recurrence in his own experiences by relating an anecdote regarding, supposedly, its first appearance to him in thought. One day, Nietzsche writes, while hiking around Lake Silvaplana near Sils Maria, he came upon a giant boulder, took out a piece of paper and scribbled, “6000 Fuss jenseits von Mensch und Zeit.” From here, Nietzsche goes on to articulate “the eternal recurrence of the same,” which he then characterizes as “a doctrine” or “a teaching” of the “highest form of affirmation that can possibly be attained.”

It is important to note that at the time of this discovery, Nietzsche was bringing his work on The Gay Science to a close and beginning to sketch out a plan for Zarathustra. The conceptualization of eternal recurrence emerges at the threshold of Nietzsche’s most acute positivistic inquiry and his most poetic creation. The transition between the two texts is made explicit when Nietzsche repeats the final aphorism of The Gay Science’s Book IV in the opening scene of Zarathustra’s prelude. The repetition of this scene will prove to be no coincidence, given the importance Nietzsche places upon the theme of recurrence in Zarathustra’s climactic chapters. Moreover, in the penultimate aphorism of The Gay Science, as a sort of introduction to that text’s Zarathustra scene (which itself would seem quite odd apart from the later work), Nietzsche first lays out Zarathustra’s central teaching, the idea of eternal recurrence.

The greatest weight.—What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!” (GS 341).

“What if,” wonders Nietzsche, the thought took hold of us? Here, the conceptualization of eternal recurrence, thus, coincides with questions regarding its impact: “how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?”

How would the logic of this new temporal model alter our experiences of factual life? Would such a thought diminish the willfulness of those who grasp it? Would it diminish our willingness to make normative decisions? Would willing cease under the pessimistic suspicion that the course for everything has already been determined, that all intentions are “in vain”? What would we lose by accepting the doctrine of this teaching? What would we gain? It seems strange that Nietzsche would place so much dramatic emphasis on this temporal form of determinism. If all of our worldly strivings and cravings were revealed, in the logic of eternal recurrence, to be no more than illusions, if every contingent fact of creation and destruction were understood to have merely repeated itself without end, if everything that happens, as it happens, both re-inscribes and anticipates its own eternal recurrence, what would be the affect on our dispositions, on our capacities to strive and create? Would we be crushed by this eternal comedy? Or, could we somehow find it liberating?

Even though Nietzsche has envisioned a temporal model of existence seemingly depriving us of the freedom to act in unique ways, we should not fail to catch sight of the qualitative differences the doctrine nevertheless leaves open for the living. The logic of eternity determines every contingent fact in each cycle of recurrence. That is, each recurrence is quantitatively the same. The quality of that recurrence, however, seems to remain an open question. What if the thought took hold of us? If we indeed understood ourselves to be bound by fate and thus having no freedom from the eternal logic of things, could we yet summon love for that fate, to embrace a kind of freedom for becoming that person we are? This is the strange confluence of possibility and necessity that Nietzsche announces in the beginning of Gay Science’s Book IV, with the concept of Amor fati: “I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth!”

Responses to this “doctrine” have been varied. Even some of the most enthusiastic Nietzsche commentators have, like Kaufmann, deemed it unworthy of serious reflection. Nietzsche, however, appears to stress its significance in Twilight of the Idols and Ecce Homo by emphasizing Zarathustra’s importance in the “history of humanity” and by dramatically staging in Thus Spoke Zarathustra the idea of eternal recurrence as the fundamental teaching of the main character. The presentation of this idea, however, leaves room for much doubt concerning the literal meaning of these claims, as does the paucity of direct references to the doctrine in other works intended for publication. In Nietzsche’s Nachlass, we discover attempts to work out rational proofs supporting the theory, but they seem to present no serious challenge to a linear conception of time. Among commentators taking the doctrine seriously, Löwith takes it as a supplement to Nietzsche’s historical nihilism, as a way of placing emphasis on the problem of meaning in history after the shadows of God have been dissolved. For Löwith’s Nietzsche, nihilism is more than an historical moment giving rise to a crisis of confidence or faith. Rather, nihilism is the essence of Nietzsche’s thought, and it poses the sorts of problems that lead Nietzsche into formulating eternal return as a way of restoring meaning in history. For Löwith, then, eternal return is inextricably linked to historical nihilism and offers both cosmological and anthropological grounds for accepting imperatives of self-overcoming. Yet, this grand attempt fails to restore meaning after the death of God, according to Löwith, because of eternal return’s logical contradictions.

8. Reception of Nietzsche’s Thought

The reception of Nietzsche’s work, on all levels of engagement, has been complicated by historical contingencies that are related only by accident to the thought itself. The first of these complications pertains to the editorial control gained by Elizabeth in the aftermath of her brother’s mental and physical collapse. Elisabeth’s overall impact on her brother’s reputation is generally thought to be very problematic. Her husband, Bernhard Förster, whom Friedrich detested, was a leader of the late nineteenth-century German anti-Semitic political movement, which Friedrich often ridiculed and unambiguously condemned, both in his published works and in private correspondences. On this issue, Yovel demonstrates persuasively, with a contextual analysis of letters, materials from the Nachlass, and published works, that Nietzsche developed an attitude of “anti-anti-Semitism” after overcoming the culture of prejudice that formed him in his youth (Yovel, 1998). In the mid-1880s, Förster and wife led a small group of colonists to Paraguay in hopes of establishing an idyllic, racially pure, German settlement. The colony foundered, Bernhard committed suicide, and Elisabeth returned home, just in time to find her brother’s health failing and his literary career ready to soar.

Upon her return, Elisabeth devised a way to keep alive the memory of both husband and brother, legally changing her last name to “Förster-Nietzsche,” a gesture indicative of designs to associate the philosopher with a political ideology he loathed. The stain of Elisabeth’s editorial imprint can be seen on the many ill-informed and haphazard interpretations of Nietzsche produced in the early part of the twentieth century, the unfortunate traces of which remain in some readings today. During the 1930s, in the midst of intense activity by National Socialist academic propagandists such as Alfred Bäumler, even typically insightful thinkers such as Emmanuel Levinas confused the public image of Nietzsche for the philosopher’s stated beliefs. Counter-efforts in the 1930s to refute such propaganda, and the popular misconceptions it was fomenting at the time, can be found both inside and outside Germany, in seminars, for example, led by Karl Jaspers and Karl Löwith, and in Georges Bataille’s essay “Nietzsche and the Fascists.” Of course, the ad hominem argument that “Nietzsche must be a Fascist philosopher because the Fascists venerated him as one of their own,” may be ignored. (No one should find Kant’s moral philosophy reprehensible, by comparison, simply on the grounds that Eichmann attempted to exploit it in a Jerusalem court). Apart from the fallacy, here, even the premise itself regarding Nietzsche and the Fascists is not entirely above reproach, since some Fascists were skeptical of the commensurability of Nietzsche’s thought with their political aims. The stronger claim that Nietzsche’s thought leads to National Socialism is even more problematic. Nevertheless, intellectual histories pursuing the question of how Nietzsche has been placed into the service of all sorts of political interests are an important part of Nietzsche scholarship.

Since the middle part of the last century, Nietzsche scholars have come to grips with the role played by Elisabeth and her associates in obscuring Nietzsche’s anti-Nationalistic, anti-Socialist, anti-German views, his pan-European advocacy of race mixing, as well as his hatred for anti-Semitism and its place in the late-nineteenth-century politics of exploitation. The work Elisabeth performed as her brother’s publicist, however, undoubtedly fulfilled all of her own fantasies: in the early 1930’s, decades after Friedrich’s death, the Nietzsche-Archiv was visited, ceremoniously, by Adolf Hitler, who was greeted and entertained by Elisabeth (in perhaps the most symbolic gesture of her association with the Nietzsche image) with a public reading of the work of her late husband, Bernhard, the anti-Semite. Hitler later attended Elisabeth’s funeral as Chancellor of Germany.

In a matter related to Elizabeth’s impact on the reception of her brother’s thought, the relevance of Nietzsche’s biography to his philosophical work has long been a point of contention among Nietzsche commentators. While an exhaustive survey of the way this key issue has been addressed in the scholarship would be difficult in this context, a few influential readings may be briefly mentioned. Among notable German readers, Heidegger and Fink dismiss the idea that Nietzsche’s thought can be elucidated with the details of his life, while Jaspers affirms the “exceptional” nature of Nietzsche’s life and identifies the exception as a key aspect of his philosophy. French readers such as Bataille, Deleuze, Klossowski, Foucault, and Derrida assert the relevance of various biographical details to specific movements within Nietzsche’s writings. In the United States, the influential reading of Walter Kaufman follows Heidegger, for the most part, in denying relevance, while his student, Alexander Nehamas, tends the other way, linking Nietzsche’s various literary styles to his “perspectivism” and ultimately to living, per se, as an self-interpretive gesture. However difficult it might be to see the philosophical relevance of various biographical curiosities, such as Nietzsche’s psychological development as a child without a living father, his fascination and then fallout with Wagner, his professional ostracism, his thwarted love life, the excruciating physical ailments that tormented him, and so on, it would also seem capricious and otherwise inconsistent with Nietzsche’s work to radically severe his thought from these and other biographical details, and persuasive interpretations have argued that such experiences, and Nietzsche’s well-considered views of them, are inseparable from the multiple trajectories of his intellectual work.

Attempts to isolate Nietzsche’s philosophy from the twists and turns of a frequently problematic life may be explained, in part, as a reaction to several early, and rather detrimental, popular-psychological studies attempting to explain the work in a reductive and decidedly un-philosophical manner. Such was the reading proffered, for example, by Lou Salomè, a woman with whom Nietzsche briefly had an unconventional and famously complex romantic relationship, and who later befriended Sigmund Freud among other leaders of European culture at the fin-de-siècle. Salomè’s Friedrich Nietzsche in His Works (1894) helped cast the image of Nietzsche as a lonely, miserable, self-immolating, recluse whose “external intellectual work…and inner life coalesce completely.” In some commentaries, this image prevails yet today, but its accuracy is also a matter of debate. Nietzsche had many casual associates and a few close friends while in school and as a professor in Basel. Even during the period of his most intense intellectual activity, after withdrawing from the professional world of the academy and, like Marx and others before him in the nineteenth century, taking up the wandering life of a “good European,” the many written correspondences between Nietzsche and life-long friends, along with what is known about the minor details of his daily habits, his days spent in the company of fellow lodgers and travelers, taking meals regularly (in spite of a very closely regulated diet), and similar anecdotes, all put forward a different image. No doubt the affair with Salomè and their mutual friend, the philosopher Paul Rée, left Nietzsche embittered towards the two of them, and it seems likely that this bitterness clouded Salomè’s interpretation of Nietzsche and his works. Elisabeth, who had always loathed Salomè for her immoderation and perceived influence over Friedrich, attempted to correct her rival’s account by writing her own biography of Friedrich, which was effusive in its praise but did little to advance the understanding of Nietzsche’s thought. Perhaps these kinds of problems, then, provide the best argument for resisting the lure to reduce interpretations of Nietzsche’s thought to gossipy biographical anecdotes and clumsy, amateurish speculation, even if the other extreme has also been excessive at times.

Another key issue in the reception of Nietzsche’s work involves determining its relationship to the thoughts of other philosophers and, indeed, to the philosophical tradition itself. On both levels of this complex issue, the work of Martin Heidegger looms paramount. Heidegger began working closely with Nietzsche’s thought in the 1930s, a time rife with political opportunism in Germany, even among scholars and intellectuals. In the midst of a struggle over the official Nazi interpretation of Nietzsche, Heidegger’s views began to coalesce, and after a series of lectures on Nietzsche’s thought in the late 1930’s and 1940, Heidegger produces in 1943 the seminal essay, “Nietzsche’s Word: “God is Dead””.  Nietzsche, for Heidegger, brought “the consummation of metaphysics” in the age of subject-centered reasoning, industrialization, technological power, and the “enframing” (Ge-stell) of humans and all other beings as a “standing reserve.” Combining Nietzsche’s self-described “inversion of Platonism” with the emphasis Nietzsche had undoubtedly placed upon the value-positing act and its relatedness to subjective or inter-subjective human perspectives, Heidegger dubbed Nietzsche “the last metaphysician” and tied him to the logic of a historical narrative highlighted by the appearances of Plato, Aristotle, Roman Antiquity, Christendom, Luther, Descartes, Leibniz, Schopenhauer, and others. The “one thought” common to each of these movements and thinkers, according to Heidegger, and the path Nietzsche thus thinks through to its “consummation,” is the “metaphysical” determination of being (Sein) as no more than something static and constantly present. Although Nietzsche appears to reject the concept of being as an “empty fiction” (claiming, in Twilight of the Idols, to concur with Heraclitus in this regard), Heidegger nevertheless reads in Nietzsche’s Platonic inversion the most insidious form of the metaphysics of presence, in which the destruction and re-establishment of value is taken to be the only possible occasion for philosophical labor whereby the very question of being is completely obliterated. Within this diminution of thought, the Nietzschean “Superman” emerges supremely powerful and triumphant, taking dominion over the earth and all of its beings, measured only by the mundane search for advantages in the ubiquitous struggle for preservation and enhancement.

As is typically the case with Heidegger’s interpretations of the history of philosophy, many aspects of this reading are truly remarkable—Heidegger’s scholarship, for example, his feel for what is important to Nietzsche, and his elaboration of Nietzsche’s work in a way that seems compatible with a narrative of the concealing and revealing destiny of being. However, the plausibility of this reading has come into question almost from the moment the full extent of it was made known in the 1950s and 60s. In Germany, for example, Eugen Fink concludes his 1960 study of Nietzsche by casting doubt upon Heidegger’s claim that Nietzsche’s thought can be reduced to a metaphysics:

Heidegger’s Nietzsche interpretation is essentially based upon  Heidegger’s summary and insight into the history of being and in particular on his interpretation of the metaphysics of modernity. Nevertheless, the question remains open whether Nietzsche does not already leave the metaphysical dimensions of any problems essentially and intentionally behind in his conception of the cosmos. There is a non-metaphysical originality in his cosmological philosophy of “play.” Even the early writings indicate the mysterious dimension of play….

Fink’s reluctance to take a stronger position against the reading of his renowned teacher seems rather coy, given that Fink’s study, throughout, has stressed the meaning and importance of “cosmological play” in Nietzsche’s work. Other commentators have much more explicitly challenged Heidegger’s grand narrative and specifically its place for Nietzsche in the Western tradition, concurring with Fink that Nietzsche’s conceptualization of play frees his thought from the tradition of metaphysics, or that Nietzsche, purposively or not, offered conflicting views of himself, eluding the kind of summary treatment presented by Heidegger and much less-gifted readers (who consider Nietzsche to be no more than a late-Romantic, a social-Darwinist, or the like). In this sort of commentary, Nietzsche’s work itself is at play in deconstructing the all-too-rigid kinds of explanations.

While such a reading has proven to be popular, partly because it seems to make room for various points of entry into Nietzsche’s thought, it has understandably stirred a backlash of sorts among less charitable commentators who find pragmatic or neo-Kantian strains in Nietzsche’s critique of metaphysics and who wish to separate Nietzsche’s level-headed philosophy from his poorly-developed musings. Notable works by Schacht, Clark, Conway, and Leiter fall into this category. In a loosely related movement, many commentators bring Nietzsche into dialogue with the tradition by concentrating on aspects of his work relevant to particular philosophical issues, such as the problem of truth, the development of a natural history of morals, a philosophical consideration of moral psychology, problems concerning subjectivity and logo-centrism, theories of language, and many others. Finally, much work continues to be done on Nietzsche in the history of ideas, regarding, for example, Nietzsche’s philology, his intellectual encounters with nineteenth-century science; the neo-Kantians; the pre-Socratics (or “pre-Platonics,” as he called them); the work of his friend, Paul Rée; their shared affinity for the wit and style of La Rochefoucauld; historical affinities and influences such as those pertaining to Hölderlin, Goethe, Emerson, and Lange, detailed studies of what Nietzsche was reading and when he was reading it, and a host of other themes. Works by Habermas, Porter, Gillespie, Brobjer, Ansell-Pearson, Conway, and Strong are notable for historicizing Nietzsche in a variety of contexts.

The Anglo-American reception of Nietzsche is typically suspicious of Heidegger’s influence and strongly disapproves of gestures linking the “New Nietzsche” found in late twentieth-century discussions of postmodernism and literary criticism to a supposed end of philosophy, although some American scholars will admit, with Gillespie, that “the core of this postmodern reading cannot simply be dismissed,” despite this reading’s excesses (1995, 177). Due to these suspicions, moreover, common Nietzschean themes such as historical nihilism, Dionysianism, tragedy, and play, as well as cosmological readings of will to power, and eternal recurrence are downplayed in Anglo-American treatments, in favor of bringing out more traditional sorts of philosophical problems such as truth and knowledge, values and morality, and human consciousness. Nietzsche reception in the United States has been determined by a unique set of circumstances, as portrayed by Schacht (1995) and others. A very early stage of that reception is stained by the Nazi-misappropriation of Nietzsche, which popular American audiences were prepared to accept uncritically due on the one hand to their initial impression of Nietzsche as an enemy of Christianity who ultimately went insane and on the other hand to their lack of familiarity with Nietzsche’s work. The next stage of Nietzsche reception in the U.S. benefited greatly from Walter Kaufmann’s landmark treatment in the 1950’s. Kaufmann’s Nietzsche was certainly no fascist. Rather, he was a secular humanist and a forerunner of the existentialist movement enjoying a measure of popularity (and acceptability) on college campuses in the United States during the 1950’s and 1960’s. Whereas European commentators such as Jaspers, Löwith, Bataille, and even Heidegger had been busy in the 1930’s “marshalling” Nietzsche (as Jaspers described it) against the National Socialists, in the U.S. it was left to Kaufmann and others in the 1950’s to successfully refute the image of Nietzsche as a Nazi-prototype. So successful was Kaufmann in this regard, that Anglo-American readers had difficulty seeing Nietzsche in any other light, and philosophers who found existentialism shallow regarded Nietzsche with the same disdain. This image of Nietzsche was corrected, somewhat, by Danto’s Nietzsche as Philosopher, which attempted to cast Nietzsche as a forerunner to analytic philosophy, although doubts about Nietzsche’s suitability for this role surely remain even today. To the extent that Danto succeeded in the 1970’s in reshaping philosophical discussions regarding Nietzsche, a new difficulty emerged, related generally to a tension in the world of Anglo-American philosophy between Analytic and Continental approaches to the discipline. In such a light, Schacht sees his work on Nietzsche as an attempt to bridge this institutional divide, as do other Anglo-American readers. The work of Rorty may certainly be characterized in this manner. Despite these attempts, tensions remain between Anglo-American readers who cultivate a neo-pragmatic version of Nietzsche and those who, by comparison, seem too comfortable accepting uncritically the problematic aspects of the Continental interpretation.

In most cases, interpretations of Nietzsche’s thought, and what is taken to be most significant about it, when not directed solely by external considerations, will be determined by the texts in Nietzsche’s corpus given priority and by a decision regarding Nietzsche’s overall coherence, as concerns any given issue, throughout the trajectory of his intellectual development.

9. References and Further Reading

a. Nietzsche’s Collected Works in German

  • Samtliche Werke: Kritische Studienausgabe, ed. Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari, 15 vols (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1980).
    • This “critical student edition” of collected works, commonly referenced as the KSA, contains Nietzsche’s major writings and most of the well-known essays and aphorisms found in his journals. Specialists and readers seeking Nietzsche’s letters, his lectures at Basel, and other writings from his vast Nachlass, will need to supplement the KSA with two additional sources.
  • Kritische Gesamtausgabe: Briefwechsel, ed. Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari, 24 vols. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1975-84).
    • This edition offers a comprehensive collection of Nietzsche’s correspondences.
  • Kritische Gesamtausgabe: Werke, ed. Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari, (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1967-).
    • The project of publishing a “complete edition” of Nietzsche’s writings was started in 1967 by Colli and Montinari and has since enlisted the services of a number of other editors. At the present time, the project remains unfinished. The most important contribution of the KGW, as this edition is commonly referenced, is perhaps its publication of Nietzsche’s lectures from the University of Basel on topics such as pre-Platonic philosophy, the Platonic dialogues, and ancient rhetoric.

b. Nietzsche’s Major Works Available in English

Most of Nietzsche’s major works were published during his lifetime and are now available to English readers in competing translations. The following list is by no means exhaustive.

  • The Birth of Tragedy (Die Geburt der Tragödie,1872); published in English with The Case of Wagner (Der Fall Wagner, 1888), trans. Walter Kaufmann, (New York: Vintage, 1966).
    • These two texts are available separately in other editions
  • Untimely Meditations (Unzeitgemässe Betrachtungen, 1873-1876), trans. R.J. Hollingdale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).
    • The four essays of this work are available separately in other editions
  • Human, All Too Human (Menschliches, Allzumenschliches [vol. 1], 1878 and [vol. 2], 1879-1880), trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986).
    • Volume one of this work and the two distinct parts of volume two, “Assorted Maxims and Aphorisms” and “The Wanderer and His Shadow,” are available separately in other editions.
  • Daybreak (Morgenröte, 1881), trans. R, J. Hollingdale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).
    • The later editions of this translation contain a helpful index.
  • The Gay Science (Die fröliche Wissenschaft, 1882; with important supplements to the second edition, 1887), trans. Walter Kaufman (New York: Vintage, 1974).
  • Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Also Sprach Zarathustra, bks I-II, 1883; bk III, 1884; bk IV [printed and distributed privately], 1885), trans. R. J. Hollingdale, (New York: Penguin, 1973).
  • Beyond Good and Evil (Jenseits von Gut und Böse, 1886), trans. Walter Kaufman (New York: Vintage, 1966).
  • On the Genealogy of Morality (Zur Genealogie der Moral, 1887), edited with important supplements from the Nachlass and other works by Keith Ansell-Pearson; trans. Carol Diethe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995).
  • The Case of Wagner (Der Fall Wagner, 1888); published in English with The Birth of Tragedy (Die Geburt der Tragödie,1872), trans. Walter Kaufmann, (New York: Vintage, 1966)
  • Ecce Homo (Ecce Homo, 1888, first published 1908), trans. R. J. Hollingdale (New York: Penguin, 1992).
  • Nietzsche contra Wagner (Nietzsche contra Wagner, 1888, first published 1895), trans. Walter Kaufmann, in The Portable Nietzsche, ed. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Viking, 1954).
  • Twilight of the Idols (Götzen-Dämmerung, 1889); published in English with The Anti-Christ (Der Antichrist, 1888), trans. R. J. Hollingdale (New York: Penguin, 1968).

c. Important Works Available in English from Nietzsche’s Nachlass

Nietzsche’s Nachlass contains several developed essays and an overwhelming number of fragments, sketches of outlines, and aphorisms, some in thematically related successions. A number of these writings are available to English readers, and a few are accessible in a variety of editions, either as supplements to the major works or as part of assorted critical editions. The following list offers a sample of these writings.

  • “Homer on Competition” (“Homers Wettkampf,” 1872) and “The Greek State” (Der griechische Staat, 1872), included in On the Genealogy of Morality (Zur Genealogie der Moral, 1887), ed. Keith Ansell-Pearson; trans. Carol Diethe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995).
  • “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense” (“Über Wahrheit und Lüge im aussermoralischen Sinne,” 1873), collected in various editions, including Philosophy and Truth: Selections from Nietzsche’s Notebooks of the early 1870’s, ed. and trans. Daniel Breazeale (New Jersey: Humanities Press, 1979) and Friedrich Nietzsche on Rhetoric and Language, ed. and trans. Sander L. Gilman, Carole Blair, and David J. Parent (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989).
  • Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks (Die Philosophie im tragischen Zeitalter der Griechen, 1873), trans. Marianne Cowan (Washington, D. C.: Gateway Editions, 1962).
  • The Pre-Platonic Philosophers (Die vorplatonischen Philosophen, lectures during various semesters at Basel from 1869 to 1876; ed. by Fritz Bornmann and Mario Carpitella for the KGW, vol. II, part 4), ed. and trans. with an interpretive essay and appendix by Greg Whitlock (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2001).
  • Unpublished Writings from the Period of Unfashionable Observations (vol. 11 of The Completed Works of Friedrich Nietzsche), based on the KGW, adapted by Ernst Behler; ed. Bernd Magnus; trans. Richard T. Gray (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999).
  • The Will to Power (Der Wille zur Macht, writings from the Nachlass ed. and arranged by Elizabeth Förster-Nietzsche and Peter Gast and published in various forms after Nietzsche’s death), trans. Walter Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale (New York: Vintage, 1967).
  • Writings from the Late Notebooks (writings from the Nachlass), ed. Rüdigger Bittner; trans. Kate Sturge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).

d. Biographies

A firsthand and secondhand biographical narrative may be followed in the collected letters of Nietzsche and his associates:

  • Selected Letters of Friedrich Nietzsche, ed. Christopher Middleton (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1996)
  • Conversations with Nietzsche: A Life in the Words of His Contemporaries, ed. Sander L. Gilman, trans. David J. Parent (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987).

The following list includes a few of the most well known biographies in English.

  • Diethe, Carol. Nietzsche’s Sister and the Will to Power: A Biography of Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2003).
  • Hayman, Ronald. Nietzsche: A Critical Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980).
  • Hollingdale, R. J. Nietzsche, the Man and His Philosophy (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1965).
  • Pletsch, Carl. Young Nietzsche: Becoming a Genius (New York: The Free Press, 1991).
  • Safranski, Rüdiger. Nietzsche: Biographie Seines Denkens (Muenchen: Carl Hanser, 2000).
  • Nietzsche: A Philosophical Biography, trans. Shelley Frisch (New York: Norton, 2002).
  • Salomé, Lou. Nietzsche, ed. and trans. Siegfried Mandel (Redding Ridge, CT: Black Swan, 1988).

e. Commentaries and Scholarly Researches

Hollingdale once wrote that Nietzsche anticipated what would soon become “part of the consciousness of every thinking person” living in the twentieth century and, no doubt, beyond. During the last forty years, Nietzsche scholarship has generated a considerable amount of commentary and research, and some of the most important of these texts were produced by the twentieth century’s most significant thinkers. Even so, the work of elucidating Nietzsche’s thought seems unfinished. The following list is by no means comprehensive, nor does it purport to represent all of the major themes prevalent in Nietzsche scholarship today. It is designed for the reader seeking to learn more about the intellectual history of Nietzsche reception in the twentieth century.

  • Allison, David B. ed.,  The New Nietzsche: Contemporary Styles of Interpretation, (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985).
  • Allison, David B. Reading the New Nietzsche (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2001).
  • Ansell-Pearson, Keith. An Introduction to Nietzsche as Political Thinker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
  • Aschheim, Steven E. The Nietzsche Legacy in Germany: 1890-1990 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994).
  • Bambach, Charles R. Heidegger’s Roots: Nietzsche, National Socialism, and the Greeks (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003).
    • This text delivers a scholarly, critical account of Heidegger’s intellectual encounter with Nietzsche against the politically charged backdrop of Germany in the 1930s.
  • Bataille, Georges. Sur Nietzsche (Paris, Gallimard, 1945), available in English under the title, On Nietzsche, trans. Bruce Boon (New York: Paragon House, 1992).
  • Bataille, Georges. “Nietzsche and the Fascists,” available in Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939 (which includes other essays devoted to Nietzsche), ed. Allan Stoekl, trans. Stoekl, et. al (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985).
  • Brobjer, Thomas. Nietzsche’s Philosophical Context: An Intellectual Biography (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2008).
    • Brobjer delivers invaluable resource for collating Nietzsche’s writings with the texts that he was himself reading.
  • Clark, Maudemarie. Nietzsche on Truth and Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).
    • This study is representative of the trend in American scholarship emphasizing those parts of Nietzsche’s thought apparently commensurate with pragmatic and neo-Kantian concerns. It is, perhaps, the best point of entry for readers hoping to gain such insight. For Clark, many of Nietzsche’s remarks on truth are simply confused, although he is redeemed as a philosopher by conclusions drawn in 1887 and thereafter.
  • Conway, Daniel W. Nietzsche’s Dangerous Game: Philosophy in the Twilight of the Idols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).
  • Conway, Daniel W. Nietzsche and the Political (London: Routledge, 1997).
  • Danto, Authur C. Nietzsche as Philosopher (New York: Columbia University Press, 1965).
    • According to Danto, a surprisingly rigorous analytic system of thought is embedded in Nietzsche’s writings, which for Danto are rather poorly executed from a philosophical perspective. In this reading, Nietzsche’s architectonic shortcomings are redeemed, even unconsciously, by the consistency of his polemics.
  • Deleuze, Gilles. Nietzsche et la philosophie, (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1962), available in English under the title, Nietzsche and Philosophy, trans. Hugh Thomlinson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983).
    • Deleuze’s seminal work delivers the classic statement on Nietzsche as a thinker of processes and relations of active and reactive forces. For Deleuze, Nietzsche is a post-Kantian thinker of historical consciousness and a genealogist refuting the dialectic rationalism of Hegel
  • Derrida, Jacques. Spurs: Nietzsche’s Styles (Èperons: Les Styles de Nietzsche), published with French and English facing pages, trans. Barbara Harlow (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1979).
  • Derrida, Jacques . “Interpreting Signatures (Nietzsche/Heidegger): Two Questions,” trans. Diane P. Michelfelder and Richard E. Palmer in Dialogue and Deconstruction: The Gadamer-Derrida Encounter (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989).
  • Fink, Eugen. Nietzsches Philosophie (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1960); available in English under the title, Nietzsche’s Philosophy, trans. Goetz Richter (London: Continuum, 2003).
  • Foucault, Michel. “Nietzsche, la généalogie, l’historiè,” in Hommage à Jean Hyppolite (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1971), available in English under the title, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” trans. Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon in The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabinow (New York: Pantheon Books, 1984), 76-100.
    • According to Foucault, Nietzsche’s genealogies eschew the search for origins and teleology with the result of uncovering simply the “play of dominations” in history.
  • Gillespie, Michael Allen. Nihilism Before Nietzsche (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995).
  • Gillespie, Michael Allen and Strong, Tracy B. ed. Nietzsche’s New Seas (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988).
  • Golomb, Jacob and Robert S. Wistrich ed. Nietzsche, Godfather of Fascism? On the Uses and Abuse of a Philosophy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002).
  • Habermas, Jürgen. Der philosophische Diskurs der Moderne (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1985), available in English under the title, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity, trans. Frederick Lawrence (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987).
    • These lectures offer a historical reading of Nietzsche’s decisive role in interrupting “the discourse of Modernity” and abandoning its emancipatory content. Habermas detects two dominant strains of post-Nietzschean philosophical rhetoric: a Dionysian messianism (transmitted through Heidegger and Derrida) which longs for the absent god and a fetishization of power, heterogeneity, and subversion (found in Bataille and Foucault).
  • Heidegger, Martin. “Nietzsches Wort‘Gott is tot,’” in Holzwege (Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1952 [written in 1943]). The essay is available to English readers as “Nietzsche’s Word: God is dead” in The Question Concerning Technology and other essays, trans. William Lovitt; co-edited J. Glenn Gray and Joan Stambaugh (New York: Harper, 1977).
    • This essay is Heidegger’s first published and most concise treatment of Nietzsche.
    • Heidegger’s preparation for this essay includes several lecture courses devoted entirely to Nietzsche’s philosophy, taught at the University of Freiburg from 1936 to 1940.
    • The published form of these lectures first appeared during 1961 in two volumes.
  • Heidegger, Martin. Nietzsche I-II (Pfulligen: Neske, 1961).
    • Beginning in 1979, Heidegger’s Nietzsche lectures at Freiberg became available to English readers in piecemeal fashion, along with other materials in a somewhat confusing manner, in a two edition, four-volume, set.
  • Heidegger, Martin . Nietzsche, vol. I-IV, trans. David Farrell Krell, (San Francisco: Harper, 1979ff).
    • The philosophy of Nietzsche plays a prominent role in several other works by Heidegger.
  • Heidegger, Martin.  “Platons Lehre von der Wahrheit,”(written in 1930, revised in 1940), published in Wegmarken (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1967); available in English under the title, “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth,” in Pathmarks, ed. William McNeill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).
  • Heidegger, Martin. “Was Heisst Denken?” (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1954); available in English under the title, “What is Called Thinking?,” trans. J. Glenn Gray and Fred Wieck (San Francisco: Harper, 1968).
  • Heidegger, Martin. “Wer ist Nietzsches Zarathustra?” in Vorträge und Aufsätze (Stuttgart: Neske, 1954); available in English under the title, “Who is Nietzsche’s Zarathustra?” in Nietzsche vol. II trans. David Farrell Krell, (San Francisco: Harper, 1979), 209-233.
  • Jaspers, Karl. Nietzsche. Einführung in das Verständnis seines Philosophierens (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1936); available in English under the title, Nietzsche: An Introduction to the Understanding of His Philosophical Activity, trans. Charles F. Wallraff and Frederick J. Schmitz (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997)
  • Kaufmann, Walter. Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist, 4th edition: (Princeton: PUP, 1974). Kaufmann’s study was a watershed text in the history of Nietzsche reception in the United States
  • Klossowski, Pierre. Nietzsche et le cercle vicieux (Paris: Mercure de France, 1969), available in English under the title, Nietzsche and the Vicious Circle, trans. Daniel W. Smith (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press and Athlone Press, 1997)
  • Lambert, Laurence. Leo Strauss and Nietzsche (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996)
  • Lambert, Laurence. Nietzsche’s Teaching: An Interpretation of ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra,’ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986)
  • Leiter, Brian. Nietzsche on Morality (London: Routledge, 2002).
    • Leiter plays down the ineffable aspects of Nietzsche’s thought in order to elaborate formally and concisely Nietzsche’s writings on morality, especially from the Genealogy. This approach lends credit to the claim that Nietzsche was foremost a moral philosopher with pragmatic, even analytic consistency
  • Löwith, Karl. Nietzsche’s Philosophy of the Eternal Return of the Same, trans. J. Harvey Lomax (Berkley: University of California Press, 1997).
    • Löwith’s study was originally produced in the mid 1930’s, during a wave of interest that included treatments by Heidegger and Jaspers. Like these works, Löwith attempted to correct Alfred Bäumler’s political misappropriation. While National Socialist renditions glorify subjectivity and power in will to power and to the exclusion of eternal return and other ineffable concepts, Löwith places eternal return at the forefront of Nietzsche’s thought, arguing that such thought is thereby flawed with internal contradictions
  • MacIntyre, Ben. Forgotten Fatherland: The Search for Elisabeth Nietzsche (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux 1992).
    • This study offers a somewhat informative, if rather sensationalistic, account of Elizabeth and Bernhard Förster’s sordid misadventure in Paraguay. This title should not be counted on, however, for any sort of understanding of Nietzsche’s philosophy
  • Michelfelder, Diane P. and Palmer, Richard E. eds. Dialogue and Deconstruction: The Gadamer-Derrida Encounter (Albany: SUNY Press, 1989).
    • This text chronicles an interesting confrontation on Nietzsche reception between two landmark philosophers of the late twentieth century. The encounter regards Heidegger’s reading of Nietzsche and what it implies for post-Heideggerian thought
  • Montinari, Mazzino. Reading Nietzsche trans. Greg Whitlock (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2003).
    • With Giorgio Colli, Montinari was coeditor of the KSA and the first volumes of the KGW. This translation of his collection of lectures and essays originally published in 1982 portrays Nietzsche being primarily interested in science, albeit taken off course for a time by Wagner and their shared interest in Schopenhauer. Montinari’s Nietzsche is best characterized as having a lifelong “passion for knowledge.” However, Montinari’s insights into previous editions of Nietzsche’s corpus, and the editorial politics behind these editions, may be the most valuable parts of this interesting work
  • Mueller-Lauter,Wolfgang. Nietzsche: His Philosophy of Contradictions and the Contradictions of His Philosophy, trans. David J. Parent (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1999)
  • Nehamas, Alexander. Nietzsche: Life as Literature, (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1985).
  • Porter, James I.  Nietzsche and the Philology of the Future (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000).
    • Porter’s study places Nietzsche’s philology in historical context and shows how this training prepared hermeneutic gestures found in later Nietzsche’s philosophy of interpretation
  • Porter, James I. The Invention of Dionysus: An Essay on the Birth of Tragedy (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000)
  • Schacht, Richard. Nietzsche: The Great Philosophers (London: Routledge, 1983)
  • Schacht, Richard. Making Sense of Nietzsche: Reflections Timely and Untimely (Champagne/Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1995)
  • Schrift, Alan D. Nietzsche’s French Legacy: A Genealogy of Poststructuralism (New York: Routledge, 1995).
    • As the title promises, this text surveys aspects of the French reception of Nietzsche
  • Schutte, Ofelia. Beyond Nihilism: Nietzsche Without Masks (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984)
  • Strauss, Leo. “Note on the Plan of Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil” in Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983).
    • Strauss’ take on Nietzsche, here and elsewhere, has generated quite a bit of scholarship on its own
  • Strong, Tracy B. Friedrich Nietzsche and the Politics of Transfiguration: Expanded Edition, (Berkley: University of California Press, 1988).
    • Strong’s reading is somewhat esoteric, but it nevertheless brings out important political tensions seemingly implied in Nietzsche’s encounter with Socrates, Aeschylus, and other Greeks
  • Vattimo, Gianni. The End of Modernity trans. Jon R. Snyder (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1988)
  • Vattimo, Gianni. Nihilism and Emancipation (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004).
    • With these titles and several others, Vattimo takes up Heidegger’s transmission of Nietzsche and works out the issue of “completed nihilism” with impressive results. Vattimo’s Nietzsche emerges as one of the best philosophical resources for grounding emancipatory discourse in the twentieth first century
  • Waite, Geoff. Nietzsche’s Corps/e, (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996).
    • Waite offers a richly thematized, innovative Kulturkampf using Nietzsche-reception itself as a wedge for breaking open a variety of late-twentieth century issues
  • Yovel, Yirmiyahu. Dark Riddle: Hegel, Nietzsche, and the Jews (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 1998)
  • Zimmerman, Michael. Heidegger’s Confrontation with Modernity: Technology, Politics, Art (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990).
    • Zimmerman delivers a useful text for understanding this key conduit of Nietzsche reception.

f. Academic Journals in Nietzsche Studies

In addition to a typically large number full-length manuscripts on Nietzsche published every year, scholarly works in English may be found in general, academic periodicals focused on Continental philosophy, ethical theory, critical theory, the history of ideas and similar themes. In addition, some major journals are devoted entirely to Nietzsche and aligned topics. Related both to the issue of orthodoxy and to the backlash against multiplicity in Nietzsche interpretation, the value of having so many outlets available for Nietzsche commentators has even been questioned. The following journals are devoted specifically to Nietzsche studies.

  • Nietzsche-Studien (Berlin: de Gruyter).
  • The Journal of Nietzsche Studies (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press).
  • New Nietzsche Studies: The Journal of the Nietzsche Society (New York: Nietzsche Society).

Author Information

Dale Wilkerson
Email: dale.wilkerson@utrgv.edu
University of Texas Rio Grande Valley
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.

Śāntideva (fl. 8th c.)

Śāntideva (literally “god of peace”) was the name given to an Indian Mahāyāna Buddhist philosopher-monk, known as the author of two texts, the Bodhicaryāvatāra and the Śikṣāsamuccaya. These works both express the ideal of the bodhisattva — the ideal person of Mahāyāna Buddhism. The term Mahāyāna, literally “Great Vehicle,” came into use to mean the idea of attempting to become a bodhisattva (and eventually a buddha) oneself, rather than merely following the teachings set out by Siddhārtha Gautama (considered the original Buddha). This was the earliest usage of the term mahāyāna in Sanskrit, although even by Śāntideva’s time, understandings of what becoming a bodhisattva involved had undergone many changes; the Mahāyāna had come to be understood as a separate school rather than as a vocation (see Nattier 2003; Harrison 1987).

Both of Śāntideva’s texts explore the bodhisattva ideal as an ethical one, in that they prescribe how a person should properly live, and provide reasons for living in that way. Śāntideva’s close attention to ethics makes him relatively unusual among Indian philosophers, for whom metaphysics (or theoretical philosophy more generally) was more typically the primary concern. Śāntideva’s ethical thought is widely known, cited  and loved among Tibetan Buddhists, and is increasingly coming to the attention of Western thinkers. Śāntideva’s metaphysics is of interest primarily because of its close connection to his ethics.

Table of Contents

  1. History and Works
    1. Writings
    2. Life
    3. Reception and Influence
  2. The Progress of the Bodhisattva
  3. Excellence in Means
  4. Good and Bad Karma
  5. The Perfections
    1. Giving
      1. Giving as Giving Up
      2. Upward Gifts: Expressing Esteem
      3. Downward Gifts: Attracting Others
    2. Good Conduct
    3. Patient Endurance
      1. Happiness from Enduring Suffering
      2. The Case Against Anger
    4. Heroic Strength
    5. Meditation
      1. Equalization of Self and Other
      2. Exchange of Self and Other
      3. Meditations Against the Three Poisons
    6. Metaphysical Insight
      1. Content
      2. Practical Implications
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Works
    2. Translations Cited
    3. General Studies of Śāntideva
    4. Specialized Studies
    5. Related Interest

1. History and Works

a. Writings

The name “Śāntideva” is associated above all with two extant texts: the Bodhicaryāvatāra (hereafter BCA) and the Śikṣāsamuccaya (hereafter ŚS). The Bodhicaryāvatāra (often rendered “Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life”), in its most widely known form, is a work of just over 900 verses. Tibetan legends suggest that the text was originally recited orally (see de Jong 1975), as do the text’s own literary features. Although it has been translated into Tibetan multiple times and is revered throughout Tibetan Buddhist tradition, it was originally composed and redacted in Sanskrit. Its Sanskrit is relatively close to Pānini’s official standards of grammar, with a Buddhist vocabulary.  Its ten chapters lead their reader through the path to becoming a bodhisattva — which is to say a future Buddha, and therefore a being on the way to perfection, according to Mahāyāna tradition.

The Śikṣāsamuccaya (“Training Anthology”) is a longer prose work in nineteen chapters. The ŚS is organized as a commentary on twenty-seven short mnemonic verses known as the Śikṣāsamuccaya Kārikā (hereafter ŚSK). It consists primarily of quotations (of varying length) from sūtras, authoritative texts considered to be the word of the Buddha — generally those sūtras associated with Mahāyāna tradition. Most scholars have taken the ŚS to be composed almost entirely of such quotations. However, Paul Harrison (2007) has recently claimed that a substantial portion of it is original to the redactor.

Like the BCA, the ŚS was originally composed in Sanskrit, as were the sūtras it quotes. However, while Śāntideva’s own portions are in relatively standard Sanskrit, the quotations are mostly in the heavily vernacularized language usually known as Buddhist Hybrid Sanskrit. It is considerably less accessible to a novice reader than the BCA, and its organization can be bewildering. Richard Mahoney (2002) has recently provided a clear account of the text’s structure, which will be discussed later in this article.

Who were these texts written for? One can infer from the texts that they are intended for an audience of men whose sexual desires are directed toward women, as the auditor’s sexual cravings are always discussed in those terms. Therefore, the use of masculine forms to refer to the implied audience is unproblematic. This auditor also understands Sanskrit, and lives in or after the seventh century CE. His knowledge of Sanskrit implies, at the least, that he is well educated, and therefore well versed in the ideas of classical Sanskritic culture. And he is not necessarily on the bodhisattva path when he begins reading or hearing the texts, but is motivated to enter that path by studying them.

The texts’ implied audience includes monks, and may also include householders (nonmonks). While monks are a significant component of the text’s implied audience (Onishi 2003), and are in some respects the ideal audience, they are not necessarily the only such audience. The principles of conduct put forth in the BCA’s fifth chapter resemble those of vinaya monastic codes, and indeed some of them have been taken directly from the prātimokṣa monastic rule books (Crosby and Skilton 1995, 32), but few of them would be impossible or absurd for a householder to follow. In the ŚS, too, Śāntideva certainly considers monasticism better and more praiseworthy than the householder life, but part of his task is to convince householding readers to pursue the monastic life. He claims that “in every birth the great bodhisattva goes forth [as a monk] . . . from the household life” (ŚS 14). But this is a process renewed in every lifetime, beginning with the household life; and Śāntideva does refer on multiple occasions to householding bodhisattvas (for example at ŚS 120 and 267). This text, then, is addressed in part to householders.

b. Life

Tibetan hagiographic histories (Bu ston, Tāranātha, Ye shes dPal ‘byor and Sum pa mKhan po) provide the most detailed accounts of Śāntideva’s life, although most contemporary historians doubt their veracity. In brief, they tell of a prince from Saurāstra (in contemporary Gujarat) who joined the great monastic university of Nālandā. His fellow monks, unaware of his wisdom, saw only a lazy man unworthy of their company. To prove his presumed lack of knowledge, they asked him to recite a Buddhist sūtra text. Śāntideva, undaunted, asked whether they would like to hear something old or something new. Asked for something new, he proceeded to recite the BCA. When he reached verse IX.34 — “When neither an entity nor a nonentity remain before thought, then thought, with no object, is pacified because it has no other destination” — he rose into the air and his body disappeared. The remainder of the text was recited by a disembodied voice. The written text of the ŚS, the voice told the audience, could be found in Śāntideva’s room, along with a text called the Sūtrasamuccaya (Pezzali 1968, 4-20). There is some debate among scholars as to the nature of the latter work, but all agree that the title does not refer to any additional surviving work of Śāntideva’s, and that the BCA and ŚS constitute his extant corpus (see Lele 2007, 17n8).

Beyond the hagiographies, most of what we know of Śāntideva comes from the ideas found in extant recensions of his texts. This article treats Śāntideva’s works together, as the works of a single author, as Indian and Tibetan Buddhist tradition has always done; similarly, it refers to the ideas found in the canonical Sanskrit recensions of the texts, not to the Tibetan or to the BCA recension found at Dunhuang. Since the article’s approach is to examine the ideas of this author, Śāntideva, it spends relatively little time on the structure of each of his two texts as separate units. For an overview of the relevant textual issues and a defense of this article’s approach to the texts, see Lele 2007, 9-31. More specifically, for a discussion of the Dunhuang recension, see Saito 1993. For discussions of the structure of the BCA, see Crosby and Skilton 1995; Saito 1993. For discussions of the structure of the ŚS, see Clayton 2006; Griffiths 1999, 133-43; Hedinger 1984; Mahoney 2002; Mrozik 2007. On both, see Pezzali 1968.

It is difficult to learn much about the texts’ historical composer, or their redactor, beyond what is found in the texts themselves. As noted, Tibetan historians recount the life story of a Śāntideva identified as the texts’ author, but it is difficult to sort fact from legend with so little corroborating evidence. There seems little reason to doubt that someone by the name of Śāntideva wrote some portion of the two texts, or that he was a monk at Nālandā. (The Tibetan historians agree on this last point, and based on what we know of Indian Buddhist history it seems a likely place for historically significant Buddhist works to have been composed.) Paul Griffiths (1999, 114-24) uses the accounts of Chinese and Tibetan visitors to reconstruct a detailed account of what life and literary culture at Nālandā might have looked like.

Beyond these points, we can say relatively little beyond the approximate date of the texts’ composition. The Tibetan translator Ye shes sde, who rendered the BCA into Tibetan, worked under the king Khri lde srong brtsan (816-838 CE), so it must have been composed before that time (Bendall 1970, v). Since the Chinese pilgrim Yijing (or I-tsing) mentions all the major Indian Mahāyāna thinkers known in India but does not mention Śāntideva, it is likely that these texts were composed, or at least became famous, after Yijing left India in 685 CE (Pezzali 1968, 38). We may therefore assign Śāntideva an approximate date of  sometime in the eighth century.

c. Reception and Influence

As historical evidence on India is difficult to come by, it is relatively difficult to ascertain Śāntideva’s influence in the later Indian Buddhist philosophical tradition. Nevertheless, a significant number of later Indian texts do refer to the BCA and ŚS (Bendall 1970, viii-x), so Śāntideva’s work must have been relatively important there.

It is far easier to speak of Śāntideva’s influence in Tibet. Tibetan Buddhists revere Śāntideva and his work, especially the BCA. All the major Tibetan texts on the stages of the bodhisattva path, such as those of Tsong kha pa and sGam po pa, quote it at length (Sweet 1977, 4-5); it is a key  source for the entire Tibetan literary genre of blo sbyong or lojong (“mental purification”) (Sweet 1996, 245). The present Dalai Lama cites it as the highest inspiration for his ideals and practices (Williams 1995, ix). Tibetan commentators have written many commentaries on the text over the years, several of which are now available in English translation (e.g. Gyatso 1986; Rinpoche 2002; Tobden 2005). While the ŚS was less influential overall, the tradition has not ignored it. In 1998 the present Dalai Lama gave public teachings on the ŚS, referring to it as a “key which can unlock all the teachings of the Buddha” (quoted in Clayton 2006, 2). Śāntideva’s work has played a significant role in other cultures influenced by Tibetan Buddhism, such as Mongolia (see, for example, de Rachewiltz 1996; Kanaoka 1963). A less influential translation of the BCA was also made into Chinese (Bendall 1970, xxix-xxx).

The BCA has also been widely translated, studied, and admired in the West. (See Onishi 2003 for a thesis-length discussion of the text’s Western reception.) Luís Gómez (1999, 262-3) even suggests that it is now the third most frequently translated text in all of Indian Buddhism, after the Dhammapāda and the Heart Sūtra. A recent introductory text (Cooper 1998) also treats the BCA as one of “the classic readings” in ethics, alongside such works as Plato’s Gorgias and Mill’s Utilitarianism.  The BCA is an appropriate choice for a reading in Buddhist ethics, for relatively few Buddhist texts make explicit ethical arguments. This situation even leads one scholar (Keown 2005, 50) to proclaim that Buddhism “does not have normative ethics,” though he does not appear to have taken Śāntideva’s work into account in making this claim (see Lele 2007, 48-52).

2. The Progress of the Bodhisattva

The central concern of both of Śāntideva’s texts is the bodhisattva, literally “awakening-being.” A bodhisattva is a being aiming to become a buddha (literally “awakened one”); the process of the final transformation into a buddha is called bodhi, “awakening,” sometimes referred to as “enlightenment.” The title Bodhicaryâvatāra, “introduction to conduct for awakening,” is usually taken to be short for Bodhisattvacaryâvatāra — “introduction to the conduct of a bodhisattva,” or “A Guide to the Bodhisattva Way of Life,” as one major translation (Wallace and Wallace 1997) has it. “Introduction to the conduct of a bodhisattva” is an appropriate description of the contents of the text, although “introduction to conduct for awakening” would be equally appropriate. Śāntideva also introduces the Śikṣāsamuccaya by claiming he will explain the sugatâtmajasamvārâvatāra, a similar phrase meaning “introduction to the requirements for the sons of the Sugatas” (ŚS 1). (Throughout Buddhist literature sugata, literally “gone well,” is a common term for buddhas, and Mahāyāna literature regularly refers to bodhisattvas as the buddhas’ sons.) The term “bodhisattva” occurs at least seven times in the nineteen chapters of the ŚS. This section examines the bodhisattva’s progress from being an ordinary person through to being a buddha, as this progress is discussed in Śāntideva’s texts.

To describe those who are neither bodhisattvas nor buddhas, Śāntideva most frequently uses the term “ordinary person,” prithagjana. He refers at one point to “all buddhas, bodhisattvas, solitary buddhas, noble searchers and ordinary people” (ŚS 9) — suggesting that ordinary people are the residual category of all those who do not fall into the previous categories. It is standard in Mahāyāna texts to refer to three “vehicles” (yāna) or paths, with the vehicles of the searcher (śrāvaka) and solitary buddha (pratyekabuddha) being distinguished from the Great Vehicle (mahāyāna) of the bodhisattva. It is quite rare, however, for Śāntideva to refer to searchers and solitary buddhas, and even buddhas appear relatively infrequently, so in practice the most important distinction in his texts is between bodhisattvas and ordinary people.

Śāntideva’s view of ordinary people is not flattering. The term “ordinary person” frequently occurs in his work alongside the term “fool” (bāla) — sometimes with the latter as a modifier (“foolish ordinary person,” bālaprithagjana, as at ŚS 61) and sometimes with the two terms used synonymously and interchangeably, as at ŚS 194. Ordinary people’s foolishness traps them in suffering; the way for them to escape from suffering is to enter the bodhisattva path and become a bodhisattva.

To become a bodhisattva, one must possess the awakening mind (bodhicitta). This mental transformation brings one out of the status of ordinary person and points one toward awakening. Śāntideva makes an important distinction between two kinds of the awakening mind: the mind resolved on awakening (bodhipraṇidhicitta) and the mind proceeding to awakening (bodhiprasthānacitta). The first, he tells us, can be reached quickly; it exists when the thought “I must become a buddha” arises as a vow (ŚS 8). He is not as explicit about the nature of the second, but in describing the first he notes that “the awakening mind is productive even without conduct” (ŚS 9), suggesting that conduct (caryā, bodhicaryā) may be what makes the difference between the mind resolved on awakening and the mind proceeding to awakening. (Brassard 2000 is a book-length study of the awakening mind and the BCA.)

It would appear, however, that possession of the mind resolved on awakening     is sufficient to make its possessor into a bodhisattva. The BCA, recall, suggests that it is intended to be ritually recited. Its reader develops the awakening mind while reciting the third chapter sincerely — saying “Therefore I will produce the awakening mind for the welfare of the world” (BCA III.23). Two verses later, the reciter, apparently not having done anything else in the intervening time, declares: “Today I have been born into the family of the buddhas; now I am a child of the buddhas,” which is to say a bodhisattva(BCA III.25).

This is not, of course, the end of the story. Such a beginning bodhisattva has just started on the path; he has a long task ahead of him. Śāntideva does not spell out the different levels of attainment that a bodhisattva may reach, but he suggests that he agrees with the account of ten stages (bhūmi) of a bodhisattva’s achievement, as set out in the Daśabhūmika Sūtra and followed in Candrakīrti’s Madhyamakâvatāra (see Sprung 1979 for a partial translation of, and commentary on, this latter text). The ŚS quotes the Daśabhūmika six times. In this context, Śāntideva distinguishes between “one who has entered a stage” (bhūmipraviṣṭa) and a beginning (ādikarmika) bodhisattva (ŚS 11), suggesting that beginning bodhisattvas have not even entered the first of the ten stages.

Notice, however, that the BCA’s reciter does not become a bodhisattva, even a beginning one, until taking the vow in the third chapter. So Śāntideva’s audience, it would seem, is not limited to bodhisattvas — a point strengthened by the profuse praises of the awakening mind in the opening chapters of both texts. The reader who starts the text might not have generated the awakening mind, hence not have started trying to become a bodhisattva, and needs to be convinced of the importance of doing so.

The eighteenth chapter of the ŚS gives some account of the end of the path. It gives a fantastical description of the buddhas — their great beauty, virtue and power (ŚS 318-22). Shortly afterwards, it also describes the qualities of bodhisattvas in similar terms  and at greater length. It is difficult to imagine how a reader who had just become a bodhisattva, taking the vow, could see himself as described by these qualities — spontaneously emitting perfumes and garlands and pearls from his body, for example (ŚS 327) — so this is likely the culmination of a long period of effort, in the last stages of which one becomes a fully realized bodhisattva. The distinctions between buddhas and fully realized bodhisattvas are not clearly spelled out; one suspects that being one of these advanced bodhisattvas is almost as good as being an actual buddha.

3. Excellence in Means

To interpret Śāntideva’s ethics in the BCA and ŚS, it is important to turn to the concept of excellence in means (upāyakauśalya). This common Mahāyāna concept is best known as a way of explaining the existence of other Buddhist traditions, as in texts like the Lotus Sūtra: the Buddha preached mainstream Buddhism as a clever way to reach people who were not ready to receive the superior teaching of the Mahāyāna. (See Pye 1978 for a book-length discussion.)

The term has a number of different senses in Buddhist tradition (see Harvey 2000, 134-40). Some Mahāyāna texts treat excellence in means as the seventh of ten perfections or virtues (pāramitā); Śāntideva does not do this, as he adheres to the conception that there are only six perfections (on which see below). For him, there are two senses in which the idea is important. The first is hermeneutical: different teachings are intended for people at different levels of ability, with the idea of ultimate truth at the very highest level (see BCA IX.2-8). For this reason the BCA is usually understood as a progressive text, leading its audience through progressively deeper levels of practice and understanding (e.g. see Crosby and Skilton 1995, 83-6). Śāntideva does not specifically use the term “excellence in means” to refer to this idea, although it is a common name for the idea in other Mahāyāna texts (Harvey 2000, 134). The second sense of the term is ethical; the idea most frequently comes up when he quotes the Upāyakauśalya Sūtra, a text which claims that bodhisattvas may break standard precepts or rules out of compassion. (The sūtra exists in Chinese and has been translated into English twice: Chang 1991, 427-68, and Tatz 1994.)

This second sense of excellence in means takes on considerable importance in contemporary discussions of Śāntideva’s ethics (e.g. Clayton 2006, 102-9) because it is under this rubric that Śāntideva comes closest to addressing the “hard cases” so beloved of contemporary moral philosophy, such as situations when one seems called on to kill in order to prevent a greater evil. While discussing excellence in means, he explains that behaviors normally forbidden, including sexual activity, can be permitted out of compassion. So too, it is to explain the importance of excellence in means that Śāntideva notes that one is permitted to kill someone about to commit a grave wrong. The idea is important to this article for similar reasons, in that it seems to be a key principle involved in what we might call Śāntideva’s casuistry — his examination of particular cases where different pieces of advice seem to collide.

For Śāntideva, a key component of excellence in means is that it is an excellence — a skill and a virtue which allows one to respond appropriately to difficult situations, if not a virtue on the official list of six perfections. There is no one formula or principle for action that Śāntideva sets out in advance (along the lines of “act to bring about the greatest happiness for the greatest number” or “act only according to that maxim you can also will to be a universal law”). As we will shortly see, there are definite elements of consequentialist reasoning in Śāntideva, but more often the bodhisattva is called on to exercise judgment, once his character is already well developed: When Śāntideva says that “even the forbidden is permitted,” it is specifically “for a compassionate one who has sight of the purpose” (BCA V.84); that is, it depends on the agent’s ability to exercise discretion in the name of compassion.

This level of discretion is evinced in the numerous places in Śāntideva’s work where difficult cases are considered. When he approves of the killing of someone about to commit a grave wrong, he says only that there is “permission” (anujñāna), not that it must be done. Similarly, in the case of alcoholics, alcohol may be given; Śāntideva uses the gerundive form deya (ŚS 271), and the gerundive in -ya does not have the imperative force of the gerundive in -tavya.

Śāntideva explicitly refers to consequences in the case of giving a weapon: one may do so after the “consideration of good or bad consequences” (ŚS 271). This is still a consideration or reflection rather than a maximizing or weighing; “consideration,” vicāra, is literally “moving around (in the mind).” A weighing of some sort comes across in introducing the possibility that one might have sex out of compassion: “even then, if one should see a greater benefit (artha) to beings, one may discard the training” (ŚS 167). Some sort of consequentialist maximizing appears to be at work here. Clayton (2006, 107) suggests that such concern for consequences means that these “examples of upāya become problematic from the perspective of a virtue ethic.” However, for Śāntideva, any true “benefit” to other beings will ultimately be an increase in their virtue. Goodman (2008) argues strongly for a consequentialist interpretation of Śāntideva’s ethics, but on the understanding that it is a “perfectionist consequentialism,” in which the consequences to be maximized consist of virtue in oneself and others.

4. Good and Bad Karma

The terms “good karma” and “bad karma,” respectively, translate the Sanskrit terms puṇya and pāpa. These terms appear very frequently in Śāntideva’s work — often as justifications for acting and feeling in a certain way. They refer to a kind of ethical causality: the process by which ethically good and bad actions (respectively) have positive and negative results. These results most characteristically, but not exclusively, include better and worse rebirths. The Sanskrit terms parallel the English usage of “good and bad karma,” thought of as the way in which one’s good or bad actions come back to affect one positively or negatively in the future. This usage corresponds exactly to the meaning of the Buddhist terms puṇya and pāpa, even though those terms do not themselves involve the Sanskrit word karma or karman (which simply means “action”). There is, at any rate, no disputing the close connection between Sanskrit karma, on the one hand, and puṇya and pāpa on the other; the latter are typically referred to in Sanskrit as karmaphala, the fruits of action.

The concepts of good and bad karma are central to Śāntideva’s thought. The ŚS is typically thought to be structured around the idea, presented inŚSK 4, that one should “protect, purify and enhance” one’s person, one’s possessions and one’s good karma, though one should also be prepared to give all of these things away (Bendall 1970, xi). ŚS 356 connects each of these verbs to good and bad karma: to “protect” something is to prevent new karmically bad mental states (dharmas) related to it; to “purify” it is to reduce the existing karmically bad states related to it; and to “enhance” it is to increase the karmically good states related to it. (Mahoney 2002, 32-9 identifies the significance of these verbs with respect to the traditional Buddhist samyakprahānas or “right strivings”.) In a certain sense, one might see the ŚS as being all about good and bad karma — a sense strengthened by the long discussions of bad karma in ŚS III, IV and VIII, and of the good karma deriving from worship in ŚS XVII. In the BCA, too, the final chapter — the highest and most important, if one adheres strictly to a progressive understanding of the text — deals with the redirection (pariṇāmanā) of good karma. Dayal (1970, 189-90) goes so far as to say that Śāntideva substituted karmic redirection for metaphysical insight as the ultimate goal of the bodhisattva path. Clayton (2006, 83) and Lele (2007, 96-7) argue that Dayal’s claim is overstated, but neither dispute that good and bad karma are vitally important to Śāntideva’s work. Clayton (2006, 67) identifies three terms closely related to good karma (kuśala, śīla and puṇya) as the most central ethical concepts in the ŚS, and even as “probably the most important ethical concepts in Indian Buddhism” more generally.

The redirection of good karma (often called “transference of merit”) is a central part of Śāntideva’s understanding of karma’s workings. He urges his readers to redirect any good karma that they acquire, so that it does not merely result in a worldly form of well-being, such as a more prosperous rebirth for oneself. This redirection can sometimes be to ensure that the good karma brings one closer to awakening instead of worldly rebirths (bodhipariṇāmanā, ŚS 158); see Kajiyama 1989 for a discussion of this first form, which is often neglected in studies of karmic redirection. More frequently, though, it means the giving up of one’s good karma to others (puṇyotsarga). This is a common idea in Buddhist texts. Buddhist stories often emphasize the supernatural nature of karmic redirection. Especially, they commonly claim or imply that ghosts (pretas or petas) are incapable of receiving physical gifts. If one wishes to give them something, it must be one’s good karma(Kajiyama 1989, 7-8).

In contemporary philosophical terms, Śāntideva’s idea of karma suggests, though not conclusively, an internal connection between virtue or ethical excellence and well-being. That is, he often uses these terms in a way that suggests that virtue is well-being in many significant senses. He does this by using puṇya in ways that make it equivalent both to virtue or excellence and to well-being or flourishing. Śāntideva uses the term for good karma (puṇya) interchangeably with the terms for good conduct (śīla) and excellence (kuśala) (see Lele 2007, 79-82)(Clayton 2006, 73). Even more frequently, however, he equates it with well-being or welfare, śubha, as Clayton (2006, 48-51) notes. This equivalence suggests a sense in which, on Śāntideva’s understanding, good karma not only produces well-being, but is well-being — constitutive of a good life, at least at the level of conventional truth. There does remain some ambiguity, however, in the sense that Śāntideva’s work also suggests that well-being is the product of the result or “ripening” (vipāka) of good karma.

This ambiguity may be compared to that in Greek conceptions of eudaimonia, which also means human welfare or flourishing, but includes a strong element of excellence (aretē) as well. To the extent that good karma is equated with excellence, Śāntideva’s thought resembles that of the Stoics, who thought that excellence alone constituted well-being. To the extent that good karma is equated with the results of excellent action, however, it looks more like Aristotle’s view, where “external goods,” outside the control of the agent’s excellence or lack thereof, are intrinsic components of well-being. (See Greek Philosophy and Stoicism.) However, Śāntideva does not ever suggest, as Aristotle does, that everyone aims at well-being but not everyone knows what it is (NE 1095a).

However we interpret the relation between action and result, it would seem that for Śāntideva good karma, as a complex of virtue and well-being, effectively constitutes its own intrinsic reason for action, as eudaimonia does. That a given action or mental state is karmically good, and that it is good per se, seem to be one and the same; Śāntideva does not make claims of the form “one should refrain from an action or mental state in spite of the good karma it generates,” or “one should have an action or mental state even though it is karmically bad.” Amod Lele argues that “there are a number of cases where it would seem like Śāntideva is saying it is not good to have more good karma, but in nearly all such cases, he actually ends up saying that the apparent loss of good karma turns out to bring more good karma” (Lele 2007, 85-7, emphasis in original).

5. The Perfections

Śāntideva typically describes the bodhisattva in terms of his six “perfections” (pāramitās); e.g., ŚS 97, 187. The perfections are beneficial and valuable traits of character, similar to Aristotelian virtues or excellences. This article renders Śāntideva’s term pāramitā as the literal “perfection” rather than as “virtue” because Śāntideva does discuss other virtues — beneficial traits of character — which are not themselves considered pāramitās, such as nonattachment and esteem.

The six perfections are nearly always arranged in ascending order: giving or generosity (dāna), good conduct (śīla), patient endurance (kṣānti), heroic strength (vīrya), meditation (dhyāna) and metaphysical insight (prajñā). An observer might be tempted to apply Aristotle’s classification  of the virtues  here and identify the first four as “moral” virtues, the sixth (and possibly the fifth) as “intellectual.” However, one should bear in mind the significance of Aristotle’s distinction: intellectual virtues are primarily attained through teaching, moral virtues through habituation (NE 1103a). Śāntideva does not distinguish the perfections in this regard; as we will see in the section on metaphysical insight below, in many ways it too is acquired through habituation.

The perfections are sufficiently important to Śāntideva’s ethical thought that  both of his texts are to some extent structured around them. The final four perfections are explicitly identified, in turn, as the topics of the BCA’s chapters VI through IX. Patient endurance and heroic strength are also identified as the topics of ŚS chapters IX and X. While the first two perfections — giving or generosity (dāna) and good conduct (śīla) — do not receive their own chapter headings, they do have an important place in Śāntideva’s ethical worldview, as we will see.

a. Giving

Śāntideva uses the term dāna to refer both to the act of giving, and to the perfection which might more idiomatically be rendered into English as generosity (dānapāramitā). He does not usually distinguish between the two. This article follows his usage and uses “giving” and “generosity” as synonyms.

Giving has relatively little role in the BCA except for its role in the redirection of good karma, mentioned above. In the ŚS, however, it takes pride of place. The first chapter of the ŚS closes by claiming that “giving alone is the bodhisattva’s awakening” (ŚS 34).  Richard Mahoney (2002), undertaking a detailed study of the ŚS’s structure, has demonstrated that the entire text is effectively organized around the idea of protecting, purifying and enhancing one’s person, possessions and good karma — culminating in giving each of these three things away.

Why is giving so important to Śāntideva? For him, giving serves at least three important and distinct purposes: first, the development of nonattachment; second, the “upward” expression of esteem (śraddhā); and third, “downward” compassionate benefit to others. Each of these three, for him, is an essential component of the bodhisattva path, and giving allows one to realize each component, though in different ways.

i. Giving as Giving Up

The first reason Śāntideva offers for giving is that one should not be attached to things in the first place; one should be ready to give them away. Śāntideva sometimes uses terms, utsarga and tyāga, which have both the sense of “giving” and of “renunciation.” By giving something to another person, one both demonstrates one’s own lack of attachment to it and minimizes the risk that it will cause future attachment. As a result, one generates a great deal of good karma. Here giving is primarily “giving up”; “giving to” is a secondary function. Śāntideva expresses this rationale for giving most forcefully in a long passage excerpted here:

What is given must no longer be guarded; what is at home must be guarded. What is given is [the cause] for the reduction of craving (triṣṇā); what is at home is the increase of craving. What is given is nonattachment (aparigraha); what is at home is with attachment (saparigraha). What is given is safe; what is at home is dangerous. What is given is [the cause] for supporting the path of awakening; what is at home is [the cause] for supporting Māra [the demonic tempter]. What is given is imperishable; what is at home is perishable. From what is given [comes] happiness; having obtained what is at home, [there is] suffering. (ŚS 19)

This passage indicates a common theme in Śāntideva’s work, one more radical than some other Buddhist takes on attachment and possession. It is not merely that a bodhisattva should avoid attachment to possessions, but that the possessions are themselves potentially harmful, because having them creates a danger of increasing one’s attachment to them. Thus Śāntideva claims elsewhere that a bodhisattva “should have fear of material gain (lābha) and of honour,” (ŚSK 16) and that “great gain is among the obstacles to the Mahāyāna” (ŚS 145).

ii. Upward Gifts: Expressing Esteem

The second reason for giving is to express one’s esteem or trust (śraddhā) in beings who have achieved a higher level on the bodhisattva path. The term śraddhā has a number of different and related senses, usually blending together: esteem, trust, confidence, devotion, faith. Maria Hibbets’s (2000) rendering “esteem” may come closest overall to the sense in which Śāntideva uses the term, though it loses the important connotation of trust. Śraddhā, Śāntideva says, is the prasāda (peaceful pleasure) of an unsoiled mind, rooted in respect (gaurava, literally “weightiness,” like the Latin gravitas), without arrogance (ŚS 5). Those without esteem oppose or ridicule buddhas (ŚS 174). One with esteem will listen whenever the Buddha’s word is spoken (ŚS 15); esteem is that by which one approaches the noble ones (Buddhas) and does not do what should not be done (ŚS 316).

When a householder makes a gift to a monk, especially a gift of food, it is called a śraddhādeya, a gift by esteem (ŚS 137-8). Similarly, when the aspiring bodhisattva makes offerings to advanced bodhisattvas and buddhas as part of the seven-part Anuttarapūjā ritual worship in BCA II.10-19, the act expresses esteem. Śāntideva does not use the word śraddhā in this passage, but the feelings it evokes match his descriptions of esteem elsewhere: a pleasurable trust in more advanced beings, recognizing their status as more advanced, that leads to better actions. Just before describing the fabulous offerings he gives, Śāntideva’s narrator describes the esteem he places in the buddhas and bodhisattvas and the good action that will result from doing so:

by becoming your possession, I am in a state of fearlessness; I make the well-being of all beings. I overcome previous bad karma and will make no further bad karma. (BCA II.9)

This esteem has deeply important benefits. It is a pleasure taken in good actions; it is “a maker of gladness about renunciation, a maker of excitement about the Jinas’ (Buddhas’) dharma” (ŚS 3). This combination of trust and pleasure leads one on to good action; as Śāntideva says, those who always have esteem toward a respectable Buddha will abandon neither good conduct nor training (ŚS 3). So the practice of esteem helps increase one’s good karma (ŚS 317).  Moreover, to encourage the growth of esteem in a giver, when an aspiring bodhisattva receives a gift, he encourages the giver and makes him feel excited about giving it (ŚS 150).

iii. Downward Gifts: Attracting Others

When one gives for either of the above reasons (expressing nonattachment or expressing esteem), one effectively does so for one’s own spiritual benefit. But Śāntideva also says that one gives to all beings (sarvasatvebhyas, ŚSK 4), for their enjoyment (ŚSK 5), adding that one also preserves the gift for the sake of their enjoyment (satvôpabhogārtham, ŚSK 6). Here he is advocating a different kind of giving, motivated by compassion and aimed at benefitting the recipient. The distinction between the second two types of giving corresponds to Maria Heim’s (Heim 2004, 74-5) distinction between “upward” and “downward” giving, out of esteem and out of compassion.

The reasons Śāntideva offers for downward giving are not as straightforward as they may first appear. For Śāntideva, the recipient of a gift benefits less from possessing the gift object, and more from receiving it in a gift encounter. When a bodhisattva gives a gift, he attracts the recipient to the bodhisattva path, so that the recipient is more likely to become a virtuous bodhisattva. The gift object itself provides little benefit, and could even be harmful (2007, 136-75).

As well as giving possessions and more conventional goods, one also gives good karma to others through its redirection (parināmanā), as noted above. Since Śāntideva tends to see good karma as intrinsically good, in this case the recipient is more likely to benefit from the gift itself. Even so, good karma involves a potential danger, since if it is not redirected it can lead merely to dangerous wealth rather than to awakening.

b. Good Conduct

Of all the perfections, Śāntideva tells us the least about the second one, śīla. This Sanskrit and Pali term has a general sense of “good conduct” or “good habits,” but its particular meaning is less clear. Unlike the final four perfections, it is not identified specifically as the single topic of a chapter in the BCA, and the chapters identified with it in the ŚS (II and V) make little reference to it. Unlike giving, it is not discussed at systematic length in either text. Śāntideva sometimes uses the term in a broad sense that would seem to encompass all of the perfections, to the point of using it interchangeably with puṇya, good karma, or śubha, well-being (Clayton 2006, 73). ŚS chapter V, entitled Śīlapāramitāyām Anarthavarjanam — abandoning of the worthless with respect to the perfection of good conduct — seems like a miscellany of topics, describing a wide variety of actions that Śāntideva endorses. A reader may then be tempted to take up the common usage in which this good conduct refers to “morality,” “virtue” or “ethics” in a general sense (see Clayton 2006, 72-3) — perhaps even a sense that includes the other perfections.

Yet Śāntideva does give some further specification of a way in which he understands “good conduct,” conceptually distinct from the other perfections, even though he does not stick consistently to this usage. His one reference to the perfection of good conduct in the BCA proclaims: “when the mind of cessation (viraticitta) is obtained, the perfection of good conduct is understood [to exist]” (BCAP 53). The ŚS specifies the goal of good conduct in a similar vein, but is more specific about what constitutes good conduct: “whichever practices are causes of meditative concentration (samādhi), those are included in good conduct” (ŚS 121). It seems that good conduct, when understood as a single perfection, consists primarily of practices that aid one to concentrate one’s mind and still its uncontrolled activity.

This suggestion is borne out by the content of the fifth BCA chapter, which, following up the claim about the mind of cessation, details exactly these sorts of practices. (Since this chapter comes immediately before the chapter on patient endurance — the third perfection — it would be a logical place for Śāntideva to discuss good conduct, the second perfection.) The chapter begins by warning the reader of the dangers of an unrestrained mind, comparing it to a mad, rutting elephant, and then specifies a number of practices that Śāntideva claims will help the mind remain under control.  We may imagine, then, that this chapter gives us some idea of what Śāntideva means by the perfection of good conduct.

The practices bear some resemblance to Buddhist monastic rules (vinaya), although they could all be followed by lay householders and the text does not restrict them to monks. Śāntideva urges his readers to walk with a downcast gaze, as if continually meditating, but notes that they may look outward to rest their eyes or to greet someone. One should look ahead (or behind) before moving there, he says, and think about one’s actions before undertaking them; one should continually observe the positioning of one’s body. Each of these actions, Śāntideva specifies, allows one to restrain the mind (BCA V.35-40). Similarly, one should avoid idle chatter, or purposeless nervous tics (BCA V.45-6). In general, as Susanne Mrozik notes, “Close careful attention to one’s bodily movements and gestures generates mindfulness and awareness. Disciplining the body is thus a means of disciplining one’s thoughts and feelings” (Mrozik 1998, 63).

Śāntideva notes that the relationship between good conduct and meditative concentration is two-way: “One aiming at meditative concentration should have good conduct, for mindfulness and introspection; so too, one aiming at good conduct should make effort at meditative concentration.” He claims that the “complete perfection of mental action” will comes from the two “mutually enhancing causes” that are good conduct and meditative concentration (ŚS 121).

The second half of the fifth BCA chapter involves details about bodily comportment which aim at pleasing others, rather than at focusing the mind; similar instructions are found in the sixth chapter of the ŚS. It is possible, though not clear, that Śāntideva also intends these to be included under good conduct. Śāntideva here enjoins etiquette of various kinds (do not spit in public, do not make noises while eating) and a pleasant tone of speaking (BCA V.71-96, ŚS 124-7). Mrozik (2007, 75-6) notes that such actions are intended to generate prasāda, a kind of peaceful pleasure, in those who observe the bodhisattva. Lele (2007, 151-9) suggests further that the goal of generating this prasāda is to attract them to the bodhisattva path, making them more likely to enter that path and increase their well-being.

c. Patient Endurance

Śāntideva divides patient endurance (kṣānti) into three major varieties: first, enduring suffering (duṣkhâdhivāsanakṣānti); second, dharmic patience, the patient endurance that comes from reflecting on the Buddha’s teaching, the dharma (dharmanidhyānakṣānti); and third, patience toward others’ wrongdoing (parâpakāramarṣanakṣānti, ŚS 179). The first, which Śāntideva opposes to frustration (daurmanasya), is closer to the English word “endurance”; the third, which Śāntideva opposes to anger (dveṣa), is closer to the English word “patience.” For this reason it is helpful to use a two-word term like “patient endurance” to encapsulate the idea of kṣānti as a whole. Śāntideva does not link these phenomena under the rubric of patient endurance merely for the sake of convenience or etymology; rather, patient endurance has common elements that pervade them all. In all three cases, one remains calm and even happy in the face of various undesired events — pains, frustrations, wrongs — that one might face.

Dharmic patience, the second variety — as Śāntideva describes it in BCA VI.22-32 — is juxtaposed against anger, and involves being patient with others’ bad actions. For this reason, it seems largely like a subtype of the third type, patience toward wrongdoing, which involves reflecting on the fact that their actions all have causes. Śāntideva likely treats the two as distinct in order to emphasize the particular importance of metaphysical reasons for patient endurance. In terms of the actions and mental dispositions that they entail, they do not appear to be different from each other. So we may here subsume this second variety under the third, except as otherwise specified.

There are at least two ways in which enduring suffering and patience toward wrongdoing are closely related in Śāntideva’s work. First, there is a logical or analytical relationship. When one is wronged by others, it is likely to be an undesired event, and therefore experienced as suffering. So, effectively, the events that evoke patience toward wrongdoing are a subset of those that evoke the endurance of  suffering. The appropriate reactions are intertwined as well. We see this when Śāntideva discusses being the victim of theft. While he addresses theft in the context of anger, and more generally of patience toward wrongdoing, the reason he gives to remain patient is that possessions are dangerous to have anyway (BCA VI.100) — a central part of Śāntideva’s justifications for nonattachment, which itself is very closely tied to enduring suffering.

Second, there is a causal relationship. Enduring suffering, as Śāntideva discusses it, requires that one fight frustration; patience toward wrongdoing requires that one fight anger. And both of Śāntideva’s texts (ŚS 179 and BCA VI.7-8) note that anger feeds on frustration; so enduring suffering makes it easier to have patience toward wrongdoing.

i. Happiness from Enduring Suffering

Śāntideva’s case for enduring suffering is relatively straightforward: one will feel less suffering and be happier. Early in his discussion of frustration (daurmanasya), Śāntideva makes the pragmatic point that it accomplishes little. So it is not only an unpleasant mental state, but an unnecessary one: “If indeed there is a remedy, then what’s the point of frustration? And if there is no remedy, then what’s the point of frustration?” (BCA VI.10).

Enduring suffering can lead to happiness, for Śāntideva, in a particularly extreme meditative state (samādhi). He refers to this state as the sarvadharmasukhakrānta, “making happiness toward all phenomena.” The passage describing this meditative state is one of the most provocative in the entire ŚS. Śāntideva says that “for a bodhisattva who has obtained this meditative state, with respect to all sense objects, pain is felt as happiness indeed, not as suffering or as indifference” (ŚS 181). He proceeds to describe a panoply of graphic tortures in a startlingly upbeat manner. For example:

[The bodhisattva who has attained this meditative state], while being fried in oil, or while pounded like pounded sugarcane, or while crushed like a reed, or while being burned in the way that oil or ghee or yogurt are burned — has a happy thought arisen. (ŚS 181)

While a reader might cringe at the literal masochism in this passage, it is also not hard to see the power of its appeal: It strongly suggests that a bodhisattva can be happy anywhere, any time, in any condition. And there is a particular practice that the bodhisattva pursues to reach this state. Whenever he is subjected to such an unpleasant fate, he makes a mental determination or vow (pranidhāna) that everyone, from those who honor him to those who torture him, should reach the great awakening (ŚS 182). In the BCA he suggests starting with small pains to learn to endure bigger ones: “because of the practice of mild distress, even great distress is tolerable” (BCA VI.14). Prajñākaramati draws a direct connection between the two, quoting the ŚS passage in his commentary on the BCA verse.

ii. The Case Against Anger

Śāntideva’s arguments for patience toward wrongdoing consist of arguments against anger, against which this patience is juxtaposed. He lays out these arguments primarily in the sixth chapter of the BCA; for a detailed commentary on this chapter, see Thurman 2004. His arguments here derive from premises both naturalistic and supernaturalistic: “One who destroys anger is happy in this world and the next” (BCA VI.6).

Śāntideva’s naturalistic arguments against anger rest first on psychological grounds: “The mind does not get peace, nor enjoy pleasure and happiness, nor find sleep or satisfaction, when the dart of anger rests in the heart” (BCA VI.3). This set of psychological claims has a strong intuitive plausibility, in our context as well as his; it is probably not difficult for anyone to remember times that anger has negatively affected her peace of mind or pleasure or sleep.

Beyond this, Śāntideva seeks to minimize the significance of others’ wrongdoing (apakāra). He is especially concerned to neutralize insults and the destruction of praise. He asks: “The gang of contempt, harsh speech and infamy does not bind my body. Why, O mind, do you get enraged by it?” (BCA VI.53)

Śāntideva also offers severe warnings concerning the karmic consequences of anger. There is no bad karma equal to anger, he says, so patient endurance is the most effective means to reduce bad karma (BCA VI.2). He warns that anger leads to suffering in the hell realms far greater than the suffering that originally provoked the anger:

If suffering merely here and now cannot be endured, why is anger, the cause of distress in hell, not restrained? In the same way, for the sake of anger I have been placed in hells thousands of times; I have done this neither for my own sake nor for anyone else’s. (BCA VI.73-4)

There is only one kind of anger that Śāntideva seems to approve of, effectively an exception that proves the rule. He approves of anger when it is directed at anger itself: “Let anger toward anger be my choice” (BCA VI.41). More generally, he suggests elsewhere that anger at “my enemies, craving, anger and so on” (BCA IV.28) might be valuable: “Lodged in my own mind, these well-stood ones still harm me. In this very case I do not get angry. Damn, what unsuitable patience (sahiṣṇutā)!” (BCA IV.29).

Śāntideva also makes the case for dharmic patience (dharmanidhyānakṣānti) in BCA VI.22-32; this, as mentioned earlier, is patience toward wrongdoing which is informed by metaphysical insight. Śāntideva’s point here is that the emotion of anger comes out of an incorrect belief about the world — namely that other agents can appropriately be blamed for their actions. “I have no anger at my bile and so on, though they make great suffering. Why is there anger at sentient beings? They too are angry due to a cause” (BCA VI.22). Anger, whether my own or another’s, has its causes. It is not chosen; it is merely another product of the universe’s dependent arising (BCA VI.23-26). Moreover, there is no self which is capable of being an agent of anger (BCA VI.27-30). And “therefore, whether one has seen an enemy or a friend doing something wrong, having considered that the act has causes, one should become happy” (BCA VI.33). Mark Siderits (2005) refers to this argument for dharmic patience as “paleo-compatibilist,” and suggests that it can help resolve contemporary debates on free will and determinism.

These arguments against anger are phrased in terms that could convince someone not already on the path. Other arguments are directed specifically at bodhisattvas. As has been mentioned before, it is crucial for the bodhisattva to win beings over; and anger interferes with this activity, where desire (rāga) might be able on some occasions to help with it. This is why anger, in Śāntideva’s eyes, is far worse than desire, though desire and anger are both afflictions (kleṣas) that cloud the mind and lead one on to suffering (ŚS 164).

He claims further that “bodhisattvas who are not excellent in means (upāyakuśala) fear downfalls connected with desire (rāga); bodhisattvas who are excellent in means fear downfalls connected with anger, not downfalls connected with desire” (ŚS 164-5). Excellence in means (upāyakauśalya), the ability to teach others in the appropriate way to bring them onto the path, is deeply hindered by anger. Unlike desire, anger has no saving graces. Anger both creates suffering for oneself and interferes with one’s ability to benefit others; this is why nothing is as karmically bad as anger, or as karmically good as patient endurance.

d. Heroic Strength

Śāntideva devotes relatively little attention to the fourth perfection, heroic strength (vīrya). Each of his texts has a short chapter (BCA VII and ŚS X) devoted to it; parallel discussions occur in the fourth chapter of the BCA. He defines heroic strength as “excellent effort” (kuśalotsaha, BCA VII.2), effort that is both skillful and virtuous — a tireless striving on the bodhisattva path. In BCA VII, he contrasts heroic strength with laziness (ālasya, BCA VII.3). The primary point of BCA VII is to insist on the urgency of the bodhisattva’s task. It is rare to be born as a human, and a short human life leaves one with little time for adequate spiritual development, so it is crucial to devote oneself wholeheartedly to the task.

ŚS X, the shortest chapter in the text — a mere four pages — explains the importance of listening to sacred texts (śruta). The topic is surprising, since it seems tangentially related, at best, to the more straightforward heroic strength addressed in BCA VII. The connection seems to be that, to listen to sacred texts properly, one must do so tirelessly. If one does not do so, Śāntideva claims, even a sacred text can lead to  “destruction” (vināśa), probably because one reads and applies the text too selectively (ŚS 189).

e. Meditation

The fifth perfection, discussed in BCA VIII and ŚS XI-XIII, is meditation (dhyāna). Meditation for Śāntideva is very much an intellectual and even philosophical exercise, not merely a stilling of the mind; some of Śāntideva’s most famous arguments appear in a context of discussions of meditation. Śāntideva emphasizes that a calming and stilling of the mind is essential to meditation, and enjoins his reader to flee society and find a solitary spot in the wilderness in order to achieve the proper degree of undistracted calm (BCA VIII.1-40, ŚS 193-201). But becoming calm and solitary, in both texts, is only the first step to grasping arguments and transformative techniques with an explicit cognitive content.

In the BCA, the first meditation that Śāntideva describes sharpens his emphasis on solitude: one considers the foulness of the human body. Specifically, his male audience is urged to reflect on the foulness of a potential female lover. He notes that the beloved will invariably become a corpse, highlights the repulsiveness of corpses, and asks the reader rhetorically why the living beloved seems any less repulsive (VIII.41-7). He then calls attention to the repulsiveness of the body’s waste products, natural smells, and fluids (VIII.48-71). Next he notes the great effort one must take in finding and keeping a lover, and the ultimate vanity of such efforts (VIII.72-83).

This meditation takes on a strongly misogynist tone, describing as it does the repulsiveness of female bodies. A contemporary reader should keep in mind its intent as a critique of lust, the passion which so easily distracts the mind from the bodhisattva’s path. While the argument is phrased in terms of the foulness of a woman’s body, its logic would apply equally well to the foulness of a man’s body, if imagined by a heterosexual female or homosexual male meditator. (Śāntideva never inverts the argument this way himself. As Wilson 1996 notes, historically Buddhists have never turned the arguments about female foulness around to have it apply to men, even when speaking to a female audience. The point is noted here to stress the relevance of these meditations for a contemporary philosophical audience, rightly skeptical of misogynistic claims.) The ideal to achieve in this lifetime, for Śāntideva, is that of a male or female monk who forswears lust and sexuality, and he calls attention to the body’s repulsive aspects in order to convince his readers of this ideal’s value.

i. Equalization of Self and Other

The two meditations which follow in BCA VIII, on the relationship between oneself and another, are Śāntideva’s most famous. The first of these is known as the equalization of self and other (parātmasamatā). In this meditation Śāntideva argues for an ethical conclusion from a metaphysical premise: because the self is empty and unreal, it makes little sense to protect only oneself from suffering and not others.

The arguments are framed against a hypothetical objector (pūrvapakṣin) who wishes to prevent only his own suffering, but not that of others. Suffering here has a strong normative force; that suffering is bad and worthy of prevention is taken as self-evident, and Śāntideva assumes that his readers will share that assumption. When an imagined objector asks why suffering should be prevented at all, he responds, “No one disputes that!” (BCA VIII.103) If we substitute “the absence of suffering” for “pleasure,” Śāntideva’s claim here seems to work like Alasdair MacIntyre’s interpretation of Mill’s claim that we know pleasure is desirable because men desire it:

He treats the thesis that all men desire pleasure as a factual assertion which guarantees the success of an ad hominem apeal to anyone who denies his conclusion. If anyone denies that pleasure is desirable, then we can ask him, But don’t you desire it? and we know in advance that he must answer yes, and consequently must admit that pleasure is desirable. (MacIntyre 1966, 239)

To deny that suffering should be prevented at all, in other words, is to argue in bad faith: anyone who makes such a claim does not really believe it. It is not hard to see the intuitive force of Śāntideva’s claim about suffering; while one might come up with exceptions, in general most human beings in most contexts have viewed suffering as something bad and undesirable.

The selfish objector is right, then, to believe that suffering should be prevented. Where he goes awry is in focusing only on his own suffering; this focus turns out to be absurd. There is no self that endures from moment to moment, so one’s own future self is as different from one’s present self as other beings are: “If [someone else] is not protected because his suffering cannot hurt me — the sufferings of a future body are not mine. Why is that hurt protected against?” (BCA VIII.97) Śāntideva’s arguments here have been compared to those of Derek Parfit (1984), who also attacks the metaphysical premise of selfhood as a premise for an altruistic ethics.

Paul Williams (1998a, 30) notes that most commentators, including Prajñākaramati, have read this verse so that the “future body” (āgāmikāya) means only the bodies one will inhabit in future rebirths, not the future state of one’s body in the present life. A literal reading of this verse and the next would suggest that they are right; the next verse adds that “one is dead, a very different other one is born” (BCA VIII.98). So Williams thinks that “from a textual point of view” this verse must be correct. However, later Tibetan commentators, especially rGyal tshab rje, interpret the verse so that it could refer to any present suffering one might try to prevent (Williams 1998a, 32-6). The “death” and “birth” would likely then refer to the body’s non-enduring nature — dying as the present moment passes away and being born anew in the following moment — rather than to literal death and rebirth. Logically this seems a more satisfying reading. The argument seems entirely superfluous if it refers only to future births; based on everything else that Śāntideva says, one concerned with better future births should, above all, prevent the suffering of others.

Śāntideva makes an additional argument beyond the point about future selves. Even the present self should be broken up into its parts. When the opponent objects that one who suffers should only prevent the suffering that belongs to him, Śāntideva retorts: “The foot’s suffering is not the hand’s. Why does [the hand] protect [the foot]?” (BCA VIII.99)

Williams (1998b) has attempted to refute Śāntideva’s arguments against egoism, claiming that the concept of suffering or pain makes little sense without a subject or self to feel the suffering. Williams’s refutation has been controversial, provoking Barbra Clayton (Clayton 2001), John Pettit (1999) and Mark Siderits (Siderits 2000) all to defend Śāntideva’s claims.

Why do these arguments appear in the chapter on meditation, when the primary focus of that chapter seems to concern the kind of metaphysical insight that is the topic of the following chapter? Two reasons suggest themselves. First, the arguments prepare the audience for the more imaginatively focused practice of the exchange and self and other. Second, as Crosby and Skilton suggest(1995, 84-5), these meditations derive from Cittamātra (Yogācāra) metaphysical views on the ultimate equivalence of self and other.   Śāntideva considers these Cittamātra views to be only a step on the road to the highest Madhyamaka view (see BCA IX). These arguments, then,  are really true only at the level of conventional truth, not at the level of wordless ultimate reality, the object of real metaphysical insight.

ii. Exchange of Self and Other

The last meditation in the chapter is called the exchange of self and other (parātmaparivartana). In it, Śāntideva attempts to put the equalization of self and other into practice, even taking it a step further to dissolve all the meditator’s vestiges of egoism. Here he urges his readers to create “a sense of self in inferiors and others, and a sense of other in oneself,” (VIII.140) to literally form a concept of “I” (ahamkāra) with respect to others, just as one would do with respect to the “drops of semen and blood” (VIII.158) which created the entity that one would normally consider a self. The intervening verses manifest this idea in practice. Here Śāntideva switches pronouns and grammatical persons so that the third person refers to the meditator and the first person to “others.” The new “I” that is the others can then feel envy and contempt toward the “he” that was oneself.

One now imagines how “he” — that is, oneself — seems happy, wealthy and praised, while “I” — others — “am” miserable, poor and despised; “I” should envy “him” (BCA VIII.141-2). Having imagined oneself from the viewpoint of an envious inferior, one then imagines the inverse viewpoint of a contemptuous superior:

We joyous ones see him finally mistreated, and the mocking laughter of all the people here and there. That wretch even had a rivalry with me! . . . Even if he were to have wealth, we should take it forcibly, having given him a mere pittance, if he does any work for us. And he should be caused to fall from happiness. (BCA VIII.150-4)

This sadomasochistic advice and the play of pronouns work together to end  feelings of egoism or attachment to self. Meditating in this way, one comes to live entirely for others.

iii. Meditations Against the Three Poisons

The above meditations from the BCA, while Śāntideva’s most famous, are not the only meditations that he prescribes. In the ŚS, after briefly advising solitude and the control of thoughts, Śāntideva presents in turn three meditations intended to counter the three mental “poisons” which, in Buddhist thought, are responsible for suffering: desire (rāga), anger (dveṣa) and delusion (moha).

Against desire, Śāntideva describes a meditation on the foulness of the body, as in the BCA (ŚS 209-12).  To counteract anger, Śāntideva prescribes the practice of friendliness or love (maitrī, ŚS 212-19). This practice takes a number of forms, but the most notable is the redirection (parināmanā) of good karma toward others’ benefit. (This will be discussed below under “good and bad karma.”) Such acts are discussed at a number of places in Śāntideva’s texts; at ŚS 213-16 he specifically refers to the practice of friendliness, which is intended to counteract anger. The way that one redirects good karma, in practice, is through an expressly stated wish: for example, “Whoever is suffering distress of body or mind in any of the ten directions — may they obtain oceans of happiness and joy through my good karma” (BCA X.2). This rationale for karmic redirection could apply even to those skeptical whether a supernatural process of karmic causality will actually work: by regularly wishing that one’s own good deeds will benefit others’ well-being, one can at least diminish the anger that one feels toward them.

Finally, to counteract delusion, one meditates on dependent origination (pratītyasamutpāda), the Buddhist theory that all things come to exist in dependence upon other causes (ŚS 219-28). This meditation leads into Śāntideva’s discussion of the final perfection, metaphysical insight.

f. Metaphysical Insight

The sixth and final perfection in Śāntideva’s thought is prajñā, a complex term which this article renders as “metaphysical insight.” The term “insight” emphasizes the depth and transformative nature of this knowledge — as we will see, Śāntideva makes strong claims about the effects that prajñā has on its possessor, so that it is classified as a perfection alongside patient endurance and restrained good conduct. The term “metaphysical” emphasizes the specific content of this knowledge: claims about the nature of reality. This is a relatively loose and nontechnical sense of the term “metaphysics” that one may find in introductory textbooks on philosophy — for example, “Metaphysics is the attempt to say what reality is” (Solomon 2006, 113). This section begins with a discussion of the ideas and arguments that Śāntideva includes as the content of metaphysical insight, and then proceeds to discuss their significance for ethics and the conduct of life.

i. Content

Śāntideva’s views on metaphysics follow those of the Madhyamaka school of thought, associated with Nāgārjuna. (See Nagarjuna and Madhyamaka Buddhism for more detail.) For Madhyamaka, all things, especially the self, are empty (śūnya) and dependently originated (pratītyasamutpanna) — they have no essential or abiding existence. Tibetan tradition has typically associated Śāntideva with the more radical Prāsangika Mādhyamika school, as his metaphysical arguments follow their approach of reductio ad absurdum (prasanga) argument rather than the independent syllogisms (svatantra) of the Svātantrika school. On the other hand, Akira Saito (1996, 261) has argued that “we cannot be too careful” in using the term Prāsangika with reference to Śāntideva.  (See McClintock and Dreyfus 2002 for a discussion of the distinction between the Prāsangika and Svātantrika schools.)

Śāntideva’s metaphysics is widely studied and commented on, both in Tibetan tradition and in the West. (For Tibetan commentaries see Dalai Lama XIV 1988; Palden and Seunam 1993. For Western commentaries see Oldmeadow 1994; Sweet 1977.) Nevertheless, the content of Śāntideva’s metaphysics does not seem particularly original; as Michael Sweet’s book-length study of Śāntideva’s metaphysics notes,

we do not find that his philosophical concerns or patterns of argumentation differ in any significant manner from those of Nāgārjuna, and especially from those of Candrakīrti, the great systematizer of the Prāsangika-Mādhyamika who preceded Śāntideva by at least a century. (Sweet 1977, 14)

Where Śāntideva’s approach innovates is in the way that he draws ethical conclusions directly from his metaphysical premises. Many Buddhist texts draw soteriological conclusions of some sort from metaphysical premises — the nature of the universe is such that everyday life is filled with suffering but one can be liberated from it. Moreover, texts often draw ethical conclusions from these soteriological ideas. So in earlier texts there is an indirect connection from metaphysics to ethics by way of soteriology. Śāntideva, on the other hand, argues directly from metaphysics to advice about conduct in life, in a way that is relatively unusual in South Asian Buddhist literature. One exception is Candrakīrti himself, who derives ethical conclusions from metaphysics in his Catuhṣataka commentary (see Lang 2003), though his approach to doing so is significantly different from Śāntideva’s.

Śāntideva’s prasanga arguments avoid foundational claims, in the stricter sense of attempts to definitively establish a position from which other claims can be deduced. Any such position would itself be considered empty and therefore in some sense flawed. Indeed, an earlier Madhyamaka text, the Vigrahavyāvartani of Nāgārjuna, famously refuted its opponents by proclaiming: “If I had any position, then I would have a flaw [in my argument]. But I have no position; therefore I have no flaw at all” (VV 29). Rather, the approach is intended to be purely dialectical and critical, examining alternative positions and knocking them down, as Śāntideva does in BCA IX. Because Śāntideva is deconstructing concepts and deriving ethical significance from this deconstruction, William Edelglass (2007) compares his philosophy to that of Emmanuel Lévinas.

Claims to have no position may seem absurd at first glance, especially when associated with a thinker like Śāntideva who seems to make many positive claims about how one should live. Śāntideva’s response relies on the central Madhyamaka distinction between conventional (samvriti) and ultimate (paramārtha) truth (e.g. BCA IX.2). The ultimate truth is inexpressible (anabhilāpya), untaught (adeṣita) and unmanifest (aprakāśita, ŚS 256); it is nonconceptual, and therefore nonrational. But because we are caught up in illusion, seeing substance, we still need to make provisional statements at a conventional level to make ourselves and others aware of this illusion and free ourselves from it. Since the ultimate truth is inexpressible, all of Śāntideva’s actual claims need to be understood at the conventional level.

The above is what Śāntideva appears to say in his own words, at any rate. It is worth noting here that the Tibetan dGe lugs (Geluk) school argues that such claims cannot be taken literally and that in fact the ultimate truth is accessible to the intellect, although other commentators from the Sa skya (Sakya) and rNying ma (Nyingma) schools accept a more literal interpretation like the one I have just provided (Sweet 1977, 20).

The distinction between ultimate and conventional truth lends support to a number of Śāntideva’s practical arguments. Especially, it supports his self-interested case for altruism on the grounds of the bodhisattva’s happiness: “All who are suffering in the world [are suffering] because of desire for their own happiness. All who are happy in the world [are happy] because of desire for others’ happiness” (BCA VIII.129). Śāntideva does not explain how this psychological claim is supposed to work. Lele (2007, 65-6) ties the claim to Śāntideva’s theory of nonattachment (aparigraha); concern for oneself and one’s own particular interests leads to painful feelings of grief, loss, and fear when, as inevitably happens, those interests are harmed. But however such arguments are supposed to work, they would seem to be undercut by another claim of Śāntideva’s: namely, that bodhisattvas still suffer in a sense, because of their compassion for others. He claims: “Just as one whose body is on fire has no joy at all, even through all pleasures, exactly so there is no way to joy with respect to the distress of beings, for those made of compassion” (BCA VI.123; see also ŚS 156, 166).

The distinction between conventional and ultimate, however, helps one resolve this apparent problem — for the claim that bodhisattvas suffer is made merely at the conventional level of truth. Śāntideva argues that suffering itself is unreal (BCA IX.88-91); and only one who realizes the ultimate truth, it seems, will be able to really recognize this unreality. This recognition is the way in which it is possible for suffering to end, as the Third Noble Truth of Buddhism promises. It is also probably part of the reason that Śāntideva proclaims that happy people are happy because they desire others’ happiness — a bodhisattva, who has lost the illusion of self, can also lose the illusion of suffering and thereby escape it.

If suffering is unreal, however, one may wonder why it should be prevented. A similar worry applies to good and bad karma. Śāntideva claims, after all, that good and bad karma themselves arise out of illusion (BCA IX.11); like everything else we can speak of, they are ultimately empty. Clayton (2006, 97-8) argues that this point implies that ethical action, good karma, or eliminating suffering are unnecessary or insignificant. She quotes Richard Hayes (1994, 38) to the effect that maintaining a sense of the importance of ethics in such a philosophy is merely “philosophical rigour and integrity being compromised by the perceived need to preserve a social institution.” She finds herself “not quite cynical enough” to doubt Śāntideva’s sincerity in accordance with Hayes’s quote, but provides no alternative explanation for why Śāntideva might have still believed in ethical action. Lele (2007, 89-90) argues to the contrary that Śāntideva maintains his philosophical integrity through the conventional-ultimate distinction. Ultimately good and bad karma are unreal, but they are very real at the conventional level. Most people remain trapped in the conventional level, where suffering occurs, and so they experience the suffering as real. For them, it is this conventional level of truth that matters.

ii. Practical Implications

Metaphysical insight has three major ethical and soteriological implications for Śāntideva, some of which we have already seen. First, knowing the nonexistence of self will lead one to benefit others. Second, one who knows dependent origination can become more patient with others’ wrongdoing, because he will know to avoid blaming them. Finally, “one who knows emptiness is not emotionally attached to worldly phenomena, because he is independent [of them]” (ŚS 264); recognizing the emptiness of things allows one to attach less significance to them.

These implications, for Śāntideva, are not merely a matter of logical implication. There is also a practical, cause-and-effect relationship between one’s realization of the metaphysical claims and one’s actions and mental states. For this reason Luis Gómez (1994, 121) notes that the closing verses of BCA IX “leave no room for doubt that we are dealing with a technology of the self” which is also a philosophical discourse. The passage quoted above does not merely state that one who knows emptiness also knows that he should not be emotionally attached to worldly phenomena; it states further that he himself is not in fact so attached (na samhriyate). Elsewhere in the text Śāntideva makes other, similar, causal claims that metaphysical insight will cause one to feel and act differently. For example, after having made a series of logical arguments for the equivalence of self and other, he immediately comes to add: “Those whose mental dispositions are developed in this way (evam), for whom the suffering of others is equal to their loves, go down into the Avīci hell like geese [into] a lotus pond” (BCA VIII.107, emphasis added). The “in this way” (Sanskrit evam) indicates that the logical arguments themselves are a way to develop mental dispositions; hearing these arguments is the thing that develops one’s mind to treat others’ suffering equally to one’s own. Metaphysical insight is not merely an idea added to a stock of knowledge, with which one can do as one pleases; it has direct consequences for one’s emotional states.

Such a view seems perplexing to contemporary Western ears, including some informed by Buddhism. Understanding ideas often seems not to have this liberating effect. David Burton puts the problem well, in terms of his personal experience:

I do not seem to be ignorant about the impermanence of entities. I appear to understand that entities have no fixed essence and that they often change in disagreeable ways. I seem to understand that what I possess will fall out of my possession. I apparently accept that all entities must pass away. And I seem to acknowledge that my craving causes suffering. Yet I am certainly not free from craving and attachment. . . . How, then, might one preserve the common Buddhist claim that knowledge of the three characteristics of existence [i.e. nonself, impermanence and suffering] results in liberation in the face of this objection? (Burton 2004, 31)

Burton explores several potential hypotheses to resolve his question. He labels the hypothesis which seems to come closest to Śāntideva’s view as “insufficient attentiveness and reflection.” That is, that for those who have not experienced the beneficial ethical, emotional or soteriological consequences that are presumed to accrue from knowledge of Buddhist ideas, their belief in such ideas “is something they have thought about from time to time perhaps, but they do not bring it to mind often enough” (Burton 2004, 48-9).

Śāntideva suggests such a hypothesis in two ways. First, he frequently mentions the shifting and changing nature of the mind; for example, he notes that the mind is “like a river flow, unstable, broken up and dissolved when produced,” and “like lightning, unsteadily cut off in a moment” (ŚS 234). Second, within the chapter of the BCA on metaphysical insight, he speaks of “cultivating,” or meditating on, arguments: “this reasoning (vicāra) is meditated on as an antidote to that [fixation on imagination]” (BCA IX.92). This point is reinforced elsewhere in the text; as we have seen, his most famous metaphysical argument, on the equivalence of self and other (BCA VIII.90-119), occurs in the context of a particular meditation, within the BCA’s chapter on meditation (dhyāna). It is not enough, for Śāntideva, to find an argument persuasive and then move on to other things; it must be fixed in one’s mind.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Works

BCA — Śāntideva, Bodhicaryāvatāra. Edition: Bodhicaryāvatāra of Śāntideva with the commentary Pañjikā of Prajñākaramati; ed. P.L. Vaidya (1960), Buddhist Sanskrit Texts XII, Darbhanga, India: Mithila Institute. References given are to chapter and verse numbers.

BCAP — Prajñākaramati, Bodhicaryāvatārapañjikā. Edition: Bodhicaryāvatāra of Śāntideva with the commentary Pañjikā of Prajñākaramati; ed. P.L. Vaidya (1960), Buddhist Sanskrit Texts XII, Darbhanga, India: Mithila Institute. Page references given are to the Poussin edition (listed with “P” in the Vaidya edition’s margins).

NE — Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics. Edition: J. Bywater, available for download and online search at www.perseus.tufts.edu as of 14 Aug 2007.

ŚS — Śāntideva, Śikṣāsamuccaya. Edition: Çikshāsamuccaya: a compendium of Buddhistic teachings, compiled by Çāntideva chiefly from earlier Mahāyāna sūtras; ed. Cecil Bendall (1970), Bibliotheca Buddhica I, Osnabruck, Germany: Biblio Verlag.

ŚSK — Śāntideva, Śikṣāsamuccaya Kārikā, in the Bendall edition of the ŚS above.

VV — Nāgārjuna, Vigrahavyāvartani. Edition: Vigrahavyāvartani of Nāgārjuna: Sanskrit Text, eds. Christian Lindtner and Richard Mahoney (2003), available for download at http://indica-et-buddhica.org as of 14 Aug 2007.

b. Translations Cited

  • Bendall, Cecil. 1970. Introduction. In Çikshāsamuccaya: A Compendium of Buddhistic Teaching Compiled By Çāntideva Chiefly From Earlier Mahāyāna-Sūtras. Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag.
  • Crosby, Kate, and Andrew Skilton. 1995. The Bodhicaryāvatāra: A New Translation. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Wallace, Vesna A., and B. Alan Wallace, eds. 1997. A Guide to the Bodhisattva Way of Life. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion.

c. General Studies of Śāntideva

  • Brassard, Francis. 2000. The Concept of Bodhicitta in Śāntideva’s Bodhicaryāvatāra. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
  • Clayton, Barbra. 2006. Moral Theory in Śāntideva’s Śikṣāsamuccaya: Cultivating the Fruits of Virtue. London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon.
  • Cooper, David E., ed. 1998. Ethics: The Classic Readings. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers.
  • Dayal, Har. 1970. The Bodhisattva Doctrine in Buddhist Sanskrit Literature. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
  • Griffiths, Paul J. 1999. Religious Reading: The Place of Reading in the Practice of Religion. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.
  • Gyatso, Geshe Kelsang. 1986. Meaningful to Behold: A Commentary to Shantideva’s Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life. London: Tharpa Publications.
  • Harvey, Peter. 2000. An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics: Foundations, Values and Issues. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
  • Hedinger, Jürg. 1984. Aspekte der Schulung in der Laufbahn eines Bodhisattva: Dargestellt nach dem Śikṣāsamuccaya des Śāntideva. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz.
  • Lele, Amod. 2007. Ethical Revaluation in the Thought of Śāntideva. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Harvard University.
  • Mahoney, Richard. 2002. Of the Progress of the Bodhisattva: The Bodhisattvamārga in the Śikṣāsamuccaya. University of Canterbury.
  • Pezzali, Amalia. 1968. Śāntideva: Mystique Bouddhiste Des Viie Et Viiie Siècles. Florence: Vallecchi Editore.
  • Rinpoche, Thrangu. 2002. A Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life of Shantideva: A Commentary. Delhi: Sri Satguru Publications.
  • Tobden, Geshe Yeshe. 2005. The Way of Awakening: A Commentary on Shantideva’s Bodhicharyavatara. Somerville, MA: Wisdom.
  • Williams, Paul. 1995. General Introduction: Śāntideva and His World. In The Bodhicaryāvatāra. Ed. Kate Crosby, and Andrew Skilton, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

d. Specialized Studies

  • Clayton, Barbra. 2001. Compassion as a Matter of Fact: The Argument From No-Self to Selflessness in Śāntideva’s Śikṣāsamuccaya. Contemporary Buddhism 2 (1): 83-97.
  • Dalai Lama XIV. 1988. Transcendent Wisdom: A Commentary on the Ninth Chapter of Śāntideva’s Guide to the Bodhisattva Way of Life. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion.
  • de Jong, J.W. 1975. La légende de Śāntideva. Indo-Iranian Journal 16 (3): 161-82.
  • de Rachewiltz, Igor. 1996. The Mongolian Tanjur Version of the Bodhicaryāvatāra, Edited and Transcribed, With a Word-Index and a Photo-Reproduction of the Original Text (1748). Wiesbaden, Germany: Harrassowitz.
  • Edelglass, William. 2007. Ethics and the Subversion of Conceptual Reification in Lévinas and Śāntideva. In Deconstruction and the Ethical in Asian Thought. Ed. Youru Wang, London and New York: Routledge.
  • Gómez, Luis O. 1994. Presentations of Self: Personal Dimensions of Ritualized Speech. In Other Selves: Autobiography and Biography in Cross-Cultural Perspective. Ed. Phyllis Granoff, and Koichi Shinohara, Oakville, ON and Buffalo, NY: Mosaic Press.
  • Gómez, Luis O. 1999. The Way of the Translators: Three Recent Translations of Śāntideva’s Bodhicaryāvatāra. Buddhist Literature 1 262-354.
  • Goodman, Charles. 2008. Consequentialism, Agent-Neutrality, and Mahāyāna Ethics. Philosophy East and West 58 (1): 17-35.
  • Harrison, Paul. 2007. The Case of the Vanishing Poet: New Light on Śāntideva and the Śikṣā-Samuccaya. In Festschrift für Michael Hahn, zum 65. Geburtstag von Freunden und Schülern Überreicht. Ed. Konrad Klaus, and Jens-Uwe Hartmann. Vienna: Arbeitskreis für Tibetische und Buddhistische Studien.
  • Kanaoka, S. 1963. Regional Characteristics of Mongolian Buddhism: A Study on the Basis of the “Bodhicaryāvatāra”. Bukkyo Shigaku 10 (4): 15-24.
  • Palden, Khentchen Kunzang, and Minyak Kunzang Seunam. 1993. Comprendre La Vacuité: Deux Commentaires Du Chapitre Ix De La Marche Vers L’éveil De Shāntideva. Peyzac-le-Moustier, France: Éditions Padmakara.
  • Mrozik, Susanne. 1998. The Relationship Between Morality and the Body in Monastic Training According to the Śikṣāsamuccaya. Harvard University.
  • Mrozik, Susanne. 2007. Virtuous Bodies: The Physical Dimensions of Morality in Buddhist Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Oldmeadow, P.R. 1994. A Study of the Wisdom Chapter (Prajñāparamitā Pariccheda) of the Bodhicaryāvatārapañjikā of Prajñākaramati. Australian National University.
  • Onishi, Kaoru. 2003. The Bodhicaryāvatāra and Its Monastic Aspects: On the Problem of Representation. University of Michigan.
  • Pettit, John. 1999. Altruism and Reality: Studies in the Philosophy of the Bodhicharyavatara. Journal of Buddhist Ethics 6.
  • Saito, Akira. 1993. A Study of Akṣayamati (=Śāntideva)’s Bodhisattvacaryāvatāra as Found in the Tibetan Manuscripts From Tun-Huang. Faculty of Humanities, Miye University.
  • Saito, Akira. 1996. Śāntideva in the History of Mādhyamika Philosophy. In Buddhism in India and Abroad: An Integrating Influence in Vedic and Post-Vedic Perspective. Ed. Kalpakam Sankarnarayan, Motohiro Yoritomi, and Shubhada A. Joshi. Mumbai: Somaiya Publications Pvt. Ltd.
  • Siderits, Mark. 2000. The Reality of Altruism: Reconstructing Śāntideva. Philosophy East and West 50 (3): 412-24.
  • Siderits, Mark. 2005. Freedom, Caring and Buddhist Philosophy. Contemporary Buddhism 6 (2): 87-113.
  • Sweet, Michael J. 1977. Śāntideva and the Mādhyamika: The Prajñāpāramitā-Pariccheda of the Bodhicaryāvatāra. University of Wisconsin-Madison.
  • Sweet, Michael J. 1996. Mental Purification (Blo Sbyong): A Native Tibetan Genre of Religious Literature. In Tibetan Literature: Studies in Genre. Ed. José Ignacio Cabezón, and Roger R. Jackson. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion.
  • Thurman, Robert A.F. 2004. Anger: The Seven Deadly Sins. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Williams, Paul. 1998a. Altruism and Reality: Studies in the Philosophy of the Bodhicaryāvatāra. Richmond, UK: Curzon Press.
  • Williams, Paul. 1998b. The Absence of Self and the Removal of Pain: How Śāntideva Destroyed the Bodhisattva Path. In Altruism and Reality: Studies in the Philosophy of the Bodhicaryāvatāra, Richmond, UK: Curzon Press.

e. Related Interest

  • Burton, David. 2004. Buddhism, Knowledge, and Liberation: A Philosophical Analysis of Suffering. Aldershot, England; Burlington, VT: Ashgate.
  • Chang, Garma C.C., ed. 1991. A Treasury of Mahāyāna Sūtras: Selections From the Mahāratnakūṭa Sūtra. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
  • Harrison, Paul. 1987. Who Gets to Ride in the Great Vehicle? Self-Image and Identity Among Followers of the Early Mahāyāna. Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 10 (2): 67-89.
  • Hayes, Richard. 1994. The Analysis of Karma in Vasubandhu’s Abhidharmakośabhāṣya. In Hermeneutical Paths to the Sacred Worlds of India. Ed. Katherine K. Young, Atlanta: Scholars Press.
  • Heim, Maria. 2004. Theories of the Gift in South Asia: Hindu, Buddhist and Jain Reflections on Dāna. New York and Oxford: Routledge.
  • Hibbets, Maria. 2000. The Ethics of Esteem. Journal of Buddhist Ethics 7 26-42.
  • Kajiyama, Yuichi. 1989. Transfer and Transformation of Merits in Relation to Emptiness. In Studies in Buddhist Philosophy (Selected Papers). Ed. Katsumi Minaki. Kyoto: Rinsen Book Co.
  • Keown, Damien. 2005. Buddhism: Morality Without Ethics? In Buddhist Studies From India to America: Essays in Honor of Charles S. Prebish. Ed. Damien Keown. London: Routledge.
  • Lang, Karen. 2003. Four Illusions: Candrakīrti’s Advice to Travelers on the Bodhisattva Path. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • MacIntyre, Alasdair. 1966. A Short History of Ethics: A History of Moral Philosophy From the Homeric Age to the Twentieth Century. New York: Touchstone.
  • McClintock, Sara, and Georges Dreyfus, eds. 2002. The Svātantrika-Prāsaṅgika Distinction: What Difference Does a Difference Make? Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publiccations.
  • Nattier, Jan. 2003. A Few Good Men: The Bodhisattva Path According to the Inquiry of Ugra (Ugraparipṛcchā). Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.
  • Parfit, Derek. 1984. Reasons and Persons. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Pye, Michael. 1978. Skilful Means: A Concept in Mahayana Buddhism. London: Duckworth.
  • Solomon, Robert C. 2006. The Big Questions: A Short Introduction to Philosophy. Belmont, CA: Thomson Wadsworth.
  • Sprung, Mervyn. 1979. Lucid Exposition of the Middle Way: The Essential Chapters From the Prasannapadā of Candrakīrti. Boulder, CO: Prajñā Press.
  • Tatz, Mark. 1994. The Skill in Means (Upāyakauśalya) Sūtra. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
  • Wilson, Liz. 1996. Charming Cadavers: Horrific Figurations of the Feminine in Indian Buddhist Hagiographic Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Author Information

Amod Lele
Boston University
U.S.A.

Nicholas Rescher (1928—)

RescherNicholas Rescher (1928- ) is a prominent representative of contemporary pragmatism, but, unlike most analytic thinkers, he managed to establish himself as a systematic philosopher. In particular, he built a system of “pragmatic idealism” that combines elements of the European continental idealism with American pragmatism. One of the most salient features of Rescher¹s work is the breadth of topics with which he has dealt, including logic in its various forms, epistemology, the philosophy of science, metaphysics, process philosophy, ethics and political philosophy. He has written about 400 articles and 100 books.

In his system of pragmatic idealism, the activity of the human mind plays a key role and makes a fundamental contribution to knowledge, while “valid” knowledge contributes to practical success. Rescher also defends a coherence theory of truth in a manner differing in a significant way from that endorsed by classical idealism. He draws an original distinction between a pragmatism of the left and a pragmatism of the right. The first is a flexible type of pragmatism that endorses a greatly enhanced cognitive relativism. The second envisions the pragmatist enterprise as a source of cognitive security. Rescher sees Charles S. Peirce, Clarence I. Lewis and himself as adherents to the pragmatism of the right, and William James, F. S. C. Schiller and Richard Rorty as representatives of the pragmatism of the left, with John Dewey standing in a middle of the road position.

In the philosophy of science, Rescher claims, against any form of instrumentalism and many postmodern authors as well, that natural science can validate a plausible commitment to the actual existence of its theoretical entities. Scientific conceptions aim at what really exists in the world, but only hit it imperfectly and “well off the mark.” What we can get is, at most, a rough consonance between our scientific ideas and reality itself.

Rescher recognizes that moral rules are frequently part of the customs of a community, but he denies that morality consists in conformity to mores or in benefit-maximization.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Main Topics of Rescher’s Work
  3. Pragmatism
  4. Objectivity and Rationality
  5. Truth
  6. Evolutionary Epistemology
  7. Pragmatic Idealism
  8. Philosophy of Science
  9. Logic and Conceptual Schemes
  10. Social Philosophy
  11. Ethical Issues
  12. References and Further Reading

1. Life

Nicholas Rescher was born on July 15, 1928, in the German town of Hagen, Westphalia. He is one of the many contemporary American philosophers whose life began in a foreign country, and who then pursued a successful career in the United States. Rescher obtained his Ph.D. in Philosophy from Princeton University in 1951 at the age of twenty-two. He was the youngest person ever to do so in that department. He is also among the most prolific of contemporary scholars, having written more than 400 articles and 100 books, ranging over many areas of philosophy, over a dozen of which have been translated into foreign languages.

He was awarded the Alexander von Humboldt Prize for Humanistic Scholarship in 1984, the Cardinal Mercier Prize in 2005, and the American Catholic Philosophical Society’s Aquinas medal in 2007. He has served as a President of the American Philosophical Association, American Catholic Philosophy Association, American G. W. Leibniz Society, C. S. Peirce Society, and the American Metaphysical Society. He has held visiting lectureships at Oxford, Constance, Salamanca, Munich, and Marburg; and his work has been recognized by seven honorary degrees from universities on three continents. Rescher serves on the editorial board of Process Studies, the principal academic journal for both process philosophy and theology. He has for many years been teaching at the University of Pittsburgh with a status of University Professor. His life is detailed in an Autobiography (Frankfurt: Ontos Verlag, 2007).

2. Main Topics of Rescher’s Work

Rescher has written on a wide range of topics, including logic, epistemology, the philosophy of science, metaphysics, and the philosophy of value. He is best known as an advocate of pragmatism and, more recently, of process philosophy. Over the course of his six-decade research career, Rescher has established himself as a systematic philosopher of the old style, and the author of a system of pragmatic idealism that combines elements of continental idealism with American pragmatism. To this end, he:

  • Has developed a system of pragmatic idealism, in which the activity of the human mind makes a positive and constitutive contribution to knowledge, and “valid” knowledge contributes to practical success;
  • Defends a coherence theory of truth in a manner differing somewhat from that of classical idealism; see for example his exchange in The Philosophy of Brand Blanshard (in the Library of Living Philosophers series);
  • Advocates an “erotetic propagation” of science, asserting that scientific inquiry will continue without end because each newly answered question adds a presupposition for at least one more open question to the current body of scientific knowledge;
  • Propounds an epistemic law of diminishing returns that holds that actual knowledge merely stands as the logarithm of the available information. This has the corollary that the comparative growth of knowledge is inversely proportional to the volume of information already at hand, so that when information grows exponentially, knowledge will grow at a merely linear rate.

Apart from this larger program, Rescher has made significant contributions to:

  • Historical studies on Leibniz, Kant, Peirce, and on the medieval Arabic theory of modal syllogistic and logic;
  • Logic (the conception of autodescriptive systems of many-sided logic);
  • The theory of knowledge (“epistemetrics” as a quantitative approach in theoretical epistemology);
  • The philosophy of science (the theory of logarithmic returns in scientific effort).

3. Pragmatism

Rescher draws an important distinction between a more flexible “pragmatism of the left” and a more conservative “pragmatism of the right.” Referring to a famous article by Arthur Lovejoy, he notes that there seem to be as many pragmatisms as pragmatists. Usually, however, those who are interested in pragmatism from an historical point of view tend to forget that, from the beginning, a substantial polarity is present in this tradition of thought. It is a dichotomy between what Rescher calls “pragmatism of the left,” namely a flexible type of pragmatism which endorses a greatly enhanced cognitive relativism, and a “pragmatism of the right,” namely a different position that sees the pragmatist stance as a source of cognitive security. Both positions are eager to assure pluralism in the cognitive enterprise and in the concrete conduct of human affairs, but the meaning they attribute to the term “pluralism” is not the same. Rescher sees C. S. Peirce, C. I. Lewis and himself as adherents of the pragmatism of the right, and William James, F. S. C. Schiller and Richard Rorty as representatives of the pragmatism of the left, with John Dewey standing somehow in a middle of the road position.

The position of the so-called pragmatists of the left is clear: one just has to read Rorty’s works to see where it ends up, from both a cognitive and a social-political viewpoint. But what does the pragmatism of the right really come to? Parochial diversity is something that a post-modern pragmatist such as Rorty gladly accepts in order to achieve results that are, at the same time, subjectivistic and relativistic. On the other hand, even a Rescherian pragmatist sees practical efficacy as the cornerstone of our endeavors, but at the same time he takes efficacy to be the best instrument we have at our disposal for achieving objectification.

Objective pragmatism — or the pragmatism of the right, as Rescher calls it — implies that (a) our social-linguistic world evolved out of natural reality; (b) this social-linguistic world acquires an increasing autonomy; (c) between the social and the natural worlds there is no ontological line of separation, but just a functional one; (d) however, the accessibility to natural reality is only granted by the tools that the social-linguistic world provides us with; (e) this means that our knowledge of natural reality is always tentative and mediated by our conceptual capacities; (f) there is no need to draw relativistic conclusions from this situation, because the presence of an objective reality that underlies the data at hand puts upon personal desires objective constraints that we are able to overcome at the verbal level, but not in the sphere of rational deliberations implementing actions.

4. Objectivity and Rationality

Rescher’s definition of ontological objectivity is the following: Objectivity is not something we infer from the data; it is something we do and must presuppose. It is something that we postulate or presume from the very outset of our dealings with people’s claims about the world’s facts – our own included. Its epistemic status is not that of an empirical discovery but that of a presupposition whose ultimate justification is a transcendental argument from the very possibility of the projects of communication and inquiry as we standardly conduct them.

The specification at stake here is just the opposite of objectivity conceived of as something that we merely infer from empirical data (maybe with a little abstractive effort). But, on the other side, nor can it be equated with a classical idealistic viewpoint, according to which objectivity is something that our mind simply creates in the process of reflection. Objectivity is, in this case, a sort of cross-product of the encounter between our mind-shaped tools and capacities, and a surrounding reality made of things that are real in the classical meaning of the term: they are there and in no way can be said to be mind-created. But a final — and quite important — qualification is in order: the very mode in which we see these real things, and conceive of (and speak about) them is indeed mind-dependent. Science itself gives us some crucial insights in this direction, since it shows that we see, say, tables and trees in a certain way which, however, does not match the image that scientific instruments are able to attain.

On the other hand rationality is for Rescher a matter of idealization. Although we must admit our natural origins and evolutionary heritage, we must give way as well to the recognition that there is indeed something that makes us unique. Only human beings are able to “gaze towards idealities” and to somehow detach themselves from “the actualities on an imperfect world.” Just like objectivity, rationality is the expression of mankind’s capacity to see not only how things actually are, but also how they might have been and how they could turn out to be if we were to take some course of action rather than another. Thus the concept of possibility plays a key role.

5. Truth

Rescher endorses a coherentist approach to truth. Why? The answer is, first of all, systemic and holistic: he needs a coherence theory because the older and more classical correspondence theories do not fit into the comprehensive philosophical system he managed to build. But there is also a more theoretical reply, because he believes a coherence theory has a great number of fertile applications, such as in the methodology of the use of historical sources, the analysis of counterfactual conditionals, and the problems of inductive logic. As he recognizes in The Coherence Theory of Truth, the first impetus towards developing a coherentist approach to truth came from a theory of inference from inconsistent premises constructed for the analysis of counterfactual conditionals.

Rescher’s point of departure is the distinction between “definitional” and “criterial” theories of truth, that is, between what truth is and how we acquire truth. The definitional theories try to provide a definition of the expression “is true” as a characteristic of propositions. The criterial ones aim, instead, at specifying the test-conditions which allow us to determine whether (or not) there is warrant to apply “is true” to propositions. Rescher prefers the second alternative and, once again, the reasons for such a preference are typically pragmatic: The criterial approach to truth is decision-oriented. Its aim is not to specify in the abstract what “is true” means, but rather to put us into a position to implement and apply the concept by instructing us as to the circumstances under which there is rational warrant to characterize or class something (that is, some proposition) as true. Why bother with a criterion once a definition is at hand? To know the meaning of a word or concept is only half the battle: We want to be able to apply it, too. It does little good to know how terms like “speed limit” or “misdemeanor” are defined in the abstract if we are left in the dark as to the conditions of their application.

6. Evolutionary Epistemology

According to Rescher we must address a basic question: which kind of evolution are we referring to when talking of evolutionary epistemology? If we take evolution to be an undifferentiated concept, such that no useful distinction can be found in it, we are — according to our author — on a wrong track. The evolutionary “pattern” is certainly one, but for sure this should not lead us to assume that the specific characteristics of mankind must be left out of the picture, either because they are not important or because no specifically human characteristic is admitted. Rescher’s evolutionary framework, as it always happens in his philosophical system, is pluralistic and multi-sided.

The evolutionary pathway provided by the route of intelligence is one of the alternative ways of coping within nature that are available to biological organisms. (Other ways include toughness, multiplicity and isolation). Human beings, thus, can be said to have evolved to fill a possible ecological niche left free for intelligent creatures.

There are, however, many ways to look at the evolution of mankind. Rescher stresses that, after all, intelligence has evolved not because it aids the survival of its possessors within nature. It arose because it represents one effective means of survival. Intelligence is our functional substitute for the numerousness of termites, the ferocity of lions, or the toughness of microorganisms. So, it might even be said that this is our specific manner of fighting the battle for survival: we would not be here if our intelligence-led rationality were not survival-conducive. But does all this mean that intelligence is an inevitable feature of conscious organic life? The answer to such a question is crucial and, as long as Rescher is concerned, is negative.

The scheme we get by adopting this stance is, thus, more complex than the reductionistic one endorsed by materialist philosophers, since any element of the biological sphere is matched by an analogous element located in a sphere that may be defined as “sociological-intellectual,” along the following lines. At the biological level we have:

(A) Biological mutation;

(B) Reproductive elimination of traits through their non-realization in an individual’s progeny; and, eventually,

(C) One’s physical progeny.

The same steps can be traced at the sociological-intellectual level:

(A1) Procedural variation;

(B1) Reproductive elimination of processes through their lapsed transmissions to one’s successors (for example, children or students);

(C1) Those individuals whom one influences.

The differences between (A)-(C) and (A1)-(C1) are clearly visible but, no doubt, the same process is at issue in both cases, since both involve structures that are maintained over time.

7. Pragmatic Idealism

No one can seriously doubt that there are strong idealistic features in Rescher’s philosophy. For example, he never tires of stressing that the conceptual apparatus we employ itself makes a creative contribution to our view of the world, and his holistic stance is clearly influenced by Hegel and Bradley, thinkers who have long been quite unpopular within American analytic philosophy. But idealism is just one element in a broader framework where pragmatism plays the key role, and other important components are detectable as well in his thought (for instance naturalism). No doubt Leibniz, Kant, Hegel and Bradley are all philosophers who deeply influenced his outlook. But, still, the central figure in Rescher’s personal Olympus is (and will remain) Charles S. Peirce. Here is how Rescher recalls how the idealistic perspective became a central feature of his comprehensive philosophical outlook:

I recall well how the key ideas of my idealistic theory of natural laws – of “lawfulness as imputation” – came to me in 1968 during work on this project while awaiting the delivery of Arabic manuscripts in the Oriental Reading Room of the British Museum. It struck me that what a law states is a mere generalization, but what marks this generalization as something special in our sight — and renders it something we see as a genuine law of nature — is the role that we assign to it in inference. Lawfulness is thus not a matter of what the law-statement says, but how it is used in the systematization of knowledge — the sort of role we impute to it. These ideas provided an impetus to idealist lines of thought and marked the onset of my commitment to a philosophical idealism which teaches that the mind is itself involved in the conceptual constitution of the objects of our knowledge. (Instructive Journey: An Essay in Autobiography, pages 172-173)

It should be noted that Rescher immediately tied these idealistic insights to the philosophy of science, a sector that has always been at the core of his interests. The aforementioned statements, in fact, led him to the conclusion that scientific discovery, Galileo notwithstanding, is not a matter of simply “reading” what is written in the book of nature, but is rather the outcome of the interaction between nature on the one side, and human mind on the other. The contribution which mind gives to the construction of “our science” is at least as important as that provided by nature: no science as we know it would be possible without the specific contribution of the mind.

What is the source of our ideas according to his philosophical outlook? Locke, for instance, remarked that we can only think about ideas, their source being either sensation or observation of the internal operations of our mind. Taking this path we can certainly avoid the problems connected to metaphysical skepticism, but ideas become our only “real” point of reference, which is not such a wonderful solution from an empiricist point of view. According to the verifiability principle held by the logical positivists, on the other hand, the meaningfulness of a statement is strictly tied to the existence of some possible set of observations that, were they to be ever made, would determine the truth of the statement itself. In this case metaphysical skepticism could be avoided by equating metaphysics with non-sense, but the verifiability principle created other, unexpected problems. Scientific laws, in fact, clearly resist the application of the verifiability principle, and the price to be paid for the elimination of metaphysics seemed, to say the least, too high. So the problem of demarcating science from metaphysics, which has been deemed tremendously important by some sectors of early twentieth century philosophy, remains pressing.

Detaching himself from the mainstream of American analytic philosophy which, under the influence of the logical positivists, had been largely dominated by empiricist and positivist trends of thought, Rescher in the early 1970’s launched his project of rehabilitating idealism. Taking notice of the fact that idealism had been effectively dead in Anglo-American philosophy for more than a generation, he tells us that, “this eclipse of an important sector of philosophical tradition seems to be entirely unjustified on the merits.”

“Idealism” is a sort of umbrella-term that covers a large variety of trends and sub-trends. Each of them is somehow connected to the others, but disagreements within the idealistic field have always been strong. Rescher readily recognizes this fact, providing a general scheme in which all the various idealistic trends can be inserted. The fundamental distinction to be made is between the “ontological” versions of idealism and the “epistemic” ones. Ontological versions imply that everything there is arises causally from, or is supervenient upon, the operations of mind. Epistemic versions are less strongly committed because they rule out the thesis that mind creates the world in toto, be it natural or social, and content themselves to point out the intimate correlatedness between our mind and the world-as-we-know it. Rescher says explicitly that his conceptual idealism belongs to the epistemic version of the theory, and he characterizes it as follows: “Conceptual idealism [states that] any fully adequate descriptive characterization of the nature of the physical (‘material’) reality must make reference to mental operations; some recourse to verbal characteristics or operations is required within the substantive content of an adequate account of what it is to be real.”

Another important consideration relates to Rescher’s attitude towards Kant and his transcendental idealism. Kant’s presence is clearly perceivable in our author’s writings, but his Kant is always Kant viewed and interpreted through the lenses of pragmatism (which in this case are Peircean lenses). On the one hand Rescher accepts the Kantian view that our knowledge is strongly determined by the a priori elements present in our conceptual schemes, and that they indeed have an essential function as long as our interpretation of reality is concerned. On the other hand, he tends to see these aprioristic elements as resting on a contingent basis, and validated on pragmatic rather than necessitarian considerations. The mind certainly makes a great contribution towards shaping reality-as-we-see-it, but the very presence of the mind itself can be explained by adopting an evolutionary point of view.

8. Philosophy of Science

It is only too natural that when the man of the street reads about the results of scientific discoveries he takes them to be descriptions of “real” nature. Why should different thoughts come to his mind, given the impressive results that science was able to attain in the last few centuries? It should be noted, however, that not only philosophers, but also even many scientists have often denied the validity of the picture that the man of the street takes more or less for granted. Many examples could be provided in this regard, as any standard text on the history of science might easily confirm. In the past century uncertainty about the content of our theories has grown fast, together with the feeling that there are alternative theories that can account equally well for all possible observations. Clearly the threat of relativism arises at this point, even though many authors nowadays no longer take relativism to be a threat, but just a fact of the matter.

Obviously things were different when logical positivism still was the dominant — and, in many cases, even the only — doctrine in philosophy of science. In that case the main purpose was to individuate the immutable models that lie beyond concrete scientific practice, because it was commonly held by the main representatives of this neopositivism that science is objective and progressive, in the cumulative sense of the term. Intersubjectivity was granted through recourse to the scientific language, purportedly believed to be neutral, free of errors and misunderstandings and, thus, available to every observer. Formal logic became then something much more important than a simple instrument, since its task was supposed to be that of “capturing” intersubjectivity by means of a language constructed in the purest form possibly available to human beings, leaving aside all the unpleasant distortions that our natural languages bring with them.

At this point we can note that scientific realism (and the nature of scientific knowledge at large) is a theme where the originality of Rescher’s position clearly emerges. Certainly he is very distant from the received view of logical empiricism. Looking back to the years of his philosophical formation, he says: I was thus led back to take a rather different view of the technical preoccupations in the minutiae of formal analysis which came to the forefront in the postwar years. It seemed to me that the passion for the detailed analysis of small-scale side issues was getting out of hand. All too often, philosophers were using their technical tools on those issues of detail congenial to their application, rather than concentrating them on inherently important matters. Technical questions became preoccupations in their own right, rather than because of any significant bearing on the central problems of the field.

Rescher’s increasing distance from the neopositivist model, however, should not lead one to think that he got closer to the more recent, and more fashionable, post-empiricist trend of thought. He argues, against any form of instrumentalism and many postmodern authors as well, that natural science can indeed validate a plausible commitment to the actual existence of its theoretical entities. Scientific conceptions aim at what really exists in the world, but only hit it imperfectly and “well off the mark.” What we can get is, at most, a rough consonance between our scientific ideas and reality itself. This statement should not sound surprising, if only one recalls Rescher’s proclaimed conceptual idealism and his unwillingness to trace a precise borderline between ontology and epistemology.

Furthermore, Rescher’s aim is to replace Charles S. Peirce’s “long-run convergence” theory of scientific progress by a more modest position geared to increasing success in scientific applications, especially in matters of prediction and control. This dimension of applicative efficacy is something real, and can hardly be denied from a rational point of view. He goes on arguing that the connection between adequacy and applicative success in questions of scientific theorizing leads, in turn, to a pragmatist-flavored philosophy of science. He also states very clearly that “perfection” (the completion of the project) is, in principle, unfeasible. This means that his ideas are opposed to all those scientific projects whose aim is the search for a “final” theory.

So we have a general picture of this kind: In attempting answers to our questions about how things stand in the world, science offers (or at any rate, both endeavors and purports to offer) information about the world. The extent to which science succeeds in this mission is, of course, disputable. The theory of sub-atomic matter is unquestionably a “mere theory,” but it could not help us to explain those all too real atomic explosions if it is not a theory about real substances. Only real objects can produce real effects. There exist no “hypothetical” or “theoretical entities” at all, only entities, plus hypotheses and theories about them which may be right or wrong, well-founded or ill-founded. The theoretical entities of science are introduced not for their own interest but for a utilitarian mission, to furnish the materials of causal explanation for the real comportment of real things. Thus our inability to claim that natural science as we understand it depicts reality correctly must not be taken to mean that science is a merely practical device, a mere instrument for prediction and control that has no bearing on describing “the nature of things.” What science says is descriptively committal in making claims regarding “the real world,” but the tone of voice in which it proffers these claims always is (or should be) provisional and tentative.

So we can never assume that a particular scientific theory, for instance, Einstein’s relativity theory, gives us the true picture of reality, since we know perfectly well from the history of science that, in a future we cannot actually foresee, it will be replaced by a better theory. And it should be noted, moreover, that this future theory will be better for future scientists, but not the best in absolute terms, since its final destiny is to be displaced by yet another theory.

Rescher’s conception of scientific realism is thus strictly tied to his distinction between reality-as-such and reality-as-we-think-of-it. He argues that there is indeed little justification for believing that our present-day natural science describes the world as it really is, and this fact does not allow us to endorse an absolute and unconditioned scientific realism. In other words, if we claim that the theoretical entities of current science correctly pick up the “furniture of the world,” we run into the inevitable risk of hypostatizing something, that is, our present science, that is only a historically contingent product of humankind, valid in this particular period of its cultural evolution. Rescher’s view is, instead, that “a realistic awareness of scientific fallibilism precludes the claim that the furnishings of the real world are exactly as our science states them to be — that electrons “actually are just what the latest Handbook of Physics claims them to be.”

But what about future science? We might in fact be tempted to say that, since present-day science is really bound to be imperfect and incomplete, perhaps future science will do the job, thus accomplishing that project of “perfected science” that the logical positivists loved so much. Even in this case, however, many problems arise. First of all, just which future are we talking about? There is indeed no reason to believe that tomorrow’s science will be very different from ours as long as its capacity of providing the “correct” picture of reality is concerned. The fact is, he argues, that scientific theories always have a finite lifespan. This is so for every human creation (and science is a human product, in any possible sense of the term), so that, “as something that comes into being within time, the passage of time will also bear it away.” While we can certainly claim that the aims of science are stable, it should honestly be recognized that its questions and answers are not.

Ideal science, even when its realization is referred to the future, looks more like a philosophical utopia than a feasible accomplishment (even though utopias, as Rescher often recognizes, are indeed useful when they are viewed as essentially “regulative” ideas). Perfected science, thus, is not “what will emerge when,” but “what would emerge if,” and many realistically unachievable conditions must be provided in order to obtain such a highly desirable result. This means that our cognitive enterprise must be pursued in an imperfect world, and the strong realistic thesis that science faithfully describes the real world should be taken for what it is: a matter of intent. The only type of scientific realism that looks reasonable to Rescher is a scientific realism viewed in idealistic perspective, in which what is at stake is a sort of “ideal science” that no wise men can claim to possess.

9. Logic and Conceptual Schemes

The real alternative at stake here is the following: logic as “doctrine” vs. logic as “instrument.” Rescher does not deny that logic has, in this particular regard, a dual nature. From the doctrinal point of view it is clearly a body of theses or, even better, a systematic codification of those special propositions defined as “logical truths.” At the methodological level, instead, it must be seen as an operational code for conducting sound reasoning. Having once again recourse to historical considerations, our author observes that the distinction at issue carries back to the old dispute — carried on throughout late antiquity and the Middle Ages — as to whether logic is to be considered as a part of knowledge or as an instrument for its development. The best minds of the day insisted that the proper answer is simply that logic is both of these — at once a theory with a body of theses of its own, and a tool for testing arguments to determine whether they are good or bad.

A pragmatic conception of logic, however, leads him to view its instrumental-methodological character as primary with respect to the doctrinal features. All this follows quite naturally from what we said above, because, for a pragmatically oriented thinker, logic’s task lies, first of all, in systematizing and rationalizing the practice of reasoning in all the contexts (theoretical included) where human beings usually draw inferences. Logical rules, in turn, are not supposed to have an abstract and formalistic character, because in that case they cannot be attuned to human practices (be they theoretical or instrumental). It is interesting to note that this approach is not distant from some insights contained in the works of the second Wittgenstein, where language is no longer taken to be an ideal entity endowed with some sort of “essence,” but rather a set of social practices that are used in order to satisfy men’s concrete needs. Our models of inference thus become the products of social practices, while the social dimension pertains to language in each of its many characteristics and features. In other words, our rules for drawing inferences are essentially practical and not formal; they are rules that allow (or do not allow) us to perform a certain kind of action.

For Rescher a conceptual scheme for operation in the factual domain is always correlative with a Weltanschauung — a view of how things work in the world. And the issue of historical development becomes involved at this juncture, seeing that such a fact-committal scheme is clearly a product of temporal evolution. Our conceptions of things are a moving rather than a fixed target for analysis. The startling conclusion is that there are assertions in a conceptual scheme A that are simply not available in another conceptual scheme B, because no equivalent in it may be found. This view also allows him to challenge Donald Davidson when he says that, “we get a new out of an old scheme when the speakers of a language come to accept as true an important range of sentences they previously took to be false.” The point at stake, in fact, is different, since Rescher answers that a change of scheme is not just a matter of saying things differently, but rather of saying altogether different things.

In other words, a scheme A may be committed to phenomena that another scheme B cannot even envisage: Galenic physicians, for instance, had absolutely nothing to say about bacteria and viruses because those entities lay totally beyond their conceptual dimension. Where one scheme is eloquent, Rescher says, the other is altogether silent. This means, moreover, that our classical and bivalent logic of the True and False is not much help in such a context. Some assertions that are deemed to be true in a certain scheme may have no value whatsoever in another scheme, so that we need to formalize this truth-indeterminacy by having recourse, say, to a many-valued logical system in which, besides the classical T and F, a third (Indeterminate) value I is present. We have, in sum, a more complex picture than Davidson’s. Rescher observes that in brushing aside the idea of different conceptual schemes we incur the risk of an impoverishment in our problem-horizons. So, to deny that different conceptual schemes exist is absurd.

10. Social Philosophy

Even in the social field, for Rescher, context-relativization means neither irrationalism nor indifferentism. For sure we must recognize the presence of different perspectives, but on the other hand our experiential indications provide us with criteria for making a rational choice. The fact that no appropriate universal diet exists does not lead to the conclusion that we can eat anything, and the absence of a globally correct language does not mean that we can choose a language at random for communicating with others in a particular context. For these reasons he concludes that an individual need not be intimidated by the fact of disagreement — it makes perfectly good sense for people to do their rational best towards securing evidentiated beliefs and justifiable choices without undue worry about whether or not others disagree.

To what extent are Rescher’s doubts about the notion of consensus applicable to the real social and political situations? Consensus is deemed by many authors to be a sine qua non condition for achieving a benign political and social order, while its absence is often viewed as a premonitory symptom of chaos. Needless to say the feelings are usually strong in this regard, because political and social philosophy has a more direct impact on our daily life than other such traditional sectors of the philosophical inquiry as, say, metaphysics or epistemology.

What deserves to be pointed out is that the search for consensus has many concrete contraindications, which can mainly be drawn from history. Think, for instance, of how Hitler gained power in Germany in the 1930’s. As a matter of fact he obtained a resounding victory through democratic election, because he was able to make the political platform of the Nazi party consensually accepted by a large majority of citizens. It would be foolish, however, to draw the conclusion that Hitler and the Nazis were right just because they were good consensus-builders. On the contrary, the United States is a good example of a democratically thriving society that can dispense with consensus, and where dissensus is deemed to be productive (at least to a certain extent). Another striking fact is that the former Soviet Union was, instead, a typically consensus-seeking society.

Homogeneity granted by consensus is not the mark of a benign social order, since this role is more likely to be played by a dissensus-dominated situation that is in turn able to accommodate diversity of opinions. It follows, among other things, that we should be very careful not to characterize the consensus endorsed by majority opinion as intrinsically rational. In the industrialized nations of the Western world the power of the media in building up consensus is notoriously great. It may, and does, happen sometimes, however, that the power of the media in assuring consensus is used to support bad politicians, who repay the favor by paying attention to sectorial rather than to general interests. It is thus easily seen that consensus is not an objective that deserves to be pursued no matter what.

All this seems plausible and reasonable to Rescher, despite the fact that many theorists nowadays continue to view consensus as an indispensable component of a good and stable social order. It is the case, for example, with Jürgen Habermas. The Marxist roots of Habermas’ thought explain why the German philosopher is so eager to have the activities of the people harmonized thanks to their interpersonal agreement about ends and means. The basis of agreement is thus both collective and abstractly universal. Another Rescher’s key word, “acquiescence,” needs at this point be introduced. Given that the insistence on the pre-requisite of communal consensus is simply unrealistic, we must come to terms with concrete situations, that is, with facts as presented by real life. If, according to contractarian lines of thought, we take justice to be the establishment of arrangements that are (or, even better, would be) reached in idealized conditions, then we cannot help but note that justice is not a feature of our imperfect world. “Life is unjust” is bound to be our natural conclusion, together with the acknowledgement that real-life politics is the art of the possible. It is obvious as well, however, that even in real-life politics we constantly need to make decisions and to take some course of action. How should we behave, then, given the fact that the so-called communal consensus turned out to be unachievable?

The answer is that a modern and democratic society looks for social accommodation, which means that it always tries to devise methods for letting its members live together in peace even in those inevitable cases when a subgroup prevails over another. As Rescher as it, the choice is not just between either the agreement of the whole group, on the one hand, or the lordship of some particular subgroup, on the other hand. Accommodation through general acquiescence is a perfectly practicable mode for making decisions in the public order and resolving its conflicts. And, given the realities of the situation in a complex and diversified society, it has significant theoretical and practical advantages over its more radical alternatives. The reader will not find it difficult to recognize that this is just the strategy constantly adopted within the democratic societies of the Western world, which, in turn, distinguishes them from all forms of tyrannies and monocratic (one-person) forms of government.

Acquiescence is thus a matter of mutual restraint, a sort of “live and let live” concrete politics that permits any individual or subgroup belonging in a larger group to avoid fight in order to gain respect for its own position. Thus acquiescence, and not consensual agreement, turns out to be the key factor for building a really democratic society, Rescher argues. In a situation like that of the former Yugoslavia, for instance, it would be foolish to ask for consensus given the historical and ethnical roots of war today. But a search for acquiescence would be much less foolish, with all factions giving up something in order to avoid even greater damages and losses.

If we want to be pluralists in the true spirit of Western democratic thought, we must abandon the quest for a monolithic and rational order, together with the purpose of maximizing the number of people who approve what the government, say, does. On the contrary, we should have in mind an acquiescence-seeking society where the goal is that of minimizing the number of people who strongly disapprove of what is being done. We should never forget, Rescher claims, that the idea that “all should think alike” is both dangerous and anti-democratic, as history shows with plenty of pertinent examples. Since consensus is an absolute unlikely to be achieved in concrete life, a difference must be drawn between “being desirable” and “being essential.” All in all, it can be said that it qualifies at most for the former status. The general conclusion is that consensus is no more than one positive factor that has to be weighed on the scale along with many others.

11. Ethical Issues

Rescher recognizes that cultural, social and ethical diversity are a fact of life rather than a mere hypothesis. Social scientists have always stressed the elements of differentiation across social groups, and especially sociologists are ready to pick up strong differences as long as moral beliefs of various social groups are concerned. From this, most social scientists and even several philosophers draw the conclusion that cultural relativism is unavoidable: since each group has a different way of dealing with beliefs, relationships, and so forth, it follows that there is no unique criterion for evaluating actions. Or, to put it in a slightly different way, we are provided with no “trans-cultural standard” which can be deemed to be valid for all conceptual schemes. Social scientists and philosophers who find the hermeneutic stance congenial will most likely be in favor of the aforementioned conclusion, because it shows that cultures are unique and cannot be investigated from a general viewpoint.

It goes without saying that the ethical side of relativism is strictly connected to all its other branches (conceptual, epistemological, etc.), since the real problem at stake here is the search for cross-cultural “universals” which could explain the fact, often denied by relativists, that we share as rational beings many common features (which, of course, does not mean to deny that there are many and important differences, too).

So we must wonder about the real nature of norms and values: are they something that can be only referred to particular social groups, in the sense that we can only speak of norms and values as referred to group A, or B, or C? Or are we authorized to talk about kinds of “moral universals” that are the true foundations of any normative system?

It would seem that anthropology, and social science in general, has a message for us concerning human variability, but it is not exactly the one endorsed by radical cultural relativism. Rather, the correct conclusion appears to be that there is both uniformity and diversity across human cultures at the level of concepts, beliefs, and norms, sasys Rescher. Diversity shows the creativeness of human capacity for developing cultural instruments. Uniformity, instead, reflects both the biological constants in human life and the common features of the human existential situation.

Relativists of all sorts try to solve the problem by equating “morality” on the one side and “mores” on the other. Rescher notes in this regard that cultural relativism is the doctrine that societies and cultures have their own customs and folkways, which are so many different and in principle equally valid ways of transacting their business of everyday life. Moral relativism is the theory which holds, analogously, that there are different and discordant but in principle equally valid moralities. It is one of the widely pervasive convictions of our day that the former, plausible mode of relativism somehow entails the latter, that one group’s moral goodness is another’s moral wickedness — it all simply “lies in the eyes of the beholder”.

Rescher goes on noting that social scientists are especially drawn to this sort of approach, which in his opinion amounts to “imperialistic power grabbing.” Thus anthropologists, who study norms and customs, claim that morality belongs to their discipline because moral rules are nothing more than norms and customs. The same happens with the economists, who study the operations of rational self-interest in the production and distribution of goods; they, too, claim that morality belongs to their discipline, because moral rules are no more than procedures that maximize social utility and serve “the greatest good of the greatest number.” Rescher disagrees.

There is in his view a “wide gulf” that separates morality from mere mores. Many social theorists endorsedrelativism from a variety of anthropological, sociological, and ideological perspectives. Relativism has become so successful that it is often seen as a sort of truism that does not even need a defense. For Rescher, however, the rejection of relativism and the articulation of plausible arguments for absolutism are indeed essential to any meaningful legitimation of the moral project. They represent his main task, meaning that the moral project must itself be legitimated “in terms of morality-external values,” that is, values which, like personhood and responsibility for self-realization, are fully in agreement with moral concerns. Instead, values as social conformity or personal advantage are not consonant with such concerns.

Rescher’s strategy is twofold. On the one side he is ready to admit that moral rules are frequently part of the customs of a community or that moral behavior advances the welfare interests of the social group or the individual agent. On the other, however, he firmly rejects the view according to which morality consists in conformity to mores or in benefit-maximization. In other words, morality cannot adequately be accounted for in terms of values that imply no characteristically moral bearing. For this reason Rescher claims that the anthropological route to moral relativism is highly problematic. There is no difficulty whatever about the idea of different social customs, but the idea of different moralities faces insuperable difficulties. The case is much like that of saying that the tribe whose counting practices is based on the sequence: “one, two, many” has a different arithmetic from ourselves. To do anything like justice to the facts one would have to say that they do not have arithmetic at all, but just a peculiar, and very rudimentary way of counting. And similarly with those exotic tribesmen. On the given evidence, they do not have a different morality, but rather their culture has not developed to a point where they have a morality at all. If they think that it is acceptable to engage in practices like the sacrifice of firstborn girl children, then their grasp on the conception of morality is, on the face of it, somewhere between inadequate and nonexistent.

The conclusion is thus clear. Anti-absolutism must take a flexible and non-dogmatic stance if it wants to be coherent enough, while what it does today often is the opposite. The global rejection of absolutes has gone too far, and a middle of the road position is indeed mandatory. As Rescher notes, the very antipathy to dogmatic uniformity that characterizes the era’s sensibilities will, or should, militate against an absolutistic position in relation to philosophical absolutes. There is good reason to see the anti-absolutism of 20th century thought as misguided and in need of replacement by a position that is far less doctrinaire.

12. References and Further Reading

Rescher has published more than 100 books as well as more than 400 essays, chapters, and reviews. Below is a list of selected books:

  • The Development of Arabic Logic. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1964.
  • Studies in Arabic Philosophy. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1968.
  • Introduction to Value Theory. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1969.
  • The Coherence Theory of Truth. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973.
  • Methodological Pragmatism: A Systems-Theoretic Approach to the Theory of Knowledge. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1977.
  • Scientific Progress: A Philosophical Essay on the Economics of Research in Natural Science. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1978.
  • Risk: A Philosophical Introduction to the Theory of Risk Evaluation and Management. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1983.
  • The Strife of Systems: An Essay on the Grounds and Implications of Philosophical Diversity. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1985.
  • Rationality. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.
  • Cognitive Economy: Economic Perspectives in the Theory of Knowledge. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1989.
  • A Useful Inheritance: Evolutionary Epistemology in Philosophical Perspective. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1989.
  • Human Interests: Reflections on Philosophical Anthropology. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 1990.
  • A System of Pragmatic Idealism (three volumes): Volume I: Human Knowledge in Idealistic Perspective. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991. Volume II: The Validity of Values: Human Values in Pragmatic Perspective. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992. Volume III: Metaphilosophical Inquiries. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994.
  • Pluralism: Against the Demand for Consensus. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.
  • Luck. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1995.
  • Essays in the History of Philosophy. Aldershot, UK: Avebury, 1995.
  • Process Metaphysics. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1995.
  • Instructive Journey: An Autobiographical Essay. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1996.
  • Complexity: A Philosophical Overview. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1998.
  • Predicting The Future: An Introduction To The Theory Of Forecasting. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1998.
  • Kant and the Reach of Reason. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999.
  • Realistic Pragmatism: An Introduction to Pragmatic Philosophy. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1999.
  • The Limits of Science, 2nd ed. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1999.
  • Nature and Understanding: A Study of the Metaphysics of Science. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.
  • Paradoxes: Their Roots, Range, and Resolution. Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 2001.
  • Process Philosophy Nature and Understanding: A Study of the Metaphysics of Science: A Survey of Basic Issues. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2001.
  • Epistemology: On the Scope and Limits of Knowledge. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2003.
  • On Leibniz. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003.
  • Epistemic Logic. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004.
  • Metaphysics: The Key Issues from a Realist Perspective. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2005.
  • Reason and Reality: Realism and Idealism in Pragmatic Perspective. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2005.
  • Collected Papers (14 volumes). Frankfurt: Ontos Verlag, 2005-2006.
  • Epistemetrics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006.
  • Conditionals. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006.
  • Error: On Our Predicament When Things Go Wrong. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007.

Author Information

Michele Marsonet
Email: marsonet@unige.it
University of Genoa
Italy

Romanization Systems for Chinese Terms

Originally, the Chinese language and its many dialects did not use any form of alphabetical writing to express the meanings and sounds of Chinese characters. As Western interest in China intensified during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, various systems of romanization (transliteration into the Roman alphabet used in most Western languages) were proposed and utilized. Of these, the most frequently used today are the pinyin system and the Wade-Giles system. Both are based on the pronunciation of Chinese characters according to “Mandarin,” used as the official language of government in both the People’s Republic of China (mainland China) and the Republic of China (Taiwan).

The Wade-Giles system prevailed in both China and the West until the late twentieth century, at which point the pinyin system (developed in the People’s Republic of China during the 1950s) began to gain adherence among journalists and scholars. Today, the most current scholarship tends to use pinyin renderings of Chinese terms. For this reason, the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy introduces the names of Chinese philosophical concepts and figures in pinyin romanizations, with the exception of Wade-Giles forms that appear in bibliographical entries. The difference between the two systems can be compared by examining the renderings of some common Chinese philosophical terms according to each:

Pinyin Wade-Giles English Translation
Dao Tao Way, path
de te virtue, moral force, power
jing ching classic, scripture
junzi chün-tzu gentleman, profound person
ren jen benevolence, humaneness
Tian T’ien Heaven, nature
ziran tzu-jan spontaneity, naturalness

The following table may be used to convert pinyin and Wade-Giles romanizations:

Pinyin Wade-Giles Pronounce As-
b p b as in “be,” aspirated
c ts’, ts’ ts as in “its”
ch ch’ as in “church”
d t d as in “do”
g k g as in “go”
ian ien
j ch j as in “jeep”
k k’ k as in “kind,” aspirated
ong ung
p p’ p as in “par,” aspirated
q ch’ ch as in “cheek”
r j approx. like “j” in French “je”
s s, ss, sz s as in “sister”
sh sh sh as in “shore”
si szu
t t’ t as in “top”
x hs sh as in the “she” – thinly sounded
yi I
you yu
z ts z as in “zero”
zh ch j as in “jump”
zi tzu

Author Information

Jeffrey L. Richey
Email: Jeffrey_Richey@berea.edu
Berea College

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.

Willard Van Orman Quine: Philosophy of Science

quine1W. V. O. Quine (1908-2000) did not conceive of philosophy as an activity separate from the general province of empirical science. His interest in science is not best described as a philosophy of science but as a set of reflections on the nature of science that is pursued with the same empirical spirit that animates scientific inquiry. Quine’s philosophy should then be seen as a systematic attempt to understand science from within the resources of science itself. This project investigates both the epistemological and ontological dimensions of scientific theorizing. Quine’s epistemological concern is to examine our successful acquisition of scientific theories, while his ontological interests focus on the further logical regimentation of that theory. He thus advocates what is more famously known as ‘naturalized epistemology’, which consists of his attempt to provide an improved scientific explanation of how we have developed elaborate scientific theories on the basis of meager sensory input. Quine further argues that the most general features of reality can be examined through the use of formal logic by clarifying what objects we must acknowledge as real given our acceptance of an overarching systematic view of the world. In pursuing these issues, Quine reformulates and thus transforms these philosophical concerns according to those standards of clarity, empirical adequacy, and utility that he takes as central to the explanatory power of empirical science. While few philosophers have adopted Quine’s strict standards or accepted the details of his respective positions, the general empirical reconfiguration of philosophy and philosophy of science recommended by his naturalism has been very influential. This article provides an overview of Quine’s naturalistic conception of philosophy, and elaborates on its examination of the epistemological and ontological elements of scientific practice.

Table of Contents

  1. Naturalism
  2. Naturalized Epistemology
  3. Theory, Evidence and Underdetermination
  4. Ontology, Explication and the Regimentation of Theory
  5. Physicalism, Instrumentalism, and Realism
  6. Quine’s Influence
  7. Quine’s Critics
  8. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Naturalism

One central theme from the history of Western thought concerns the relationship between philosophy and science. Philosophy is often depicted as providing a set of general conditions that somehow support or validate the various claims made in the formal and empirical sciences. So, Plato describes how geometry helps equip philosophers with rational insight into a supersensible realm of ideas or forms—a superior level of reality that shapes how the world looks in ordinary sensory perception. In a related way, Descartes argues that inner reflection of the mind’s contents and activities reveals indubitable truths that form the basis of the emerging modern scientific worldview. Lastly, Kant argues for the active structuring role of human reason in making possible experience and scientific knowledge.

Such examples highlight a prominent historical self-understanding of philosophy and its relation to science, in which philosophy offers general truths that in some way serve to justify, ground, or support the specific results of scientific inquiry. On this general picture, philosophy is not conceived as a science, but as distinct from experience and experiment and further providing a priori resources that constitute a secure foundation for scientific claims. The empiricist tradition in philosophy, stretching from Locke to Russell, with its view that all substantial knowledge finds its source in experience, provides a useful contrast to this a priori conception of philosophy. Empiricists have been more sympathetic with the idea of aligning philosophy more closely to science, but there remained a problem concerning the nature of logical and mathematical knowledge, which did not appear to depend on experience. Rudolf Carnap’s logical empiricism with its use of the analytic-synthetic distinction is often presented as responding to this specific epistemological challenge (see Quine 1995a; for dissenting views see Richardson 1998, Friedman 2006). Statements such as “All bachelors are unmarried” were deemed analytic and were true in virtue of the meaning of the words used, whereas synthetic claims such as “Some bachelors are over six feet tall,” are determined true by the meaning of their terms and through experience.

Analytic statements, including logical and mathematical claims, provide no substantial knowledge about the world but merely report the conventional use of certain terms within a language. Analytic statements do not then make any claims about the world, but are the product of the specific way we construct a language. With the a priori (now thought of as analytic) character of logic and mathematics depicted in such terms, it does not constitute a separate type of knowledge, and does then conflict with the empiricist commitment that all knowledge has its source in experience. Carnap further conceived of philosophy as concerned with the analysis of the formal linguistic structure of scientific claims. Philosophy then focuses on the analytic framework of scientific language, and finds its place as a kind of subdiscipline within the formal sciences, while still distinct from the empirical sciences (see Carnap 1935).

Quine’s view of philosophical inquiry breaks decisively with the a priori conception of philosophy’s relation to science as seen in Plato, Descartes and Kant. Although he finds himself more in sympathy with the empiricist tradition (this is especially true with regard to both Russell’s and Carnap’s distinctive attempts to make philosophy more scientific), he also rejects what he sees as its attempt to preserve the a priori status of logic and mathematics through the distinction between analytic and synthetic statements (1981, 67-72). The basic conception of philosophy and philosophical practice that informs his discussion of science is commonly know as naturalism, a view that recommends the “abandonment of the goal of a first philosophy prior to natural science” (1981, 67), which further involves a “readiness to see philosophy as natural science trained upon itself and permitted free use of scientific findings” (1981, 85) and lastly, recognizes that “…it is within science itself, and not in some prior philosophy, that reality is to be identified and described” (1981, 21).

These remarks indicate that Quine rejects the view that philosophy maintains some distinctive perspective, or type of knowledge that distinguishes it from science, and which could further serve as a independent standpoint from which to critically assess or ground the methods and procedures found in science. Consequently, he recommends the pursuit of philosophical issues from within the available resources of the empirical sciences themselves.

So, for example, the philosophical treatment of scientific knowledge does not proceed from a perspective different in kind from the very knowledge that is under examination.

Here, Quine often appeals to Neurath’s metaphor of science as a boat, where changes need to be made piece by piece while we stay afloat, and not when docked at port. He further emphasizes that both the philosopher and scientist are in the same boat (1960, 3; 1981, 72, 178). The Quinean philosopher then begins from within the ongoing system of knowledge provided by science, and proceeds to use science in order to understand science. In laying out these various points, Quine offers few remarks concerning the nature of science or why he thinks that it should be given such priority with regard to philosophical investigations. This is because, in part, his use of the term “science” applies quite broadly referring not simply to the ‘hard’ or natural sciences, but also including psychology, economics, sociology, and even history (Quine 1995, 19; also see Quine 1997). But a more substantive reason centers on his view that all knowledge strives to provide a true understanding of the world and is then responsive to observation as the ultimate test of its claims. Once we view this as the shared pursuit of human knowledge, and couple it with Quine’s broad use of ‘science,’ then any attempt to gain such an understanding can be thought of as proceeding in a general scientific spirit. Quine then attaches scientific status to any statement that makes a contribution, no matter how slight, to a theory that can be tested through prediction (1992, 20).

These points gain some support from Quine’s general view of what one commentator has called “the seamlessness of knowledge” (Hylton 2007, 8-9). This seamlessness of our overall system of knowledge emphasizes how all knowledge claims are on par without any significant breaks or gaps between them. There are not, then, on this view, different distinctive types of knowledge that may be responsive to divergence standards of evidence. Quine views human knowledge as one all-encompassing system of belief, which is accepted, rejected, or modified according to how well it accommodates and explains what is observed. He sometimes makes this point by highlighting the ‘continuity’ between the claims of common-sense and those of more advanced science, where all attempts at making true claims are viewed as continuous in the general sense of being responsive to the same standards of evidence and testability that are the hallmark of scientific knowledge (1976b, 233). Most significantly, this results in Quine’s rejection of any a priori element to human knowledge. This point received its most sophisticated modern formulation with Carnap’s use of the analytic-synthetic distinction. By rejecting any sharp distinction between analytic and synthetic truths, Quine is led to the further denial of any type of knowledge that is categorically distinct from that found in our system of empirical knowledge (for details, see Quine 1951; Hylton 2007, 48-80). We can also note that this view of knowledge serves to reinforce Quine’s view of philosophy as more or less identical with the philosophical examination of scientific practice.

Not surprisingly then, Quine views science as our most successful attempt at acquiring knowledge. Accordingly, if philosophical work is to contribute to human knowledge it must locate its concerns within this ongoing attempt to acquire successful knowledge of the world, and aspire to the very same scientific standards of clarity, utility and explanation. From this perspective, philosophical reflection cannot simply rely on the uncritical use of our everyday terms but will need to propose new ways of formulating its concerns based on the rigorous standards found in the sciences. Given the kind of standards that Quine emphasizes as conducive to philosophical progress and to the advancement of knowledge, it is perhaps not surprising to learn that much of the vocabulary used in philosophy does not meet his standards. He would then reject it as insufficiently clear for the purposes of his naturalistic conception of philosophy and as incapable of advancing our understanding of the issues it discusses (see Hylton 2007, 11; Quine 1981, 184-6; 1987). It is perhaps here that Quine’s basic attitude to philosophical concerns most clearly departs from other philosophical approaches.

One example of this tendency in Quine’s thought is found with the concept of ‘knowledge’ itself. Although our everyday use of the term is unobjectionable, Quine thinks that it is too vague to meet the scientific demands of his theory of knowledge because it does not admit of clear and sharp boundaries. For example, it remains unclear how much evidence is needed for someone to ‘know’ something, or how much certainty is required for a belief to count as case of genuine knowledge (Quine 1987). Progress in the theory of knowledge cannot then be achieved if we continue to use such concepts as knowledge or evidence within the formulation of our problems and solutions. Given the more technical uses required of his scientific approach to knowledge Quine thinks it better to use expressions such as “our system of the world” or “our theory.” These expressions are sufficiently clear, or can be made so, to address the questions that matter while placing aside those concepts, and the concerns they generate, which would forestall any attempt at increased understanding.

This attitude can also be seen with Quine’s interest in ontological questions. Here he examines our system of scientific knowledge in order to further clarify how it might be best formulated, if it can be further simplified, and to make more explicit its basic ontological commitments. The interest here remains philosophical in the sense of being concerned with determining what general categories are needed to clearly specify what kinds of objects our scientific theory takes to be real. While such concerns are more abstract than the more focused empirical studies of the natural sciences, Quine does not take them to be distinct from such scientific questions:

What distinguishes between the ontological philosopher’s concerns and …[zoology, botany, and physics] is only breadth of categories. Given physical objects in general, the natural scientist is the man to decide about wombats and unicorns. Given classes…it is the mathematician to say whether in particular there are any even prime numbers…On the other hand it is the scrutiny of this uncritical acceptance of the realm of physical objects itself, or of classes, etc., that devolves upon ontology. (Quine 1960, 275)

General worries about ontology are then of a piece with specific scientific decisions about whether electrons or quarks exist; they are simply more general in their philosophical scrutiny of the broad categories needed to do justice to this specific acceptance of electrons or quarks. In carrying out these concerns, Quine requires that our scientific theory fit within the framework of first-order logic, have an ontology of physical objects and sets, and further meet the standards of physicalism (although Quine advocates a nonstandard use of the term “physicalism”) (see Hylton 2007, 324). In pursuing this logical ‘regimentation’ of our theory, Quine appeals to criteria that many philosophers have found to overly restrictive for calibrating human knowledge. Yet he thinks that it is only through such standards that we can clarify what we must acknowledge as real given our acceptance of that theory. To settle for less rigorous standards would obscure what our knowledge tells us about what ultimately exists.

The need to reformulate our philosophical concerns in this way highlights an important feature of Quine’s attitude to theoretical progress in science. Advances are often achieved through the recognition that our questions themselves cannot be successfully addressed because of the vagueness of the concepts employed. The proper response here is to recognize that our concepts are failing us, and to then search for better formulations that yield fruitful explanations of the phenomena under investigation. If as a result, some philosophical problems need to be dropped in favor of scientific formulations that hold the promise of increased understanding, then Quine would claim so much the worse for those old problems and their formulations. This itself represents a kind of scientific progress. Quine thinks that those philosophical problems most worth considering are those that can be clarified according to these scientific standards (see Hylton 2007, 11-12; Kemp 2006, 151-164). He is then impressed with the fact that scientific progress is often achieved by the dropping of the relevant terms, concepts, issues or distinctions that lead to the type of problems that hinder the growth of knowledge.

2. Naturalized Epistemology

Quine’s extension of this general perspective into the study of human knowledge results in his famous naturalization of epistemology, where the philosophical treatment of knowledge is presented as a scientific account of how humans have developed a systematic scientific understanding of the world. Here is how Quine conceives his core epistemological project:

The business of naturalized epistemology, for me, is an improved understanding of the chains of causation and implication that connect the bombardment of our surfaces, at one extreme, with our scientific output at the other. (1995c, 349)

It is rational reconstruction of the individual’s and/or the [human] race’s actual acquisition of a responsible theory of the external world. It would address the question how we, physical denizens of the physical world, can have projected our scientific theory of that whole world from our meager contacts with it: from the mere impacts of rays and particles on our surfaces and a few odds and ends such as the strain of walking uphill. (1995a, 16)

A naturalized conception of human knowledge seeks to provide an improved scientific account of the connections between the activation of our sensory surfaces and our theoretical discourse about the world. Put succinctly, Quine seeks to elucidate how cognitive discourse about the world is systematically related to sensory stimulation. Because he rejects the epistemological search for some independent philosophical validation of scientific inquiry, Quine’s own project presupposes and thus uses whatever scientific resources he thinks are relevant to understanding human knowledge (1992, 19).

So, Quine takes the traditional problem of the epistemology of empirical knowledge and interprets it in exclusively scientific terms. From this viewpoint, epistemological problems need to be reformulated according to those standards of clarity, evidence and explanation that are found in science. This explains Quine’s use of the various technical terms that form part of his project, such as “observation sentence,” “neural intake,” and others. These are all chosen for their perceived ability to adhere to the methodological dictates of empirical science. The usual philosophical concepts of “experience,” “sense data,” and “the external world” are too unclear to advance the type of scientific understanding and explanation promoted by Quine’s naturalized conception of epistemology. He replaces them with scientifically acceptable counterparts in the form of “stimulations,” “the triggering of sensory receptors” and “observation sentence.”

Perhaps his most significant move in this direction is the rejection of any conception of observation as something empirically ‘given’ that grounds or justifies our knowledge. Here, he follows Russell and Popper and rejects induction as providing confirmation of our theories through an appeal to pure observation (see Lugg 2006). Instead, Quine examines how knowledge emerges from our responses to sensory stimulation and how observation sentences (sentences we are disposed to accept or reject simply on the basis of stimulation) are related to these responses. Quine thinks that science itself tells us that our information about the world comes through the impingement of energy on our sensory surfaces resulting in the stimulation of our nerve endings (1992, 19). This empirical fact stands as a scientific vindication of empiricism, and it forms the basis for Quine’s further reflections on the nature of natural knowledge. Philosophers have generally been skeptical about the possibility of accounting for human knowledge in such austere scientific terms, most notably, without any use of the concepts of knowledge, meaning and understanding. Quine’s response to such skepticism consists of his attempt to sketch the details of this naturalistic account and thus demonstrate how it is possible to make sense of human knowledge and our use of cognitive language in such strict scientific terms. He then endeavors to show that we can pursue such an account without presupposing any mentalistic concepts (see Hylton 2007, 94-5).

In doing so, he provides a genetic account describing how humans have come to learn cognitive language. To bring out the epistemological significance of such an account he draws a parallel between the learning of cognitive language and the evidential support for a scientific theory:

The channels by which, having learned observation sentences, we acquire theoretical language, are the very same channels by which observation lends evidence to scientific theory…We see, then, a strategy for investigating the relation of evidential support, between observation and scientific theory. We can adopt a genetic approach, studying how theoretical language is learned. For the evidential relation is virtually enacted, it would seem, in the learning. This genetic strategy is attractive because the learning of language goes on in the world and is open to scientific study. It is a strategy for the scientific study of scientific method and evidence. (Quine 1975a, 75-6)

On Quine’s account, for a sentence to be considered cognitive it must be connected in some way to sentences that are answerable to sensory stimulation. It is through the learning of language that such connections are forged, since the child must learn to use sentences in response to sensory stimulation. The link between language and the world is described in terms of sentences causally tied to neural input, and is essential to both the learning of language and the responsiveness of theory to evidence (see Hylton 2007, 95).

Quine’s emphasis on language learning and causal conditioning has been at times sharply criticized as overly behaviorist in orientation (Searle 1987). It is then important to clarify the extent of this behaviorist commitment. (For further details see Gibson 2004.) Importantly, Quine dismisses any definition of behaviorism that limits it to conditioned response, and explains “What matters, as I see it, is just the insistence upon couching all criteria in observation terms” (1976a, 58). From his perspective behaviorism is a crucial methodological requirement resulting from the need for observable evidence, which facilitates the prediction and testing of hypotheses, and is also mandated by sound empirical method. He further explains how this “disciplines data, not explanation” and that to account for any appreciable language learning beyond the present observable scene requires a significant innate endowment: “Behaviorism welcomes genetics, neurology and innate endowments” (2000d, 417). Even if the processes involved in the learning of observation sentences should turn out to be unlike classical conditioning, this still would not, Quine emphasizes, be a refutation of behaviorism (Quine 1976a, 57). His use of the term is solely concerned with the establishment of the observable evidence required by empirical method. Quine’s behaviorism is not then some odd a priori assumption, nor a straightforward empirical thesis, but stands as the name for an approach to language learning which signals Quine’s commitment to the evidential and methodological requirements of his naturalism. His understanding of what is required with such a commitment results in his use of this behaviorist stance when examining language and the nature of human knowledge.

Quine’s genetic account then utilizes this methodological requirement to consider how the human child, subject to various forms of sensory stimulation, could come to acquire a theory of the world. He takes knowledge itself to be embodied within our language, so the examination of how this language is learned will enable us to better understand how the causal relations between observation sentences and sensory stimulation yield evidence for our scientific theory. Beginning with our basic cognitive vocabulary, we see that the child starts by making basic, primitive responses to sensory stimulation, and through the encouragement and discouragement of others, more sophisticated language and knowledge gradually emerges. In describing the various steps the child would take, Quine continues to emphasis the importance of observation sentences, which are those expressions that children learn through direct association with neural input (Quine 1995a, 22-25).

Observation sentences are an important subset of occasion sentences, sentences that are true or false on different occasions, with the additional requirement that they command an individual’s assent or dissent outright on the specific occasion of the relevant stimulation (Quine 1992, 3). The significance of observation sentences cannot be overemphasized, because they serve as the final objective checkpoint of science. It is through the utterance of an observation sentence that one provides the prediction that tests a hypothesis implied by our scientific theory. It is the requirement that neural input prompt the verdict outright, without further reflection, which makes the observation sentence the final checkpoint. The further requirement of intersubjectivity, unlike the report of a pain or feeling, indicates that the observation sentence yields the same response from all linguistically competent members of the community, revealing the source of the objective nature of science.

We can then imagine the child being conditioned to utter certain observation sentences in response to neural input, such as “milk,” when encountering the necessary stimulus. Over time children learn to assent and dissent, learning to assent to a sentence when stimulated in a way that would have caused them to utter that expression themselves, and to dissent when stimulated in a way that would not cause the utterance of this sentence. Quine emphasizes how such observation sentences, “Milk,” “Dog,” “Red” and “It’s raining” should be treated as wholes or holophrastically; each expression, whether containing one word or more, is conditioned as a whole to stimulation, and not as containing component words: “Each is simply an expression learned intact by association with stimulation and, derivatively, similar stimulations” (Quine 1984, 15). Each such observation sentence becomes associated with a range of perceptually similar neural intakes through conditioning. Quine defines perceptual similarity as a relation between an individual’s neural intake, testable through the reinforcement and extinction of the individual’s responses. He explains that perceptual similarity “is the basis of all learning, all habit formation, all expectation by induction from past experience; for we are innately disposed to expect similar events to have sequels that are similar to each other” (Quine 1995b, 253).

The relation between neural input and observation sentences is then understood in terms of conditioned response and subjective standards of perceptual similarity. However, there remains a lingering difficulty only resolved in some of Quine’s last writings in epistemology (see Quine 1995a, 1996, 2000a). Simply put, the problem concerns bridging “the gap between the privacy of our neural intake and the publicity of our testimony” (2000e, 409). Consider the surrounding environment of two interlocutors, what we might call the distal scene. Observation sentences tend to report this distal scene, and our agreement on what we see is registered with such verbal reports. Once we consider the causal chain from distal objects to our neural input we realize that all we share is this distal cause of our utterance; that is, we both utter “rabbit” in the presence of rabbits, but our perspectives on the scene are different, and there is no homology (shared neural structure) between our nerve endings. Despite this neural diversity we end up associating the same words with the same object, and the problem then is: “How is this distal harmony across proximal heterogeneity to be explained?” (Quine 2000e, 407).

Quine’s answer involves what he calls a “preestablished harmony of standards of perceptual similarity” (1996). He begins with his familiar emphasis on each individual’s subjective similarity standards and their central role in learning. Each bit of neural intake is similar to another more than it is to others, allowing us to notice differences as well as similarities. However, such perceptual similarities are private between us, and we share no receptors, nor are they homologous, but we still end up agreeing on the passing show. I utter “rabbit,” and you agree; in this case my neural intake was perceptually similar to earlier ones, as was your current ‘rabbity’ intake. What explains this convergence is a preestablished harmony between our similarity scales. Generally, when two events produce neural intakes that are perceptually similar for me, they also tend to be perceptually similar for you. Some of these similarity metrics must be innate, since learning cannot get started without them. Quine then concludes that our perceptual similarity standards are in part innate, and are in preestablished harmony. This harmony is further explained through natural selection:

There is survival value in successful induction, successful expectation: it expedites our elusion of predators and our pursuit of prey. Natural selection, then, has favored similarity standards that mesh relatively well with the succession of natural events…It…explains the preestablished harmony: the standards are largely fixed in the genes of the race, the species” (2000b, 2).

Our ability to successfully engage in primitive induction or expectation, as well as successfully communicate with each other about the distal scene, is revealed as dependent on this harmony of our subjective standards of perceptual similarity. Natural selection accounts for this through its shaping of our ancestor’s perceptual standards into a partial conformity with our own shared environment. It is through such biological origins that sensory connections between language and the world were forged, further establishing the responsiveness to observation of our later more advanced scientific pronouncements.

3. Theory, Evidence and Underdetermination

In addition to his interest in the acquisition of scientific knowledge, Quine also reflects on our theory as a more or less finished product and considers in a more general way the nature of the relationship between this theory and its evidence:

Within this baffling tangle of relations between our sensory stimulation and our scientific theory of the world, there is a segment that we can gratefully separate out and clarify without pursuing neurology, psychology, psycholinguistics, genetics, or history. It is the part where theory is tested by prediction. It is the relation of evidential support, and its essentials can be schematized by means of little more than logical analysis. (Quine 1992, 1-2)

Examining the logical links between our scientific statements and their connection to observation reveals that as a matter of strict logical implication our theory can be seen to imply its evidence (Quine 1975b). For example, what our scientific theory tells us about the physical composition of metal indicates that it will expand when heated. It then follows from our theory that if we heat a piece of metal this will result in its expansion. The claims made by our scientific theory imply that under certain conditions, specific observations will follow, and such observations count as evidence for the theory being on the right track. When such an implied hypothesis happens as expected (the metal expands) then our confidence in the original hypothesis increases and we provisionally include it within our backlog of theory. But when this hypothesis fails in its predictions, it has been falsified, and the theory requires further revision. These revisions must prevent the false implication but continue to imply the correct claims of our previously unrevised theory. This indicates that in general Quine accepts the hypothetico-deductive method that many philosophers have emphasized as central to scientific inquiry, and further endorses Karl Popper’s view that observation only serves to falsify our hypotheses and never confirms them (1992, 12-16).

However, there remains an issue concerning the nature of the evidence that is implied by our theory. More specifically, we might ask what plays the role of evidence within Quine’s naturalized account of knowledge (see Davidson 1983)? Given Quine’s naturalized account of knowledge, his answer must be in line with scientific practice. Although, he has at times claimed that observation sentences should be seen as evidence, they cannot measure up to this naturalist standard (1969a). This is because observation sentences are also occasion sentences where their truth-value can vary, while our theory and its implications (if true) would be true once and for all. There then appears to be no direct inferential connection between our theoretical statements and observation sentences (Quine 1975b).

In order to better capture scientific practice, Quine then introduces what he calls “observation categoricals” to help bridge this inferential gap between theory and evidence. An observation categorical is a hypothetical expression that links two observation sentences where the first specifies some experimental conditions and the second suggests what will follow from such conditions. In other words, they express the general expectation that whenever one observation sentence holds, the other will also (Quine 1995a, 25). Simple examples might include: “When it rains, it pours” or “Where there is smoke, there is fire.” For Quine, these constructions highlight the way in which evidence for a respective hypothesis is to be found: “The scientist deduces from his hypotheses that a certain observable situation should bring about another observable situation; then he realizes the one situation and watches for the other. Evidence for or against his set of hypotheses ensues, however inconclusive” (2000c, 411).

The observable consequences predicted by the observation categorical are offered in the form of observation sentences that are directly conditioned to sensory stimulation, and in this way remain answerable to observation and evidence as Quine conceives it. But the categorical itself is an eternal sentence (true or false once and for all) implied by our background theory, and if true can be incorporated into our theory (1981, 26). Experimental method then remains the source of justification for our beliefs: “Where I do find justification of science and evidence of truth is…in successful prediction of observations…” (Quine 2000c, 412). The scientist is justified in his belief that whenever X then Y because it has been provisionally supported by an experiment that has yielded the predicted consequences. Concerns over justification and evidence acquire paradigm expression in the experimental situation, with the endorsement of specific hypotheses stemming from their fulfilled prediction as described in observation categoricals.

Quine then takes our scientific theory of the world to imply its evidence, now seen as consisting of a set of observation categoricals. But he explains how the reverse does not hold, since no group of observation categoricals will logically imply our theory (Quine 1975b, 228). This fact further suggests that more than one theory might be compatible with the evidence, that is, imply the same group of observation categoricals. This conclusion is usually referred to as the underdetermination of theory by evidence – the view that our choice of theory is not wholly determined by the evidence. Quine thinks that this general thesis acquires some support from his holistic view of theories, where theoretical statements fail to imply any observation categoricals in isolation from one another, but must be taken together as a larger group if they are to have empirical implications. It is then because of Quine’s claim that there is a significant degree of empirical looseness of fit between theories and their evidence, that the evidence cannot uniquely determine one single theory. And this opens up the possibility that several theories may be compatible with that evidence.

Although such considerations lend some plausibility to the underdetermination thesis, Quine argues that once we attempt to further clarify this thesis, it is revealed as not as intuitively plausible as it originally appeared. The basic problem stems from the consequence suggested by the thesis, namely, that if we have an overall global theory, then there is also another empirically equivalent alternative theory. The trouble then consists of making sense of what “alternative” might mean in this context (1975b, 230-241). Quine wonders if there is way of making sense of such alternatives that rule out trivial cases, leaving us an interesting formulation of the basic thesis. He invokes the idea of translation between theories to highlight their distinctness, where we claim that our global theory has an alternative that is empirically equivalent but which cannot be translated sentence by sentence into our theory.

These theories differ in the predicates they use within their respective languages. A trivial example is given by switching two terms, “molecule” and “electron,” that do not appear in any observation sentence. These two theories would then be empirically equivalent since they imply the same observation sentences, but they say different things because one assigns certain properties to molecules, while the other denies them and attributes them to electrons (Quine 1981, 28-9). Successfully translating one to the other would then require a systematic conversion of one into the other. The underdetermination thesis that emerges from these remarks “asserts that our system of the world is bound to have empirically equivalent alternatives that are not reconcilable by reconstrual of predicates” (Quine 1975b, 242). Quine thinks it remains an open question whether this situation could arise. But, he does endorse the possibility that we might uncover empirically equivalent theories that we see no way to successfully reconcile through translation (1992, 97; see Hylton 2007, 189-196).

Quine’s discussion of issues involving the justification of theoretical statements stands in sharp contrast to the common criticism that his naturalized epistemology eliminates any normative concern with justification. The standard reference for this criticism is found with Kim (1993), who argues that Quine’s naturalized account of knowledge asks us to “set aside the entire framework of justification-centered epistemology” replacing it with “ a purely descriptive, causal-nomological science of human cognition” (224). With his explicit appeal to the resources of natural science, Kim takes Quine’s epistemological program as only describing how we have arrived at our current beliefs, and as incapable of accounting for the rational basis of these beliefs, or providing any recommendations concerning what beliefs we should accept or reject. He concludes that Quinean naturalized epistemology results in a radical rejection of the traditional normative project of epistemology.

Quine’s emphasis on the causal connections between our sensory surfaces and the statements of advanced science forms one element of his attempt to clarify the evidential support of science but one that does not explicitly address Kim’s normative concern. That is, it does not deal with questions of justification, or reasons for belief, and consequently does not establish those standards needed for the evaluation of our beliefs. Moreover, Quine would agree that sensory stimulation is incapable of dealing with normative concerns involving evidence, since this causal source of ‘information’ does not justify our beliefs, because we are unaware of our sensory input and cannot then infer anything from it. This agreement is partly obscured with Quine’s occasional use of “evidence” in summary statements of his position. However, this concept is not clear enough to be used within the more precise scientific formulations required of Quine’s naturalized account of knowledge. By concentrating on “the causal-nomological” element of Quine’s view, and finding there no evident interest in the issue of justification, Kim concludes that naturalized epistemology eschews any such concern. But this mistakenly takes Quine’s description of the causal chains from stimulus to science as all that would remain of epistemology after it has been situated within the empirical constraints of natural science. Quine thinks that concerns over justification find their most explicit expression in experimental contexts, when specific hypotheses lead to their fulfilled prediction. These predicted expectations are captured with his use of observation categoricals that serve to bridge the inferential gap between observation sentences and the more advanced pronouncements of our scientific theory.

This view of justification is also in accord with Kim’s insistence that epistemology indicate the conditions beliefs must satisfy to be considered justified. It further indicates which beliefs we have a rational responsibility to hold and those we do not. Through his appeal to experimental method and the claim that hypotheses are justified through the successful prediction of observational consequences, Quine indicates that these hypotheses are to be accepted while others that fail to lead to their respective predictions are not. Rather than reject normative epistemology, Quine’s theory of knowledge provides an account of the normative that is tempered by scientific resources and empirical methods. The result is a view of justification that remains capable of addressing those justificatory concerns that Kim sees as fundamental to the traditional normative project of epistemology. This suggests that the central normative issue that divides Quine and his critics does not involve the question of whether individual claims are justified but rather centers on his more fundamental denial of any general evaluative perspective on science from some external philosophical vantage point. For more on these issues see Gregory 2008, Johnsen 2005, Roth 1999, and Sinclair 2004, 2007.

4. Ontology, Explication and the Regimentation of Theory

Quine’s concern with science or with our overarching “scientific theory of the world” is not confined to the acquisition and evidential support of this theory, but also considers the question of its further ontological commitments. Here, he is interested in what the world is like in its most general structural features, and in further clarifying what our scientific theory tells us about this ontological structure (Quine 1960, 161). Such concerns indicate a philosophical task for the naturalist philosopher: a detailed consideration of how our scientific theory might be organized and systematized. This, as we will see, results in Quine’s attempt to further simply this theory and in the process help to clarify what sorts of objects we must acknowledge as real given our acceptance of this theory.

In carrying out this systemization of our theory Quine speaks of its “regimentation,” in which the theory is to be cast in a logically clear and rigorous language (1960, 157). The results of this regimentation further lead to ontological reduction, in which we appeal to various logical techniques to demonstrate that our theory does not commit us to the existence of certain kinds of things that it may, at first glance, appear to (Hylton 2007, 245). The overall aims of regimentation are to make our theory clearer, more precise and systematic. Quine takes this drive towards greater systematization as central to the improvement of human knowledge generally. It is precisely these further systematic refinements to our knowledge that helps it move beyond the claims of commonsense to more sophisticated science (Quine 1976b, 233-234). By injecting greater system into the precise examination of evidence the scientist is able to take positive steps beyond commonsense understanding. Quine views the philosophical concerns that motivate his use of logical regimentation as a straightforward continuation of the scientific effort to impose greater system upon our theory (see Hylton 2007, 232-233). The scientist is interested in organizing and clarifying some specific area of a theory, such as biology or chemistry, in order to provide a better understanding of that part of human knowledge and further lay the groundwork for future progress in that area. The philosophical aim here is, not surprisingly, broader and more abstract than that of the empirical scientist, but the motivation and result is the same (Quine 1960, 275-276). These ontological interests are another example of the way Quine conceives of philosophy as continuous with the aims and motives of scientific inquiry.

Quine is concerned with making explicit the ontological claims that our theory requires us to accept. In other words, what kinds of objects must we accept as real, given our commitment to this theory (Hylton 2007, 236). In pursuing such issues, he thinks that our ordinary language or system of concepts fails to make explicit the nature of such ontological commitments, because it fails to definitely pick out objects. When dealing with various ontological concerns, we cannot then simply “read them off” our ordinary use of terms and concepts:

The common man’s ontology is vague and untidy in two ways. It takes in many purported objects that are vaguely or inadequately defined. But also, what is more significant, it is vague in its scope; we cannot even tell in general which of these vague things to ascribe to a man’s ontology at all, which things to count him as assuming…It is only our somewhat regimented and sophisticated language of science that has evolved in such a way as really to raise ontological questions. (Quine 1979, 276)

It is only once we have cast our knowledge of the world into a regimented notation that it then makes sense to ask about what it claims to exist. However, there are various logical methods and techniques available for this logical calibration or regimentation. We must then choose a method, and base this choice on that method which does the best job at helping us systematize our theory. Quine argues that the best way to regiment our theory is to formulate it within the terms set by the syntax of classical first order logic. Setting up our theory within such syntactical forms will, he thinks, provide the best way of simplifying and clarifying this theory (see Hylton 2007, 252). Quine’s general concern with clearly and explicitly capturing the nature of our theory’s ontological commitments is then intimately connected with his attempt to regiment our scientific theory into the syntax of modern logic.

One important way that regimentation helps with the simplification and clarification of our theory is through helping us avoid nagging philosophical problems by ‘resolving’ them. Again, this claim needs to be measured against problematic features of ordinary language use. Ordinary language contains idioms and constructions that lead to puzzling questions or paradoxes. For example, to meaningfully speak about some thing not existing, seems to require that there is in fact such an object to talk about. But following Russell, Quine shows how such expressions can be rewritten within a formal language using quantifiers and bound variables (for more details see Quine 1948, 1-19; Hylton 2007, 280-297). The meaningfulness of such expressions is then understood within the resources of a formal language and does not further require that there exist objects such as a round square, or Pegasus, in order for us to speak meaningful of there being no round square, nor Pegasus.

For such reasons, Quine thinks that we can avoid these idioms and constructions and, in turn, sidestep the philosophical puzzlement that accompanies them. This reflects his attitude to progress in philosophy and science, where serious philosophical work is concerned with science or our general systematic structure of human knowledge. The simplification of this theory demonstrates how to avoid puzzling and irresolvable questions that have been part of historical philosophical concerns. Scientific work can than move forward without any distraction from such potential philosophical impediments to progress (Hylton 2007, 244). Quine explains that “problems are dissolved in the important sense of being shown to be purely verbal, and purely verbal in the important sense of arising from usages that can be avoided in favor of ones that engender no such problems” (1960, 261). It should be stressed that Quine does not think that all philosophical problems can be dissolved in this way. His point here is to emphasize that philosophical worries often derive from the vagueness of the terms employed, rather than from a discovery of a genuine issue that needs to be addressed. This itself is revealed once we adopt a proper scientific attitude to the problem, further demonstrating that it is unreal and should placed aside.

We have seen that Quine takes the ontological claims of our theory as only becoming clear relative to some form of logical regimentation. However, at first glance, it appears as if our ordinary discourse comes with ontological commitments. The subject of a given sentence seems to correspond to an object, suggesting that accepting such a sentence is to commit oneself to the existence of that object. It is possible that given our choice of a regimented language, this commitment may remain, or we may be able to do without it, since the sentence can be logically recalibrated without any reference to such an object. This second case is one of ontological reduction, where we have demonstrated how the commitment to the existence of an object does not need to be taken as a real commitment (Hylton 2007, 246; Quine 1960, 257-262).

Quine illustrates this point with his discussion of the definition of an ordered pair. Within set theory, the definition of set is indifferent to the order of its members. The set consisting of my coffee cup and my copy of Word and Object is the same set as that made up of my copy of Word and Object and my coffee cup. There are times, however, when this order makes a difference and we need to specify which member of a set comes first and which comes second. To do so we introduce an entity called an “ordered pair.” For example to define the relation of fatherhood, we would introduce the ordered pair of <Abraham, Isaac> where the first member is male and the second is a child of the first. The father relation can then be defined as the set of all ordered pairs of this kind (Quine 1960, 257). Ordered pairs need to be subject to one fundamental postulate: that the ordered pair consisting of a and b is identical to the ordered pair consisting of x and y if and only if a = x and b = y (Gustafsson 2006, 60; Hylton 2007, 247). Now, the ontological issue concerns the apparent need to be committed to an extra entity called ‘ordered pair’ of which this postulate is true or whether we can define this construction using only the conceptual resources within our existing theory, that is, within set theory. It turns out that we do not need to assume the existence of such entities, since there are, at least, two ways to use set theory to define ordered pairs (for details, see Gustaffsson 2006, 60-65; Hylton 2007, 247). The above postulate can then be translated via a theorem of set theory using one of these proposed definitions. When our explanatory needs require a more precise specification of the order of a set’s members, we are able to meet this demand by simply using the resources of our existing theory. The justification for making such theoretical maneuvers and using these definitions, is found with the demands of overall utility and convenience; we can address our explanatory interests by using the existing resources of set theory while avoiding assumptions and entities that we do not need. For Quine, it does not matter that there are several definitions of ordered pair available, nor that they make different claims about what ordered pairs ‘really’ are. Any definition that is capable of fulfilling the basic postulate is deemed acceptable for his theoretical purposes (Gustaffsson 2006, 61; Hylton 2007, 247-8). Simply put, what these definitions then show is that we can proceed with our explanatory interests without ordered pairs. Despite his focus on this relatively technical point internal to set theory, Quine suggests that we draw a general philosophical moral:

This construction is paradigmatic of what we are most typically up to when in a philosophical sprit we offer an “analysis” or “explication” of some hitherto inadequately formulated “idea” or expression.… We fix on the particular functions of the unclear expression that make it worth troubling about, and then devise a substitute, clear and couched in terms to our liking, that fills those functions. Beyond those conditions of partial agreement, dictated by our interests and purposes, any traits of the explicans come under the head of “don’t-cares” (Quine 1960, 258-259).

This definition or explication of ‘ordered pair’ has this broader ontological significance because the technical issues that motivate it are here viewed as simply a basic part of what it means to address such ontological questions. Due to the inherent vagueness of our ordinary discourse, Quine views ontology itself to be largely an artificial enterprise, which is inseparable from the very sort of logical techniques and regimentation we have discussed (Hylton 2004, 128). The study of ontology requires addressing those technical issues that answer the explanatory needs of convenience, simplicity and overall considerations of utility. For Quine, any serious attempt at clarifying our ontological commitments will then involve the technical considerations found in this explication of the ordered pair.

This definition or explication has resulted in our proceeding without assuming the existence of ordered pairs. There then remains a general question concerning whether such ontological reductions explain or eliminate the entity under consideration. Given Quine’s general attitude to ontological issues, we might expect that he recognizes no sharp difference here between explication and elimination. If the definition results in a rejection of certain uses of a term, then we may be more inclined to view this as a rejection of the entity in question. But if these uses are still recognized as important in different contexts, we may favor the explication of the term rather than its elimination. Given the artificial nature of the ontological enterprise, these are largely rhetorical differences that do not admit of sharp boundaries (Quine 1960, 261).

This is perhaps best seen with Quine’s view of the disagreement within the philosophy of mind between identity theorists and so-called eliminative materialists (see Gustaffsson 2006). Despite a lack of neurophysical detail, Quine thinks that we still can provide an explication of the mental that shows how to proceed without the positing of mental entities. If one grants that each mental state has a corresponding bodily state, then we can simply assign mental predicates to states of the physical body, thus bypassing any need to assign the mental to some non-bodily substance. John’s pain is not located in some mind that is in a state of pain, but we instead take the predicate “is feeling pain” as applicable directly to John’s body. In this way we get rid of all reference to mental entities and appeal to mental predicates as applying only to physical things, in this case John’s body (Gustaffsson 2006, 66). As in the case of ordered pairs, we have a definition that leads to ontological reduction, and we might be inclined to ask whether this reduction explains what mental states really are, or eliminates then completely from our ontology.

Quine’s attitude here is the same as before; a proper scientific regimentation of discourse about minds demonstrates how to proceed without the positing of mental entities. But the further question of whether this identifies the mental with the physical or eliminates the mental is shown to be merely a rhetorical difference. It is only through our choice of a logical framework, a regimented language, that we are capable of settling the question of what identity criteria are available. Once this has been decided we can recognize that scientific discourse about minds does not require a commitment to mental entities. However, this reveals that there are no further objective facts characterized within this formally regimented language that settles the question of the identification or elimination of the mental (see Gustaffsson 2006, 67-68; Quine 1960, 265). We have shown how our commitment to physicalism is compatible with the explanatory need to posit mental states, but how we might further describe this outcome is merely a choice between which way of talking we like best (Quine 1995a, 86).

5. Physicalism, Instrumentalism, and Realism

With regard to Quine’s general attitude within ontology we have seen his insistence on clarity, utility, ontological reduction, and the general simplicity and sparseness of our theoretical commitments. These features coupled with Quine’s early flirtation with nominalism might lead one to conclude that his philosophy be characterized as “nominalist” (Quine 1946, Quine and Goodman 1947). However, this conclusion does not follow. Much of our theorizing uses abstract objects, including for example, mathematics objects such as numbers and functions, which in turn form a crucial part of the overall structure of the sciences. Without abstract objects we would be unable to accommodate mathematics within our overall system of knowledge, and so would deprive ourselves of such knowledge within natural science. Moreover, ordinary statements such as “I own two cars,” appeal to the idea of a type of object, which we may most readily understand in terms of abstract entities (See Hylton 2007, 302-303). Quine is then driven to accept abstract entities, by stressing the overwhelming theoretical and structural reasons for including them into our ontology. It is important to note that no experiment or fulfilled prediction settles this or any other ontological issue (Quine 1960, 276). Rather, the reality of abstract objects gains indirect support through the structural benefits they provide our theory in our ongoing attempt to formulate testable hypotheses.

Quine further clarifies the status and role of such abstract objects through an appeal to sets as the only type of abstract object required. Most significantly, he thinks it is possible to demonstrate how various mathematical entities can be defined using only sets. The use of sets then allows us to preserve the importance of mathematics and its crucial role within the language of natural science, while admitting only one type of abstract object into our ontology.

When Quine’s general ontological viewpoint is characterized as physicalist, we must note its endorsement of physical objects, and abstract objects. This use of “physicalism” is nonstandard, as the term is sometimes equated with materialism (only physical things exist), and as explicitly rejecting the existence of abstract objects (see Hylton 2007, 310). Quine further formulates his physicalism as the view that there is no difference without a physical difference. That is, nothing happens in the world without a redistribution of microphysical states (Quine 1981, 98). Importantly, this does not result in a strict form of reductive physicalism, where, for example, we might claim that a particular type of physical event occurs when someone thinks about their vacation in Mexico. Rather, Quine advocates a form of what is often called “nonreductive physicalism,” in which various vocabularies, including intentional descriptions, cannot be reduced to the language of physics, but that each particular mental event can be identified with a specific physical event. He takes the general significance of this form of physicalism as stemming from the fact that it is physics, as the fundamental science, which aims for the full coverage of all events in the universe:

…nothing happens in the world, not the flutter of the eyelid, not the flicker of a thought, without some redistribution of microphysical states…If the physicist suspected that there was any event that did not consist in the redistribution of the elementary states allowed for in his physical theory, he would seek a way of supplementing his theory. Full coverage in this sense is the very business of physics, and only of physics. (Quine 1981, 98)

It falls to physics to account for all actions and events within its universal and exceptionless laws. The importance that Quine assigns to his physicalism is based on the plausible empirical assumption that there is an adequate physical theory to be found along the lines he suggests (Hylton 2007, 315-316). While physics remains incomplete, it nonetheless provides us with a coherent unified theory with great explanatory power. It is reasonable to believe that, as the details of physical theory are further worked out, the resulting theory will remain a natural extension and continuation of the current physical understanding at hand.

Quine further emphasizes what he describes as a “robust” realism about the objects posited by our overarching theory of world. This realism remains grounded in his naturalistic conception of philosophy, where it is science itself that describes and identifies the most basic features of reality. He emphasizes the way human knowledge is a means for the prediction of observation or, more technically, of sensory stimulation:

Our talk of external things, our very notion of things, is just a conceptual apparatus that helps us foresee and control the triggering of our sensory receptors in the light of previous triggering of sensory receptors. The triggering, first and last, is all that we have to go on. (1981, 1)

This view of knowledge appears to suggest that theories are only instruments, and then conflict with the realist stance Quine further affirms of the objects posited by our scientific theories (Hylton 2007, 18-22). If knowledge is simply viewed as a way of predicting stimulation, then why should we take the further step and proclaim that the objects it claims to tell us about really exist? The basic critical point here claims that despite Quine’s professed realism his view of theories and their relations to sensory stimulation prevent him from taking the things described as real.

This point is reinforced with Quine’s emphasis on what he calls “Ontological Relativity” (Quine 1969b). Suppose we have provided a fully regimented scientific theory in which all of our ontological commitments are now completely transparent. Quine argues that there remains more than one way to interpret such commitments. We can provide a different interpretation of its predicates, and this will give a corresponding change in the ontological commitments of the theory. For example, instead of claiming that x is a dog, we could say that x is a certain temporal stage of a dog. Here, the predicates assigned to the objects of the theory have changed, but the overall structure of the theory remains the same; and its empirical content, that is, its implied observations, also remain unchanged (see Hylton 2004, 115-150). But what the theory tells us is real has changed. Quine thinks it is important that the structure of our theory is built up to accommodate sensory experience, but that the objects used to carry this out can vary. Once again, this may seem to conflict with his further commitment to a realism about the objects posited by our theory. More specifically, in spite of his emphasis on viewing objects as theoretical posits, and how they can vary with no impact on implied observation, he still affirms the reality of the objects posited by our theory. He himself thinks that this represents no serious conflict, and that the key reconciliation of these elements is found with his naturalism (1981, 21). It will then be useful to briefly examine why Quine thinks his naturalism can reconcile the instrumentalist and realist elements of his philosophy of science.

Standard forms of instrumentalism take scientific theories to be instruments for making predictions but view the objects or entities named within such theories as merely useful fictions. They are not claimed to be real, but are simply posited in order to help us make successful predictions. Sometimes this view claims that everyday objects like tables and chairs are real and that the posited non-observable fictions of the theory help us understand the observable behavior of such real objects. Other times it takes all of these objects, including chairs and tables as useful fictions. Either way, such positions rely on a distinction between types or levels of reality, in which one class of objects is depicted as somehow less real than the other, and such objects are then just simple posits for organizing our experience of things (see Hylton 2007, 18-20).

Importantly, Quine’s epistemological and ontological views do not permit any such contrast. He does not think that we can take our sensory stimulations as real while at the same time viewing physical objects as mere fictions. For Quine, sensory stimulations are physical objects and we then need to view them as on par with all other physical objects. But this is a basic corollary of his naturalistic stance in philosophy. Quine’s naturalism emphasizes that we always begin within our ongoing theory of the world, which takes for granted both the existence of the physical world and our knowledge of that world. There is then no neutral, pre-theoretical position that would provide us with access to some other standard of reality. He rejects the claim that in philosophical inquiry we can appeal to a standard of reality that is different from the one we use when we distinguish, for example, a real pool of water from a mere mirage (Hylton 2007, 20). What we have available is our ordinary knowledge of things, where further modifications of this knowledge may lead through a process of internal development. Consequently, we lack any superior standard of reality other than that found within our general overarching systematic theory of the world. Stated somewhat differently, it is only by means of our developing our theory of the world that we have any coherent way of distinguishing what is real from what is not real.

This represents, once again, a rejection of any philosophical perspective that is independent of the general philosophical (and scientific) task of establishing the best theory available for the predicting and making sense of our sensory stimulation. We select scientific theories that best predict sensory input, but, in contrast with the instrumentalist, we cannot simply rest with prediction, and are further committed to affirming the reality of the objects described by the theory.

Quine’s naturalism reconciles the instrumentalist and realist elements of his view by affirming that epistemological and ontological commitments go hand in hand. There is no conflict between our recognition that knowledge is a human-made artifact designed to accommodate observation and our further acceptance of the reality of those objects discussed by that knowledge (Hylton 2007, 22). We can study how we have constructed our knowledge of the world, while at the same time taking for granted the theory we are trying to make sense of with its realistic acceptance of objects, sets, nerve endings, and human beings. Quine’s naturalism then claims that the study of human knowledge takes place within the theory it studies and presupposes the reality of the objects discussed in that theory. There is, as he remarks, “no first philosophy prior to natural science” (Quine 1981, 67).

6. Quine’s Influence

Few philosophers have been willing to adopt Quine’s strict standards nor have they accepted all the details of his respective views. Nevertheless, his influence has been widespread, and its importance can be measured in several different ways.

From the standpoint of the development of philosophy in America, Quine’s early training in logic and his later promotion of themes from logical empiricist philosophy helped set the stage for the emergence of what would be called “analytic philosophy.” Quine saw the importance of logical empiricism within its marshaling of logical techniques in philosophy, and this would then prove central for his later explicit development of a scientific, naturalist conception of philosophy, which rejected any epistemologically significant understanding of the a priori. His emphasis on the technical, scientific aspects of philosophy fed into the increasing pressure for professionalization in philosophy. In the aftermath of the Second World War, Quine’s understanding of the discipline prevailed, with conceptions of scientific philosophy and various forms of scientific naturalism reaffirming the model of the professional philosopher as empirical technician, rather than as moral and social visionary (for more details see Isaac 2005, 205-234).

Quine’s most explicit philosophical influence is then to be found in his empirical reconfiguration of philosophy, and its suggestion that philosophical inquiry must be intimately tied to empirical scientific work. Following Quine’s emphasis on naturalized epistemology, many analytic philosophers have proceeded to ‘naturalize’ various areas of philosophical inquiry. Such projects emphasize the importance of a greater alignment between philosophy and the empirical sciences, while raising suspicions about many traditional projects in philosophy that trade in objects (such as minds, propositions, meanings, and norms) that are hard to locate in the natural world. Although Quine’s philosophy does not engage in any detailed way with empirical results, his work can be usefully viewed as a general model for how philosophical issues can be interpreted scientifically. It is not surprising to see recent trends in naturalistic philosophy making a more explicit appeal to work in psychology, evolutionary biology, neuroscience, and the cognitive sciences. For some examples, see Churchland 1987 and Kornblith 1994.

The idea that philosophy should be informed by work in the sciences may seem hard to resist. The impressive successes found in modern science make it a compelling example of how to pattern our ongoing attempts to advance human knowledge. Moreover, in the face of scientific prestige and progress, philosophers have faced the difficult question of articulating what they still can contribute to the progress of human knowledge. The inconclusiveness of philosophical speculation has led many philosophers to offer varying ways of making philosophy more scientific in the hopes of partaking in scientific progress. This assimilation of philosophical problems or concerns to science may then help philosophy regain some measure of epistemic respect, and intellectual authority, by adopting a more modest but at least legitimate place alongside, or within, science.

But how we are to understand this relationship between philosophy and science is not unproblematic. Quine’s attempt to situate philosophical inquiry within or alongside empirical science is one pointed and forceful way of thinking about this relationship. His key contribution to our understanding of science does not consist in providing a philosophy of science, but in showing how philosophical concerns can be conceived as scientific. Here, it is useful to further reflect on his specific attempt to bring strict scientific standards to bear on key philosophical issues and problems. Given the ongoing importance of addressing such metaphilosophical worries about the status of philosophy in relation to science, Quine’s view remains useful as a resource, even if many philosophers remain reluctant to adopt his general strategy or its detailed reconstructions of philosophical problems.

7. Quine’s Critics

Searle’s criticism of Quine’s behaviorism was discussed above. One other important critical response to Quine’s specific rendering of the philosophy-science relationship is found with the work of Michael Friedman (1997, 2001). Quine’s naturalism, with its rejection of any form of a priori knowledge, results in a holistic picture of human knowledge as one large web of belief touching experience only at its edges. Friedman argues that this picture fails to account for a more subtle interaction between the exact sciences, such as mathematics and logic, and the natural sciences, and as a result, cannot properly make sense of their historical development.

Friedman’s alternative picture involves a dynamical system of beliefs, concepts, and principles that can be distinguished into three main elements or levels. There is an evolving system of empirical scientific concepts and principles, a system of mathematical concepts and principles that make possible the framing of empirical science and its precise experimental testing, and lastly a system of philosophical concepts and principles that serve during times of scientific revolution as a source of suggestions for choosing one scientific framework rather than another (Friedman 1997, 18-9; 2001). All of these three systematic levels are constantly changing and interact with each other, but each plays a distinctive role within the general framework of scientific knowledge. For example, consider the revolutionary scientific changes of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Here, the guiding aim was a precise mathematical description of natural phenomena using an atomistic theory of matter that explained natural changes as the result of movement and impact of tiny particles. This guiding ideal requires the use of mathematics to achieve precise results that can then be subjected to exact experimental tests. Here, we have a distinctive contribution at the mathematical level, where this forms the necessary backdrop to empirical testing within the natural sciences. But this achievement lacked the mathematical and empirical resources needed for its successful completion and was sustained by distinct philosophical contributions. It is here that Descartes’ system of natural philosophy, with its careful revision and reorganization of philosophical concepts derived from scholastic philosophy that distinctive philosophical contributions helped to promote this new scientific ideal (Friedman 1997, 14, 16-7).

Although Friedman’s account agrees with Quine that none of our beliefs are forever immune from revision, it further diverges from Quinean naturalism in two fundamental ways. First, it highlights a modified Kantian view of the way mathematical concepts and principles stand as a priori conditions that make possible both the very framing of empirical scientific principles and their experimental testing. Second, it highlights a distinct role for philosophy in relation to science, when it suggests that during deep conceptual revolutions in science, a separate level of philosophical ideas and concepts can be offered as resources for sustaining a new scientific framework. Adopting Quine’s general assimilation of philosophy to empirical science obscures the constitutive a priori role mathematics plays in the formulation of empirical scientific principles, Friedman argues, and further ignores the distinctive role philosophy plays in relation to science during scientific revolutions. Friedman’s alternative conception of the relations between philosophy, mathematics and empirical science suggests a more complicated interaction than seen with Quine’s naturalism, one that arguably is needed if we are to fully understand the historical development of the sciences and philosophy’s contribution to that process.

8. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

  • Quine, W.V. 1946. Nominalism. In Confessions of a Confirmed Extensionalist and Other Essays (2008b). Edited by Dagfinn Føllesdal and Douglas B. Quine. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • An early unpublished presentation on the merits and limits of nominalism.
  • Quine, W.V. 1948. On What There Is. In From a Logical Point of View (1981). Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • An early discussion of ontological issues, where Quine uses Russell’s theory of descriptions and offers a criterion for ontological commitment.
  • Quine, W.V. 1951. Two Dogmas of Empiricism. Philosophical Review 60: 20-43.
    • Famously criticizes the tenability of the analytic-synthetic distinction.
  • Quine, W.V. 1960. Word and Object. Cambridge: MIT Press.
    • His magnum opus dealing with core issues in language, epistemology, and ontology.
  • Quine, W.V. 1969a. Epistemology Naturalized. In Ontological Relativity and Other Essays. New York: Columbia University Press.
    • The classic statement of Quine’s naturalized epistemology.
  • Quine, W.V. 1969b. Ontological Relativity. In Ontological Relativity and Other Essays. New York: Columbia University Press.
    • Discussion concerning how ontology is relative to theory choice.
  • Quine, W.V. 1975a. The Nature of Natural Knowledge. In Mind and Language. Edited by Samuel Guttenplan. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Overview of Quine’s naturalistic account of human knowledge.
  • Quine. W.V. 1975b. On Empirically Equivalent Systems of the World. Erkenntnis 9: 313-328. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Discusses the nature and intelligibility of the underdetermination thesis.
  • Quine, W. V. 1976a. Linguistics and Philosophy. In The Ways of Paradox and other Essays, Enlarged edition. New York: Random House.
    • Further clarifies the extent of Quine’s use of behaviorism.
  • Quine, W.V. 1976b. The Scope and Language of Science. In The Ways of Paradox and other Essays, Enlarged edition. New York: Random House.
    • Overview of Quine’s philosophical attitude to scientific knowledge and the logical calibration of scientific language.
  • Quine, W. V. 1979. Facts of the Matter. In Essays on the Philosophy of W.V. Quine. Edited by Robert Shahan and Chris Swoyer. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Discusses Quine’s approach to knowledge and its connection to ontology.
  • Quine, W.V. 1981. Theories and Things. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • Useful collection of essays and responses to critics.
  • Quine, W.V. 1984. Sticks and Stones; or, the Ins and Outs of Existence. In On Nature. Edited by Leroy Rouner. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Reprinted in Quine 2008a.
    • Another useful overview of Quine’s naturalized account of knowledge and ontology.
  • Quine, W. V. 1987. Quiddities. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • Quine’s philosophical dictionary.
  • Quine, W.V. 1992. Pursuit of Truth (2nd Edition). Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • Later concise overview of Quine’s interlocking views on meaning, knowledge, and ontology.
  • Quine, W.V. 1995a. From Stimulus to Science. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • Quine’s last book where he situates his view in relation to the history of empiricism and summarizes his mature standpoint on various philosophical issues.
  • Quine, W.V. 1995b. Naturalism; Or, Living Within One’s Means. Dialectica 49: 251-61. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Later summary statement of Quine’s naturalist conception of philosophy.
  • Quine, W.V. 1995c. Reactions. In On Quine: New Essays. Edited by Paolo Leonardi and Marco Santambrogio. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Quine’s response to a set of essays on his work. He clarifies his position on a variety of different topics including epistemology, ontology, mathematics and logic.
  • Quine, W.V. 1996. Progress on Two Fronts. The Journal of Philosophy 93: 159-63. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Important short article discussing the perceptual harmony of similarity standards.
  • Quine, W.V. 1997. Response to Haack. Revue Internationale de Philosophie 51: 571-2. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Responds to Haack’s questions concerning Quine’s use of “science,” his discussion of evidence versus method, and other related issues.
  • Quine, W.V. 2000a. Three Networks: Similarity, Implication, and Membership. In The Proceedings of the 20th World Congress of Philosophy Volume VI: Analytic Philosophy and Logic. Edited by Akihiro Kahamori. Reprinted in Quine 2008b.
    • Quine’s last public presentation briefly discussing his use of perceptual harmony.
  • Quine, W.V. 2000b. I, You and It: An Epistemological Triangle. In Knowledge, Language and Logic: Questions for Quine. Edited by Alex Orenstein and Petr Kotatko. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
    • Concise statement of Quine’s later amendments to his epistemology.
  • Quine, W.V. 2000c. Response to Lehrer. In Knowledge, Language and Logic: Questions for Quine. Edited by Alex Orenstein and Petr Kotatko. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Reprinted in Quine 2008a.
    • Brief discussion of Quine’s view of evidence and justification.
  • Quine, W. V. 2000d. Response to Segal. In Knowledge, Language and Logic: Questions for Quine. Edited by Alex Orenstein and Petr Kotatko. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
    • Brief clarification of Quine’s use of behaviorism.
  • Quine, W. V. 2000e. Response to Szuba. In Knowledge, Language and Logic: Questions for Quine. Edited by Alex Orenstein and Petr Kotatko. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
    • Discusses the perceptual harmony of our similarity standards.
  • Quine, W. V. 2008a. Quine in Dialogue. Edited by Dagfinn Føllesdal and Douglas B. Quine. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • Useful collection of Quine’s interviews, book reviews and responses to other philosophers.
  • Quine, W. V. 2008b. Confessions of a Confirmed Extensionalist and Other Essays. Edited by Dagfinn Føllesdal and Douglas B. Quine. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
    • Quine’s main articles from his last three decades and important unpublished writings.
  • Quine, W. V. and Nelson Goodman. 1947. Steps Toward a Constructive Nominalism. Journal of Symbolic Logic 12: 97-122.
    • Early attempt with Goodman to develop a nominalist program in philosophy.

b. Secondary Sources

  • Carnap, Rudolf. 1935. Philosophy and Logical Syntax. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
    • Introductory presentation of Carnap’s use of the analytic-synthetic distinction and his conception of philosophy as concerned with the logical syntax of language.
  • Churchland, Patricia. 1987. Epistemology in the Age of Neuroscience. The Journal of Philosophy 84: 544-553.
    • Short article discussing some applications of work in neuroscience to issues in epistemology.
  • Davidson, Donald. 2001. A Coherence Theory of Truth and Knowledge. In Subjective, Intersubjective, Objective. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
    • Questions Quine’s use of sensory stimulation as evidence.
  • Friedman, Michael. 1997. Philosophical Naturalism. Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association 71:7-21.
    • Argues that Quine’s holistic picture of human knowledge cannot account for the historical development and interaction of the mathematical and natural sciences.
  • Friedman, Michael. 2001. Dynamics of Reason. Stanford: CLSI Publications.
    • Defends a modified Kantian view of a priori principles in opposition to Quine’s naturalism.
  • Friedman, Michael. 2006. Carnap and Quine: Twentieth-Century Echoes of Kant and Hume. Philosophical Topics 34: 35-58.
    • Describes the philosophical development of these two thinkers and their debates by contrasting Carnap’s Kantian affinities with Quine’s Humean sympathies.
  • Gibson, Roger. ed. 2004. The Cambridge Companion to Quine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    • A set of important essays on Quine’s philosophy written by distinguished scholars.
  • Gibson, Roger. 2004. Quine’s Behaviorism cum Empiricism. In The Cambridge Companion to Quine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    • A careful overview detailing the nature of Quine’s behaviorist commitment.
  • Gustafsson, Martin. 2006. Quine on Explication and Elimination. Canadian Journal of Philosophy 36: 57-70.
    • Insightful discussion of Quine’s conception of explication and its role in ontological reduction.
  • Gregory, Paul. 2008. Quine’s Naturalism: Language, Knowledge and the Subject. Continuum Press.
    • A new interpretation and defense of Quine’s naturalized conception of knowledge.
  • Hylton, Peter. 2004. Quine on Reference and Ontology. In The Cambridge Companion to Quine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    • Overview of Quine’s ontological views and their relation to objective reference.
  • Hylton, Peter. 2007. Quine. New York: Routledge.
    • The most careful, detailed scholarship on Quine’s work available.
  • Isaac, Joel. 2005. W. V. Quine and the Origins of Analytic Philosophy in America. Modern Intellectual History 2: 205-234.
    • An important historical treatment of Quine’s influence on the rise of analytic philosophy in America.
  • Johnsen, Bredo. 2005. How to Read “Epistemology Naturalized”. The Journal of Philosophy 102: 78-93.
    • An important discussion arguing that Quine never abandoned normative epistemology.
  • Kemp, Gary. 2006. Quine: A Guide for the Perplexed. New York: Continuum.
    • An introductory survey of Quine’s views especially useful for first-time readers of Quine’s philosophy.
  • Kim, Jaegwon. 1993. “What is ‘Naturalized Epistemology’?” In Supervenience and Mind. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    • Argues that Quine abandons normative epistemology.
  • Kornblith, Hilary. ed. 1994. Naturalizing Epistemology, (2nd Edition). Cambridge: MIT Press.
    • Important collection of articles exploring the interface between psychology and epistemology.
  • Lugg, Andrew. 2006. Russell as Precursor of Quine. Bertrand Russell Society Quarterly 128- 129: 9-21.
    • Defends Quine’s reading of Russell as a naturalized epistemologist.
  • Richardson, Alan. 1998. Carnap’s Construction of the World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
    • Offers a revisionist reading of Carnap’s philosophy emphasizing its neoKantian origins.
  • Roth, Paul. 1999. The Epistemology of ‘Epistemology Naturalized’. Dialectica 53: 87-109.
    • A careful reappraisal of Quine’s argument in “Epistemology Naturalized.”
  • Searle, John. 1987. Indeterminacy, Empiricism and the First Person. The Journal of Philosophy 84:23-147.
    • Pointed criticism of Quine’s behaviorist approach to meaning and knowledge.
  • Sinclair, Robert. 2004. When Naturalized Epistemology Turns Normative: Kim on the Failures of Quinean Epistemology. Southwest Philosophy Review 20: 53-67.
    • A Quinean reply to Kim’s claim that naturalized epistemology cannot address the normative demands of justification.
  • Sinclair, Robert. 2007. Quine’s Naturalized Epistemology and the Third Dogma of Empiricism. The Southern Journal of Philosophy 45: 455-472.
    • Defends Quine’s naturalized account of knowledge and evidence against Davidson’s criticisms.

Author Information

Robert Sinclair
Email: rsinclair@brooklyn.cuny.edu
Brooklyn College, The City University of New York
U. S. A.

Nicolas Malebranche: Religion

MalebrancheNicolas Malebranche (1638-1715) was a French philosopher and a rationalist in the Cartesian tradition. But he was also an Oratorian priest in the Catholic Church. Religious themes pervade his works, and in several places he clearly affirms his intention to write philosophy as a Catholic. These religious themes are important for understanding his philosophy. As a rationalist, Malebranche places great emphasis on the importance of Reason. However, because he identifies Reason with the Divine Word, that is, with the Son or Second Person of the Trinity, his rationalism has features that are not common among other forms of rationalism. For example, Reason is a divine person and therefore capable of a wide range of action. In tracing out some of the consequences of this identification of Reason with the Divine Word, the student of Malebranche is quickly immersed in a wide range of his favorite theological and philosophical ideas. The present article will explore three theological ideas which play a special role in Malebranche’s philosophical thought: the Trinity, Original Sin, and the Incarnation.

Table of Contents

  1. A Trinitarian Account of Reason
  2. Love and Order
  3. Original Sin
  4. Universal Reason as External Teacher
  5. Conclusion
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Reference Format
    2. Further Reading

1. A Trinitarian Account of Reason

The features of the doctrine of the Trinity that are of the greatest importance for understanding Malebranche’s philosophical views are the following:

(1) There are three persons of the Godhead, usually known as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Malebranche, however, follows the opening verses of the Gospel of John, which calls the Son the Logos. The usual translation of this into English is ‘Word,’ but it can also be translated as ‘Reason,’ and this is how Malebranche understands it. Likewise, Malebranche preferred the Augustinian tradition of giving the name ‘Love’ to the Holy Spirit.

(2) The three persons are consubstantial and coeternal; that is, they are not three distinct Gods but one God and are inseparable. (3) Human beings are created in some way in the image of God, so that there is a sort of analogy, however loose, indirect, or approximate, between the human mind and the Trinity.

The influence of these ideas is recognizable in Malebranche’s account of ideas. Rather than holding ideas to be innate, Malebranche claims that they are found in God. In fact, he identifies them with divine ideas in the traditional theological sense. Theologians attributed ideas to God by drawing an analogy to artistic design. Just as the artisan who makes a product knows his product independently of that product’s actual existence, since the product’s actual existence presupposes the plan or idea by which the artisan makes it in the first place, so God knows His creation by means of productive ideas. Since these ideas cannot be something independent of God Himself, they are simply the divine substance itself insofar as God’s perfections are participable or imitable by creatures: each creature in its own limited way imitates or ‘partitions’ the infinite unlimited perfection of God. By knowing His own unlimited perfection, then, God knows all things He could possibly make, and thus all things that could possibly come to exist. It is this conception of ideas that makes up the primary background for Malebranche’s account of ideas and, pressed by critics, Malebranche through the course of his career placed greater and greater emphasis on this element of his thought that derived from tradition. Malebranche’s place in this tradition is most explicitly developed in the 1696 Preface to the Dialogues, where he quotes a number of passages from Augustine and Thomas Aquinas in order to extract a general description of divine ideas, which he then directly applies to ideas in his account.

Malebranche goes farther than this, into territory that might well have made traditional theologians uncomfortable. Ideas are not merely in God in the sense that they are the divine substance understood in a certain way; they are somehow a manifestation of God’s Reason, which is “coeternal and consubstantial with Him” (LO 614; OC 3:131). The use of the term “consubstantial,” a traditional theological term applied to the Word or Son, that is, the second Person of the Trinity, marks out the direction in which the Oratorian wants to take this line of reasoning. Drawing on, and modifying, the Augustinian tradition, Malebranche suggests that a proper account of the reason to which we regularly appeal must be rooted in the Christian doctrine of the Trinity. God’s Reason is the Word, and we are rational because the Word, the Logos, is our Interior Teacher (an Augustinian phrase). When we attend to various ideas we are learning from the Divine Word, universal Reason; thus Malebranche’s thesis that all things are seen in God is a way of putting the Word at the center of epistemology. Ideas are the province of the second Person of the Trinity; to attribute ideas to ourselves is to commit the serious mistake of attributing to ourselves what only belongs to God. It is to fail to see (to use another Augustinian phrase that is one of the Oratorian’s favorite sayings) that we are not our own light. This Trinitarian move is the foundation for Malebranche’s version of rationalism; Reason is infallible because Reason is quite literally God.

In a Trinitarian account of Reason there is necessarily more to Reason than an account of our rational ideas can cover on its own. As the Interior Teacher, Reason not only illuminates us with ideas, but also guides us in inquiry through interior sentiments, particularly pleasures and pains. Some background explaining Malebranche’s view of the role of freedom in inquiry will help to clarify this unusual twist in his epistemology.

The understanding is “that passive faculty of the soul by means of which it receives all the modifications of which it is capable” (LO 3; OC 1:43). On the other hand, the will is “the impression or natural impulse that carries us toward general and indeterminate good” (LO 5; OC 1:46). The will is both active, although Malebranche is careful to qualify this by the phrase “in a sense” (LO 4; OC 1:46), and free, where freedom is “the force that the mind has of turning this impression toward objects that please us, and making it so that our natural inclinations are directed to some particular object” (OC 1:46; cf. LO 5). When we believe something necessary, it is because “there is in these things no further relation to be considered that the understanding has not already perceived” (LO 9; OC 1:53). We need freedom because there are many cases in which this has not yet occurred, requiring us to direct our attention (another act of the will) in other directions, and, more importantly, because everything the intellect receives has some appearance of truth (we seem to perceive it, after all), so “if the will were not free and if it were infallibly and necessarily led to everything having the appearance of truth and goodness, it would almost always be deceived” (LO 10; OC 1:54). At first glance, this would force us to say that God, as Author of our natures, is the source of our errors. To avoid this premise, Malebranche concludes that God gives us freedom in order that we may under these circumstances avoid falling into error. In particular, we are given freedom so that we may refrain from accepting the merely probable, by continuing to investigate “until everything to be investigated is unraveled and brought to light” (LO 10; OC 1:54).

Therefore, we have an epistemic duty to use our freedom as much as we can, as long as we do not use it to avoid yielding to “the clear and distinct perception of all the constituents and relations of the object necessary to support a well-founded judgment” (LO 10; OC 1:55). How do we know we have reached clear and distinct perception? Malebranche does not appeal to anything intrinsic to the clear and distinct perception itself. Rather, he suggests that we know it through the “inward reproaches of our reason” (LO 10; OC 1:55), “the powerful voice of the Author of Nature,” which he also calls “the reproaches of our reason and the remorse of our conscience” (LO 11; OC 1:57). That is, we know we clearly and distinctly perceive something because when we try to doubt the perception, Reason reproaches us with pangs of intellectual conscience. In addition to these pangs of intellectual conscience, we are led by “a certain inward conviction” and “the impulses felt while meditating” (LO 13; OC 1:60).

It is in the context of discussing these sentiments, in fact, that Reason first appears in the main body of his major work, the Search after Truth, and, since similar sentiments about “the replies He gives to all those who know how to question Him properly” arise in the conclusion to the work, these epistemic sentiments may perhaps be said to frame the entire work. They play an important role in the Dialogues on Metaphysics and on Religion as well. We are told by the character Theodore early in the Dialogues that Reason guides inquiry by dispensing convictions and reproaches (JS 33; OC 12:194), and the point recurs throughout the Dialogues. Malebranche admits that distinguishing this guidance from prejudice can be difficult, but this is perhaps the point of the Search as a manual for avoiding error: by giving us rules and guidelines by which to avoid error, it helps us listen to the voice of Reason (cf. LO xlii-xliii, 529; OC 1:25-26, 2:453-454).

2. Love and Order

Malebranche extends this Trinitarian rationalism in order to give his own take on the claim that human minds are in the image of God, suggesting in the Treatise on Morals that our lives are structured by the Trinity itself:

The Father, to whom power is attributed, makes them to partake of His power, having established them as occasional causes of all the effects that they produce. The Son communicates His wisdom to them and discloses all truths to them through the direct union they have with the intelligible substance that He contains as universal Reason. The Holy Spirit animates them and sanctifies them through the invincible impression they have for the good, and through the charity or love of Order which He infuses into all hearts (OC 11:186; W 163).

This short passage on the way we are in the image of God gives a succinct summary of a number of claims that Malebranche regards as important; it also shows how intimately related to his Trinitarian concerns many of his most distinctive philosophical positions are. First, there is occasionalism, the view that only God is a true cause. Second, there is the union with universal Reason, according to which we are rational only by union with the Divine Word. Third, there is the will understood as the “invincible impression for the good,” which is attributed to the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit is not invoked by Malebranche as often as the Father and the Son are, but there are several passages that hint at the Spirit’s importance; for example, in Elucidation Ten: “For since God cannot act without knowledge and in spite of Himself, He made the world according to wisdom and through the impulse of His love—He made all things through His Son and in the Holy Spirit as Scripture teaches” (OC 3:141; cf. LO 620). Despite receiving less emphasis, this third element, the theory of love that is associated with the Spirit as the theory of Reason is associated with the Son, plays an important role in the account of how we are related to Reason. Recognizing this requires recognizing Reason’s role in morality; Reason is (moral) Order.

The notion of Order is the core of Malebranche’s ethical theory, since “what makes a man righteous is that he loves order and that he conforms his will to it in all things; likewise the sinner is such only because order does not please him in everything and because he would rather have order conform to his own wishes” (OC 3:137; cf. LO 618). Order, in turn, is explained in Augustinian fashion in terms of the divine ideas. Having argued that ideas do not represent things equally noble or perfect, Malebranche goes on to explain the importance of this inequality:

If it is true, then, that God, who is the universal Being, contains all beings within Himself in an intelligible fashion, and that all these intelligible beings that have a necessary existence in God are not in every sense equally perfect, it is clear that there will be a necessary and immutable order among them, and that just as there are necessary and eternal truths because there are relations of magnitude among intelligible beings, there must also be a necessary and immutable order because of the relations of perfection among these same beings. An immutable order has it, then, that minds are more noble than bodies, as it is a necessary truth that twice two is four, or that twice two is not five (LO 618; OC 3:137-138).

We know ideas are not all equal because we judge the perfections of things by means of their ideas, and it is certain that things themselves are not all equal in perfection; some things are distinguished from others in that they have “more intelligence or mark of wisdom” (LO 618; OC 3:137). Because of this inequality, which is effectively an inequality in the moral salience of the things we know by way of ideas, the eternal, immutable intelligible world of ideas is also an eternal, immutable order. This order, however, is not a merely descriptive order. Were there nothing more to divine Order than the theory of ideas, it would be “more of a speculative truth than a necessary law” (LO 618; OC 3:138). Malebranche wants to go farther. This ordering of perfections among the divine ideas has a necessity that constrains even God. To take this system of divine ideas and make it “necessary law,” the Oratorian introduces his theory of love.

This theory, like the theory of ideas, is rooted in an understanding of the divine nature. Just as the theory of ideas is rooted in God as being in general, so the theory of love is rooted in God as good in general. God’s goodness is a universal or sovereign goodness; God is “a good that contains all other goods within itself” (LO 269; OC 2:16). As such, God is the only perfect or completely adequate object for love, and, accordingly, God loves Himself perfectly. In loving Himself, He necessarily loves what in Himself represents Himself perfectly, namely, His own self-image, divine Wisdom or universal Reason, which contains the order of all things; and because of this, God always acts according to divine Order. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are inseparable, and therefore God necessarily has a Love for Order. Malebranche goes so far as to say that “it is a contradiction that God should not love and will order” (LO 594; OC 3:97). It is because of this necessary love that order has a normative aspect; because of this love, order has “the force of law” for all minds (LO 620; OC 3:140), both created and uncreated.

Since God loves Himself, and in so doing operates according to Order, God creates us with an impulse to the most perfect good, namely Himself. This is our will. As Malebranche states,

Only because God loves Himself do we love anything, and if God did not love Himself, or if He did not continuously impress upon man’s soul a love like His own, i.e., the impulse of love that we feel toward the good in general, we would love nothing, we would will nothing, and as a result, we would be without a will, since the will is only the impression of nature that leads us toward the good in general… (LO 337; OC 2:126-127)

Because order has the force of law, God makes us according to Order; part of this involves making us to love God alone as our sovereign good. This leaves us with the question of other goods besides God. Malebranche sometimes says that God loves only Himself (for example, LO 364; OC 2:169). However, this is never taken to mean that God does not love other things; in fact, “He loves all His works” (LO 330, 666; OC 2:113, 3:220). The reason is that, as sovereign good, God loves other things in loving Himself. As he notes, “God loves only Himself—He loves His creations only because they are related to His perfections, and He loves them to the extent to which they have this relation—in the final analysis God loves Himself and the things He has created with the same love” (LO 364; OC 2:169-170). On the other hand, not all things bear the same type of relation to Himself; there are, as we noted above, different relations of perfection in Order. Mind is more perfect than body; and, being more perfect, it is more closely related to God, and therefore more lovable. Because of this God cannot will that the mind be subordinated to the body. This is not a metaphysical or logical necessity, but an ethical necessity (an obligation) that presupposes the metaphysical necessity of divine self-love. Given that He loves Order, He ought to will the right ordering of perfections among creatures; this ‘ought’ is an obligation grounded in love.

God, in loving himself, loves sovereign Reason or Order and, because of this love, Order has normative force. When we see in Reason that the soul is more perfect than the body, for instance, we can recognize this principle as not merely a truth, but a law: “the living law of the Father” (JS 238; OC 12:302). Because it is according to Order that Order be loved, and since God always acts out of love of Order, and therefore always in conformity with it, God directs our own love toward Order. Moreover, the law of Order is sanctioned by divine omnipotence itself. Conformity with Order will, in the long run, be rewarded, while divergence from Order will be punished. In one key respect, however, Order is not like other laws. In a case of human law, we can evaluate a law, and perhaps reject it, by considering higher principles than those embodied in the law itself. Because it is the highest law, this can never be the case with Order; when we evaluate the goodness or rationality of any law, we can only do so by comparing it to Order. As divine, Order is the good in general; as Reason, Order is what makes anything rational. Order, in short, is authoritative in every significant way. This authority is essential to Malebranche’s discussion of human nature in its natural, ‘prelapsarian’ state, that is, its state prior to the Fall.

3. Original Sin

We know that God acts according to Order, and that, therefore, everything God creates is originally in conformity with Order. Because Reason shows us the divine ideas, we have cognitive access to Order, and therefore know the original, natural state of human beings (what God created human beings to be) despite not being in it ourselves:

But to speak accurately of innocent man, created in the image of God, we must consult the divine ideas of immutable order. It is there that we find the model of a perfect man such as our father was before his sin (JS 65; OC 12:103).

On this view, our natural state is nothing other than our ideal ethical state; we are most natural when we are perfect. What we find in “the model of the perfect man” is in some ways like us, but in some ways not. Like us, Adam in his original state was made in such a way as to be constituted by two relations, one to sensible goods and one to Reason. This twofold union, of mind to God and mind to body, looms large in Malebranche’s thought, and he sees it in terms borrowed from St. Augustine. Our union to God is what elevates us, and from it “the mind receives its life, its light, and its entire felicity”; however, our excessive attachment to our body “infinitely debases man and is today the main cause of all his errors and miseries” (LO xxxiii; OC 1:9). This intimate union of ethical, epistemological, metaphysical, and theological themes is characteristic of Malebranche’s thinking; a deviation from ethical perfection entails a corruption of nature and an obscuring of our cognitive abilities, and this deviation from ideal is nothing other than distraction from divine Reason.

However, if this is so, Adam (man as God originally created him) must differ from us in not being able to enjoy sensible goods in a way that ever conflicted with, or distracted from, the good of sovereign Reason. God works according to general laws, as Order requires, but as the general laws now stand, it is very easy for our union with bodies to interfere with our union with Reason. Therefore, there must have been some special characteristic in Adam’s situation that gave him greater control over his sensory union with the body. Because Adam was created to be subject only to God, he merited a special ability to maintain his relationship with divine Reason (JS 233; OC 12:296). Since God always acts according to Order, He cannot subject the mind to the body because this would violate Order by subjecting the more noble to the less noble. Malebranche interprets this to mean that something must have been in place to make it possible for Adam not to be distracted from Reason by bodies. In the Dialogues Theodore tells Aristes precisely what this something must have been:

And conclude from all this that prior to sin there were exceptions favoring human beings in the laws of the union of the soul and the body. Or, rather, conclude from it that there was a law which has been abolished, by which the human will was the occasional cause of that disposition of the brain by which the soul is shielded from the action of objects though the body is struck by them, and that thus despite this action it was never interrupted in its meditations and ecstasy. Do you not sense some vestige of this power in yourself when you are deeply absorbed in thought and the light of truth penetrates and delights you? (JS 65; OC 12:103)

When we look at what should be natural to us, and therefore what made our original state different from our current state, we may perhaps find it surprising that it involves a special ability to control our brains – an ability we now unnaturally lack. Although, intriguingly, Malebranche thinks we still have traces of it when we are “deeply absorbed in thought.”

Examination of ourselves in light of Reason, therefore, leads us to conclude that we are currently in a state of disorder. As Malebranche illustrates, alluding to the letter of Paul to the Romans, “each of us is sufficiently aware of a law in himself that captures and disorders him, a law not established by God because it is contrary to the immutable order of justice, which is the inviolable rule for all His volitions” (LO 580; OC 3:72). In practice, this disorder is an excessive concern with bodies, a concern so strong that it is a pathological dependence. We treat bodies, rather than God, as our true good of the mind. This makes us exalt our union with bodies over our union with Order, in the process running afoul, of course, of principles of Order (principles like “bodies are not worthy of love” and “all the love that God places in us must end in Him”). Given that this motion of love toward good is the will, and given that the will governs attention, we are driven to attend more to sensible matters than their ethical importance and value for inquiry would merit. While the senses are not corrupt in themselves, then, our excessive dependence on them is an essential feature of the corruption of our cognitive capacities. Malebranche regards these matters, at least at a very general level, as common knowledge.

For Malebranche, original sin is not purely a doctrine known on faith because it is something of which he thinks we can all be conscious of in ourselves, by comparing ourselves, known by interior sentiment, with Order, which is known clearly by ideas but obscurely by the interior sentiments it effects. In other words, we can recognize our disorder through moral principles or, more obscurely, through the feelings of conscience. Through faith we learn important details about this disorder, particularly about its history, some of which we could not otherwise know; the disorder itself, however, is something everyone can recognize. Reason teaches us that there is a way things should be; experience shows us that we are not the way we should be. What is more, experience seems also to suggest that the reason we are not the way we should be is not that we cannot be so, at least in any absolute sense. Malebranche does not develop the idea, but it seems suggested by Theodore’s statement in the Dialogues that we can still experience “some vestige of this power” (JS 65; OC 12:102). In general our minds are clouded and confused, but on rare occasions, we go beyond this.

Furthermore, because it affects the way we interact with sensible goods, the disorder of original sin has serious epistemic consequences. In particular, “the mind constantly spreads itself externally; it forgets itself and Him who enlightens and penetrates it, and it lets itself be so seduced by its body and by those surrounding it that it imagines finding in them its perfection and happiness” (LO 657; OC 3:203). Our primary union is with sovereign Reason, but distracted by our union with sensible things, we treat this latter union as if it were more important; and because “we cannot increase our union with sensible things without diminishing our union with intelligible truths” (LO 415; OC 2:257), we ignore our union with universal Reason to the extent we devote our attention to sensible things. The reason, Malebranche thinks, is that we enjoy making judgments, and therefore try to have this pleasure without first consulting Reason (LO 649; OC 3:189). This trait bodes ill for us if we are interested in avoiding error, as we shall see. For now what is interesting is just how sharply this error-inducing dependence on the body differentiates human nature in its original and ideal state from human nature as we currently find it. There is a sort of inevitability about some aspects of our dependence on the body. Our ideas are clouded, our attention becomes tired (JS 65; OC 12:103), and in practice there is little we can do about this. Malebranche is clear that this was not the case with Adam, due to the special power over the body we have already noted, a power that we (at least beyond a certain degree) conspicuously lack.

Since we have lost the ability to govern our brains properly because its presence in us was linked by principles of Order to our merit, we now must struggle to overcome disturbances Adam in Eden would easily have overcome. There is a sense in which this has been a fall from intelligence, since our thought is now subject to our body’s limitations and thus we are naturally inclined to make stupid mistakes. Prior to sin, Adam was not stupid enough to think that bodies were the real cause of his pleasure (LO 593; OC 3:96). We, however, have become that stupid. This is the root of Malebranche’s diagnosis of the psychological basis for the claim that bodies are true causes, a claim he considers to be the most dangerous philosophical error original sin has spawned. This brings us immediately to the motivation for Malebranche’s occasionalism, his view that God alone is a true cause.

For Malebranche, a pagan worldview follows closely on, and is perhaps the primary consequence of, original sin. It is this recognition that mediates between his arguments against necessary connection and his general views; it is by means of their ethical role, as correctives to the presumptions of the pagan mindset, that the arguments interest him; see Gouhier’s excellent discussion (1926, pp. 108-114). Gouhier’s phrase for this pagan worldview, la philosophie du serpent, the philosophy of the serpent, captures Malebranche’s view perfectly. Occasionalism is an ethical antidote, or at least an ethical treatment, for our tendency to idolatry, and, in particular, for an especially pernicious instance of this idolatry:

If the nature of pagan philosophy is a chimera, if this nature is nothing, we must be advised of it, for there are many people who are mistaken with respect to it. There are more than we might think who thoughtlessly attribute to it the works of God, who busy themselves with this idol or fiction of the human mind, and who render to it the honor due only to the Divinity. (LO 668; OC 3:223-224)

The philosophical superstition of causal powers or efficacious natures is but one more sad example of the terrible failure of human nature to live up to the demands of Order; it is but one more expression of the “secret opposition between God and man” (LO 657; OC 3:204). It has its root in a religious failing, the failure to give God the credit He is due.

4. Universal Reason as External Teacher

Even though original sin puts our cognitive capacities in a wretched state, Malebranche does not throw up his hands in despair, nor does he resort to skepticism. The reasons for Malebranche’s optimism all have to do with the active and personal role played by universal Reason in human life. Without his personal role of sovereign Reason, despair and skepticism would be unavoidable. With it, Malebranche can afford to be optimistic.

The first reason for Malebranche’s optimism is that we are never entirely cut off from the teaching of Reason. However, much of our perverse fascination with bodily goods may obscure the guidance, yet Reason still guides us. Not only does Reason still illuminate us with ideas, He “teaches us inwardly” when we take the trouble to engage in philosophical meditation (LO 13; OC 1:61). Reason still encourages, warns, and rebukes us as our intellectual conscience. Although prejudices resulting from original sin have made it difficult to find truth, knowledge is still possible.

The second reason that Malebranche can be optimistic is that Reason has not been idle in the face of our perversity. This is seen most clearly in the Incarnation. In more secularly-minded times this may be the hardest bit of Malebranche’s system to wrap one’s mind around; even someone willing to allow Reason an active role in guiding inquiry might balk at taking the Incarnation as an essential part of epistemology. It is not, however, an ad hoc addition to the Oratorian’s other claims. It would, indeed, be rather strange if he did not think along these lines, given other claims he makes. Reason is the second Person of the Trinity, the Logos or divine Word; the Word is, in the opening words of the gospel of John, the light of all who come into the world, and also is the Word made flesh. It is Reason that we consult in inquiry; Reason illuminates us with ideas, judges our actions, rebukes us for bad uses of freedom and rewards us for good. Given all this, it is not surprising that Reason takes an active and personal hand in fixing the epistemological and ethical mess in which fallen humanity finds itself; Malebranche has already insisted that Reason takes an active and personal hand in a number of epistemological and ethical areas.

In the Incarnation, therefore, the divine Word has resorted to a new method of teaching in its attempt to counteract our fallen condition:

The Son of God, who is the wisdom of God or eternal truth, was made man and became sensible to make Himself known to crude and carnal men. He wished to instruct them by means of what was blinding them; He wished to lead them to His love, to free them from sensible goods by means of the same things that were enslaving them. Dealing with fools, He used a kind of foolishness to make them wise (LO 367; OC 2:124. Cf. also LO 417-418; OC 2:260-261).

The divine Word took physical form because human beings have an excessive love for sensory things. According to Malebranche, this teaches us several things. First, in our own teaching we should invest intelligible truth with the sort of presentation that would in some way appeal to the senses. This can be overdone, of course. It is being done correctly only when it elevates us to the intelligible rather than flattering the senses, or, more specifically, when it causes people to withdraw inward in order to think and meditate rather than outward in order to be entertained by sensible things (cf. LO 418; OC 2:261).

Malebranche also contemplates about Wisdom becoming sensible “in order to condemn and sacrifice in its person all sensible things.” He does not elaborate much on this phrase, but the Preface to the Search makes it clear enough. He claims that one of the lessons the Incarnation is meant to teach us is “the scorn we should have for all objects of the senses” (LO xxxviii; OC 1:18). By uniting Himself with a body, he exalted to the highest dignity anything could have, namely, union with God; it became “the most estimable of sensible things.” This “most estimable of sensible things,” however, was subjugated to divine truth to the point of suffering and death. The idea is that if even the most estimable sensible thing should be held less important than truth and order, than all sensible things should be regarded as less important than truth and order. From this Malebranche concludes that “we must gradually become accustomed to disbelieving the reports our senses make about all the bodies surrounding us, which they always portray as worthy of our application and respect.” As he asks rhetorically in Treatise on Nature and Grace, “did not Jesus Christ sacrifice and destroy, in his person, all grandeurs and sensible pleasures? Has not his life been for us a continual example of humility and of penitence?” (R 131-132; OC 5:53). In effect, Malebranche advocates others to take Jesus Christ as an epistemological model. It is perhaps not common to appeal to epistemological rather than ethical exemplars, but in Malebranche’s philosophy epistemology and ethics are closely related. In fact, there are passages that suggest that he considers them to be essentially the same thing. Consider, for example, the following passage, which opens

Error is the cause of men’s misery; it is the sinister principle that has produced the evil in the world; it generates and maintains in our soul all the evils that afflict us, and we may hope for sound and genuine happiness only by seriously laboring to avoid it (LO 1; OC 1:39).

The error here is both intellectual and moral. That it is both appears to be necessitated by the role of the will. Every error is a misuse of will contrary to the guidance of Reason, and therefore can be treated as an immoral rebellion against Reason (cf. LO 8-11; OC1:50-54). Since the Incarnation involves the perfect union of body, mind, and divine Word, the incarnate Word is a paradigm case of perfect orderly relation among the three, and therefore in itself serves as part of Reason’s pedagogy, as “the rule of beauty and of perfection” (R 123; OC 5:41) against which we must measure ourselves.

The third way in which Malebranche thinks the incarnate Word extends its work of teaching the human race is the most obvious, through explicit moral teaching, which communicates to us “in a sensible, palpable way the eternal commands of the divine law,” so as to reinforce its too-often-ignored inner promptings (JS 81; OC 3:121). Related to this, Malebranche considers the teaching of the Church to be one form that Reason’s teaching takes. That is, the Church is “a visible authority emanating from incarnate Wisdom,” extending that moral teaching through time (JS 81; OC 3:121). This is in part necessary because Reason is interested in teaching “the poor, the simple, the ignorant, and those who cannot read,” not merely “those who have enough life, as well as mind and knowledge, to discern truth from error” (JS 255-256; OC 12:322-323). Reason’s exercise of visible teaching authority has not ceased, but rather continues in the Church, which continues Reason’s work of compensating for human failings.

It is unsurprising, then, that Malebranche attacks the Protestant notion of sola scriptura as not merely theologically problematic but also philosophically irrational. Even if the author of the Gospel of Matthew were the apostle, and even if we can suppose there was no corruption in the transmission of the text, we cannot base our faith on the words we read there unless we have an infallible authority teaching that the evangelist was inspired by God. The only infallible authority is God Himself, so the Holy Spirit must either reveal the inspiration of Scripture to each person individually or to the church as a trust for all; of this choice, Malebranche says, “the latter is much more simple, more general, more worthy of providence than the former” (JS 256; OC 12:323). Even if we granted that God revealed to each individual that the text was inspired, Malebranche thinks that this is far from adequate; after you recognize the text as inspired you still must come to understand it. Since God wills for all people to arrive at knowledge of the truth, there must be something to help lead us to it, and again the choice is between inspiration of each person individually or the church collectively. But, states Malebranche, it is absurd to attribute to each individual person the divine assistance one denies to the entire church in assembly, given that the church preserves tradition and, more than any individual, deserves that Jesus Christ guarantee its protection. Jesus imitates the Father as much as is possible; therefore “He will never act in a certain person in a particular manner without some particular reason, without some kind of necessity” (JS 258; OC 12:325). Since it is generally sufficient for Christ to preserve the faithful by preserving the Church’s authority and infallibility in matters of faith, it is absurd and presumptuous to expect special enlightenment by reading Scripture on one’s own, just as it is absurd and presumptuous to expect God to make exceptions to natural laws for one’s personal convenience.

The existence of a church or divine society (with authority, scripture, teaching, and rituals) makes it possible for Reason to do the most good to the most people in the simplest way, preparing for the restoration even of those who do not have the leisure or ability to do rigorous philosophical meditation (JS 257-258; OC 12:323-324). The graces of enlightenment and sentiment (R 151; OC 5:97) extend the dual teaching function of Reason discussed previously, namely, enlightenment by ideas and guidance by sentiments. These graces form and guide the Church, making certain aspects of its teaching, for example, preaching on the basis of Scripture, an infallible authority on whose basis arguments almost like demonstrations can be formed. In Malebranche’s view, Reason is therefore the foundation for the infallibility of the Catholic Church in matters of faith and morals. He was quite right in saying that his philosophy was a Catholic philosophy.

5. Conclusion

There are a number of ways in which Malebranche’s religious interests affect his philosophical discussion.

(1) Reason has the features of the Second Person of the Trinity, that is, the Son or Word of God. Reason is a divine person. This allows Malebranche to attribute a wider range of activities to Reason than could be attributed to an impersonal reason.

(2) The Trinitarian influence helps to clarify why Malebranche has no problem with talking as if Reason, in its aspect of Order, constrained even God: he has a Trinitarian account of why God must act according to Order.

(3) Original sin plays an extraordinarily important role in Malebranche’s philosophy, to such an extent that even Malebranche’s discussion of very philosophical topics, like the question of whether there are causal powers, is affected by his understanding of original sin and its tendency to drag us away from attentive meditation on divine ideas in Reason.

(4) There is no question that Malebranche’s philosophy is Catholic throughout. Purely Catholic themes and ideas arise throughout, to such an extent that he does not hesitate to bring Catholic doctrines about the Incarnation or the Church into his philosophical discussions.

These are only a few examples. There are many other ways in which Malebranche’s religious views and practices are reflected in his philosophy: his discussions of grace and providence, his theodicy, his relation to the French School of Spirituality founded by Bérulle, and more. Many of these have only just begun to be studied in any detail. If, however, we were to examine every way in which Malebranche’s philosophy were influenced by his religious views, this would not be any different from a complete examination of every facet of his philosophy.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Reference Format

In this article the following reference format for Malebranche’s works has been used:

(LO 418; OC 2:261; cf. also R 131-132; OC 5:53)

The English translation is given first, with its page number; followed by ‘OC’ to indicate the standard French edition, the Oeuvres Complètes, with the volume and page number; particularly notable analogous references follow the “cf. also.” At times, when reference is intended to two different passages equally, the following format has been used:

(LO 330, 666; OC 2:113, 3:220)

The English translations are listed first, while their corresponding pages in the Oeuvres Complètes are listed in order after the semicolon. Thus “OC 2:113” corresponds to “LO 330” and “OC 3:220” corresponds to “LO 666.” Where the passage as quoted in the article deviates from the English translation, this is noted by the following format:

(OC 12:196; cf. JS 147)

The edition abbreviations that have been used are:

JS: Dialogues on Metaphysics and on Religion, Nicholas Jolley and David Scott, eds. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997.

LO: The Search after Truth, Thomas Lennon and Paul Olscamp, eds. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997.

OC: Oeuvres Complètes de Malebranche, 20 vols., André Robinet, ed. Paris: J. Vrin, 1958-84.

R: Treatise on Nature and Grace, Patrick Riley, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992.

W: Treatise on Ethics, Craig Walton, ed. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1993.

Current scholarship on the role of religion in Malebranche’s philosophy is fairly limited, and what exists is somewhat uneven. The following are suggested as useful for those who wish to study this topic. Some of them discuss the matter in its own right, while others simply raise important questions and topics for further investigation in the course of discussing other things.

b. Further Reading

  • Arnauld, Antoine. On True and False Ideas, Elmar Kremer, ed. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1990. This important work, occasioned by Malebranche’s views on grace, began the long-lasting dispute between Arnauld and Malebranche.
  • Astell, Mary, and Norris, John. Letters Concerning the Love of God, E. Derek Taylor and Melvyn New, eds. London: Ashgate, 2005. John Norris was a British Malebranchean; his correspondence with Mary Astell is an excellent resource for identifying features of Malebranche’s thought that would have been considered especially relevant to religion in the period.
  • Connell, Desmond. The Vision in God: Malebranche’s Scholastic Sources, Paris: Nauwelaerts, 1967. Connell’s book, despite its relatively limited topic, is a good beginning for those interested in looking at the question of how Malebranche’s thought relates to the broader context of Catholic thought out of which it emerges.
  • Gouhier, Henri. La philosophie de Malebranche et son expérience religieuse, 2nd ed., Paris: J. Vrin, 1948.
  • Gouhier, Henri. La vocation de Malebranche, Paris: J. Vrin, 1926. This and the immediately preceding work are still the must-read texts for any study of the relation between Malebranche’s religion and his philosophy.
  • Guéroult, Martial. Malebranche, 3 vols. Paris: Aubier, 1955-59. This rather extensive work discusses a number of religion-related issues in Malebranche, and has some particularly notable discussions of Malebranche’s Augustinianism.
  • Jolley, Nicholas. The Light of the Soul: Theories of Ideas in Leibniz, Malebranche, and Descartes. In the course of his discussion of theories of ideas Jolley raises a number of key questions that have to be considered by anyone interested in the relation between religion and philosophy in Malebranche.
  • Nadler, Steven. Arnauld and the Cartesian Philosophy of Ideas, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989. Among other things, Nadler considers the important question of why Arnauld chose to begin his attack on the Treatise on Nature and Grace with a criticism of the philosophy of the Search after Truth.
  • Radner, Ephraim. Spirit and Nature: A Study of 17th Century Jansenism, New York: Crossroad, 2002. Radner is mostly concerned with the theological controversies over Jansenist appellants, but the dispute between Arnauld and Malebranche is treated as important background to this religious question.
  • Reid, Jasper. “Malebranche on Intelligible Extension,” British Journal of the History of Philosophy 11:4 (2003), 581-608. An excellent demonstration of how considering Malebranche’s theological interests can clarify puzzles arising elsewhere in his philosophy.
  • Robinet, André. Système et existence dans l’oeuvre de Malebranche, Paris: J. Vrin, 1965. This work contains good, albeit occasionally short, discussions of various religious issues in Malebranche’s works (notably original sin).
  • Schmaltz, Tad. Malebranche’s Theory of the Soul: A Cartesian Interpretation. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. This work only obliquely discusses matters relevant to religious themes in Malebranche’s philosophy, but it is currently the best discussion of the diverse roles Malebranche attributes to sentiment.

Author Information

Brandon Watson
Email: bwatson2@autincc.edu
Austin Community College
U. S. A.

Identity Theory

Identity theory is a family of views on the relationship between mind and body. Type Identity theories hold that at least some types (or kinds, or classes) of mental states are, as a matter of contingent fact, literally identical with some types (or kinds, or classes) of brain states. The earliest advocates of Type Identity—U.T. Place, Herbert Feigl, and J.J.C. Smart, respectively—each proposed their own version of the theory in the late 1950s to early 60s. But it was not until David Armstrong made the radical claim that all mental states (including intentional ones) are identical with physical states, that philosophers of mind divided themselves into camps over the issue.

Over the years, numerous objections have been levied against Type Identity, ranging from epistemological complaints to charges of Leibniz’s Law violations to Hilary Putnam’s famous pronouncement that mental states are in fact capable of being “multiply realized.” Defenders of Type Identity have come up with two basic strategies in response to Putnam’s claim: they restrict type identity claims to particular species or structures, or else they extend such claims to allow for the possiblity of disjunctive physical kinds. To this day, debate concerning the validity of these strategies—and the truth of Mind-Brain Type Identity—rages in the philosophical literature.

Table of Contents

  1. Early Versions of the Theory
  2. Traditional Objections
  3. Type vs. Token Identity
  4. Multiple Realizability
  5. Attempts at Salvaging Type Identity
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Early Versions of the Theory

Place accepted the Logical Behaviorists’ dispositional analysis of cognitive and volitional concepts. With respect to those mental concepts “clustering around the notions of consciousness, experience, sensation, and mental imagery,” however, he held that no behavioristic account (even in terms of unfulfilled dispositions to behave) would suffice. Seeking an alternative to the classic dualist position, according to which mental states possess an ontology distinct from the physiological states with which they are thought to be correlated, Place claimed that sensations and the like might very well be processes in the brain—despite the fact that statements about the former cannot be logically analyzed into statements about the latter. Drawing an analogy with such scientifically verifiable (and obviously contingent) statements as “Lightning is a motion of electric charges,” Place cited potential explanatory power as the reason for hypothesizing consciousness-brain state relations in terms of identity rather than mere correlation. This still left the problem of explaining introspective reports in terms of brain processes, since these reports (for example, of a green after-image) typically make reference to entities which do not fit with the physicalist picture (there is nothing green in the brain, for example). To solve this problem, Place called attention to the “phenomenological fallacy“—the mistaken assumption that one’s introspective observations report “the actual state of affairs in some mysterious internal environment.” All that the Mind-Brain Identity theorist need do to adequately explain a subject’s introspective observation, according to Place, is show that the brain process causing the subject to describe his experience in this particular way is the kind of process which normally occurs when there is actually something in the environment corresponding to his description.

At least in the beginning, J.J.C. Smart followed U.T. Place in applying the Identity Theory only to those mental concepts considered resistant to behaviorist treatment, notably sensations. Because of the proposed identification of sensations with states of the central nervous system, this limited version of Mind-Brain Type Identity also became known as Central-State Materialism. Smart’s main concern was the analysis of sensation-reports (e.g. “I see a green after-image”) into what he described, following Gilbert Ryle, as “topic-neutral” language (roughly, “There is something going on which is like what is going on when I have my eyes open, am awake, and there is something green illuminated in front of me”). Where Smart diverged from Place was in the explanation he gave for adopting the thesis that sensations are processes in the brain. According to Smart (1959), “there is no conceivable experiment which could decide between materialism and epiphenomenalism” (where the latter is understood as a species of dualism); the statement “sensations are brain processes,” therefore, is not a straight-out scientific hypothesis, but should be adopted on other grounds. Occam’s razor is cited in support of the claim that, even if the brain-process theory and dualism are equally consistent with the (empirical) facts, the former has an edge in virtue of its simplicity and explanatory utility.

Occam’s razor also plays a role in the version of Mind-Brain Type Identity developed by Feigl (in fact, Smart claimed to have been influenced by Feigl as well as by Place). On the epiphenomenalist picture, in addition to the normal physical laws of cause and effect there are psychophysical laws positing mental effects which do not by themselves function as causes for any observable behavior. In Feigl’s view, such “nomological danglers” have no place in a respectable ontology; thus, epiphenomenalism (again considered as a species of dualism) should be rejected in favor of an alternative, monistic theory of mind-body relations. Feigl’s suggestion was to interpret the empirically ascertainable correlations between phenomenal experiences (“raw feels,” see Consciousness and Qualia) and neurophysiological processes in terms of contingent identity: although the terms we use to identify them have different senses, their referents are one and the same—namely, the immediately experienced qualities themselves. Besides eliminating dangling causal laws, Feigl’s picture is intended to simplify our conception of the world: “instead of conceiving of two realms, we have only one reality which is represented in two different conceptual systems.”

In a number of early papers, and then at length in his 1968 book, A Materialist Theory of the Mind, Armstrong worked out a version of Mind-Brain Type Identity which starts from a somewhat different place than the others. Adopting straight away the scientific view that humans are nothing more than physico-chemical mechanisms, he declared that the task for philosophy is to work out an account of the mind which is compatible with this view. Already the seeds were sown for an Identity Theory which covers all of our mental concepts, not merely those which fit but awkwardly on the Behaviorist picture. Armstrong actually gave credit to the Behaviorists for logically connecting internal mental states with external behavior; where they went wrong, he argued, was in identifying the two realms. His own suggestion was that it makes a lot more sense to define the mental not as behavior, but rather as the inner causes of behavior. Thus, “we reach the conception of a mental state as a state of the person apt for producing certain ranges of behavior.” Armstrong’s answer to the remaining empirical question—what in fact is the intrinsic nature of these (mental) causes?—was that they are physical states of the central nervous system. The fact that Smart himself now holds that all mental states are brain states (of course, the reverse need not be true), testifies to the influence of Armstrong’s theory.

Besides the so-called “translation” versions of Mind-Brain Type Identity advanced by Place, Smart, and Armstrong, according to which our mental concepts are first supposed to be translated into topic-neutral language, and the related version put forward by Feigl, there are also “disappearance” (or “replacement”) versions. As initially outlined by Paul Feyerabend (1963), this kind of Identity Theory actually favors doing away with our present mental concepts. The primary motivation for such a radical proposal is as follows: logically representing the identity relation between mental states and physical states by means of biconditional “bridge laws” (e.g., something is a pain if and only if it’s a c-fiber excitation) not only implies that mental states have physical features; “it also seems to imply (if read from the right to the left) that some physical events…have non-physical features.” In order to avoid this apparent dualism of properties, Feyerabend stressed the incompatibility of our mental concepts with empirical discoveries (including projected ones), and proposed a redefinition of our existent mental terms. Different philosophers took this proposal to imply different things. Some advocated a wholesale scrapping of our ordinary language descriptions of mental states, such that, down the road, people might develop a whole new (and vastly more accurate) vocabulary to describe their own and others’ states of mind. This begs the question, of course, what such a new-and-improved vocabulary would look like. Others took a more theoretical/conservative line, arguing that our familiar ways of describing mental states could in principle be replaced by some very different (and again, vastly more accurate) set of terms and concepts, but that these new terms and concepts would not—at least not necessarily—be expected to become part of ordinary language. Responding to Feyerabend, a number of philosophers expressed concern about the appropriateness of classifying disappearance versions as theories of Mind-Brain Type Identity. But Richard Rorty (1965) answered this concern, arguing that there is nothing wrong with claiming that “what people now call ‘sensations’ are (identical with) certain brain processes.” In his Postscript to “The ‘Mental’ and the ‘Physical’,” Feigl (1967) confessed an attraction to this version of the Identity Theory, and over the years Smart has moved in the same direction.

2. Traditional Objections

A number of objections to Mind-Brain Type Identity, some a great deal stronger than others, began circulating soon after the publication of Smart’s 1959 article. Perhaps the weakest were those of the epistemological variety. It has been claimed, for example, that because people have had (and still do have) knowledge of specific mental states while remaining ignorant as to the physical states with which they are correlated, the former could not possibly be identical with the latter. The obvious response to this type of objection is to call attention to the contingent nature of the proposed identities—of course we have different conceptions of mental states and their correlated brain states, or no conception of the latter at all, but that is just because (as Feigl made perfectly clear) the language we use to describe them have different meanings. The contingency of mind-brain identity relations also serves to answer the objection that since presently accepted correlations may very well be empirically invalidated in the future, mental states and brain states should not be viewed as identical.

A more serious objection to Mind-Brain Type Identity, one that to this day has not been satisfactorily resolved, concerns various non-intensional properties of mental states (on the one hand), and physical states (on the other). After-images, for example, may be green or purple in color, but nobody could reasonably claim that states of the brain are green or purple. And conversely, while brain states may be spatially located with a fair degree of accuracy, it has traditionally been assumed that mental states are non-spatial. The problem generated by examples such as these is that they appear to constitute violations of Leibniz’s Law, which states that if A is identical with B, then A and B must be indiscernible in the sense of having in common all of their (non-intensional) properties. We have already seen how Place chose to respond to this type of objection, at least insofar as it concerns conscious experiences—that is, by invoking the so-called “phenomenological fallacy.” Smart’s response was to reiterate the point that mental terms and physical terms have different meanings, while adding the somewhat ambiguous remark that neither do they have the same logic. Lastly, Smart claimed that if his hypothesis about sensations being brain processes turns out to be correct, “we may easily adopt a convention…whereby it would make sense to talk of an experience in terms appropriate to physical processes” (the similarity to Feyerabend’s disappearance version of Mind-Brain Type Identity should be apparent here). As for apparent discrepancies going in the other direction (e.g., the spatiality of brain states vs. the non-spatiality of mental states), Thomas Nagel in 1965 proposed a means of sidestepping any objections by redefining the candidates for identity: “if the two sides of the identity are not a sensation and a brain process but my having a certain sensation or thought and my body’s being in a certain physical state, then they will both be going on in the same place—namely, wherever I (and my body) happen to be.” Suffice to say, opponents of Mind-Brain Type Identity found Nagel’s suggestion unappealing.

The last traditional objection we shall look at concerns the phenomenon of “first-person authority”; that is, the apparent incorrigibility of introspective reports of thoughts and sensations. If I report the occurrence of a pain in my leg, then (the story goes) I must have a pain in my leg. Since the same cannot be said for reports of brain processes, which are always open to question, it might look like we have here another violation of Leibniz’s Law. But the real import of this discrepancy concerns the purported correlations between mental states and brain states. What are we to make of cases in which the report of a brain scientist contradicts the introspective report, say, of someone claiming to be in pain? Is the brain scientist always wrong? Smart’s initial response to Kurt Baier, who asked this question in a 1962 article, was to deny the likelihood that such a state of affairs would ever come about. But he also put forward another suggestion, namely, that “not even sincere reports of immediate experience can be absolutely incorrigible.” A lot of weight falls on the word “absolutely” here, for if the incorrigibility of introspective reports is qualified too strongly, then, as C.V. Borst noted in 1970, “it is somewhat difficult to see how the required psycho-physical correlations could ever be set up at all.”

3. Type vs. Token Identity

Something here needs to be said about the difference between Type Identity and Token Identity, as this difference gets manifested in the ontological commitments implicit in various Mind-Brain Identity theses. Nagel was one of the first to distinguish between “general” and “particular” identities in the context of the mind-body problem; this distinction was picked up by Charles Taylor, who wrote in 1967 that “the failure of [general] correlations…would still allow us to look for particular identities, holding not between, say, a yellow after-image and a certain type of brain process in general, but between a particular occurrence of this yellow after-image and a particular occurrence of a brain process.” In contemporary parlance: when asking whether mental things are the same as physical things, or distinct from them, one must be clear as to whether the question applies to concrete particulars (e.g., individual instances of pain occurring in particular subjects at particular times) or to the kind (of state or event) under which such concrete particulars fall.

Token Identity theories hold that every concrete particular falling under a mental kind can be identified with some physical (perhaps neurophysiological) happening or other: instances of pain, for example, are taken to be not only instances of a mental state (e.g., pain), but instances of some physical state as well (say, c-fiber excitation). Token Identity is weaker than Type Identity, which goes so far as to claim that mental kinds themselves are physical kinds. As Jerry Fodor pointed out in 1974, Token Identity is entailed by, but does not entail, Type Identity. The former is entailed by the latter because if mental kinds themselves are physical kinds, then each individual instance of a mental kind will also be an individual instance of a physical kind. The former does not entail the latter, however, because even if a concrete particular falls under both a mental kind and a physical kind, this contingent fact “does not guarantee the identity of the kinds whose instantiation constitutes the concrete particulars.”

So the Identity Theory, taken as a theory of types rather than tokens, must make some claim to the effect that mental states such as pain (and not just individual instances of pain) are contingently identical with—and therefore theoretically reducible to—physical states such as c-fiber excitation. Depending on the desired strength and scope of mind-brain identity, however, there are various ways of refining this claim.

4. Multiple Realizability

In “The Nature of Mental States,” (1967) Hilary Putnam introduced what is widely considered the most damaging objection to theories of Mind-Brain Type Identity—indeed, the objection which effectively retired such theories from their privileged position in modern debates concerning the relationship between mind and body.

Putnam’s argument can be paraphrased as follows: (1) according to the Mind-Brain Type Identity theorist (at least post-Armstrong), for every mental state there is a unique physical-chemical state of the brain such that a life-form can be in that mental state if and only if it is in that physical state. (2) It seems quite plausible to hold, as an empirical hypothesis, that physically possible life-forms can be in the same mental state without having brains in the same unique physical-chemical state. (3) Therefore, it is highly unlikely that the Mind-Brain Type Identity theorist is correct.

In support of the second premise above—the so-called “multiple realizability” hypothesis—Putnam raised the following point: we have good reason to suppose that somewhere in the universe—perhaps on earth, perhaps only in scientific theory (or fiction)—there is a physically possible life-form capable of being in mental state X (e.g., capable of feeling pain) without being in physical-chemical brain state Y (that is, without being in the same physical-chemical brain state correlated with pain in mammals). To follow just one line of thought (advanced by Ned Block and Jerry Fodor in 1972), assuming that the Darwinian doctrine of evolutionary convergence applies to psychology as well as behavior, “psychological similarities across species may often reflect convergent environmental selection rather than underlying physiological similarities.” Other empirically verifiable phenomena, such as the plasticity of the brain, also lend support to Putnam’s argument against Type Identity. It is important to note, however, that Token Identity theories are fully consistent with the multiple realizability of mental states.

5. Attempts at Salvaging Type Identity

Since the publication of Putnam’s paper, a number of philosophers have tried to save Mind-Brain Type Identity from the philosophical scrapheap by making it fit somehow with the claim that the same mental states are capable of being realized in a wide variety of life-forms and physical structures. Two strategies in particular warrant examination here.

In a 1969 review of “The Nature of Mental States,” David Lewis attacked Putnam for targeting his argument against a straw man. According to Lewis, “a reasonable brain-state theorist would anticipate that pain might well be one brain state in the case of men, and some other brain (or non-brain) state in the case of mollusks. It might even be one brain state in the case of Putnam, another in the case of Lewis.” But it is not so clear (in fact it is doubtful) that Lewis’ appeal to “tacit relativity to context” will succeed in rendering Type Identity compatible with the multiple realizability of mental states. Although Putnam does not consider the possibility of species-specific multiple realization resulting from such phenomena as injury compensation, congenital defects, mutation, developmental plasticity, and, theoretically, prosthetic brain surgery, neither does he say anything to rule them out. And this is not surprising. As early as 1960, Identity theorists such as Stephen Pepper were acknowledging the existence of species (even system)-specific multiple realizability due to emergencies, accidents, injuries, and the like: “it is not…necessary that the [psychophysical] correlation should be restricted to areas of strict localization. One area of the brain could take over the function of another area of the brain that has been injured.” Admittedly, some of the phenomena listed above tell against Lewis’ objection more than others; nevertheless, prima facie there seems no good reason to deny the possibility of species-specific multiple realization.

In a desperate attempt at invalidating the conclusion of Putnam’s argument, the brain-state theorist can undoubtedly come up with additional restrictions to impose upon the first premise, e.g., with respect to time. This is the strategy of David Braddon-Mitchell and Frank Jackson, who wrote in a 1996 book that “there is…a better way to respond to the multiple realizability point [than to advocate token identity]. It is to retain a type-type mind-brain identity theory, but allow that the identities between mental types and brain types may—indeed, most likely will—need to be restricted. Identity statements need to include an explicit temporal restriction.” Mental states such as pain may not be identical with, say, c-fiber excitation in humans (because of species-specific multiple realization), but—the story goes—they could very well be identical with c-fiber excitation in humans at time T. The danger in such an approach, besides its ad hoc nature, is that the type physicalist basis from which the Identity Theorist begins starts slipping into something closer to token physicalism (recall that concrete particulars are individual instances occurring in particular subjects at particular times). At the very least, Mind-Brain Type Identity will wind up so weak as to be inadequate as an account of the nature of the mental.

Another popular strategy for preserving Type Identity in the face of multiple realization is to allow for the existence of disjunctive physical kinds. By defining types of physical states in terms of disjunctions of two or more physical “realizers,” the correlation of one such realizer with a particular (type) mental state is sufficient. The search for species- or system-specific identities is thereby rendered unnecessary, as mental states such as pain could eventually be identified with the (potentially infinite) disjunctive physical state of, say, c-fiber excitation (in humans), d-fiber excitation (in mollusks), and e-network state (in a robot). In “The Nature of Mental States,” Putnam dismisses the disjunctive strategy out of hand, without saying why he thinks the physical-chemical brain states to be posited in identity claims must be uniquely specifiable. Fodor (in 1974) and Jaegwon Kim (1992), both former students of Putnam, tried coming to his rescue by producing independent arguments which purport to show that disjunctions of physical realizers cannot themselves be kinds. Whereas Fodor concluded that “reductionism… flies in the face of the facts,” however, Kim concluded that psychology is open to sundering “by being multiply locally reduced.”

Even if disjunctive physical kinds are allowed, it may be argued that the strategy in question still cannot save Type Identity from considerations of multiple realizability. Assume that all of the possible physical realizers for some mental state M are represented by the ideal, perhaps infinite, disjunctive physical state P; then it could never be the case that a physically possible life-form is in M and not in P. Nevertheless, we have good reason to think that some physically possible life-form could be in P without being in M—maybe P in that life-form realizes some other mental state. As Block and Fodor have argued, “it seems plausible that practically any type of physical state could realize any type of psychological state in some physical system or other.” The doctrine of “neurological equipotentiality” advanced by renowned physiological psychologist Karl Lashley, according to which given neural structures underlie a whole slew of psychological functions depending upon the character of the activities engaged in, bears out this hypothesis. The obvious way for the committed Identity theorist to deal with this problem—by placing disjunctions of potentially infinite length on either side of a biconditional sign—would render largely uninformative any so-called “identity” claim. Just how uninformative depends on the size of the disjunctions (the more disjuncts, the less informative). Infinitely long disjunctions would render the identity claim completely uninformative. The only thing an Identity Theory of this kind could tell us is that at least one of the mental disjuncts is capable of being realized by at least one of the physical disjuncts. Physicalism would survive, but barely, and in a distinctly non-reductive form.

Recently, however, Ronald Endicott has presented compelling considerations which tell against the above argument. There, physical states are taken in isolation of their context. But it is only if the context is varied that Block and Fodor’s remark will come out true. Otherwise, mental states would not be determined by physical states, a situation which contradicts the widely accepted (in contemporary philosophy of mind) “supervenience principle”: no mental difference without a physical difference. A defender of disjunctive physical kinds can thus claim that M is identical with some ideal disjunction of complex physical properties like “C1 & P1,” whose disjuncts are conjunctions of all the physical states (Ps) plus their contexts (Cs) which give rise to M. So while “some physically possible life-form could be in P without being in M,” no physically possible life-form could be in C1 & P1 without being in M. Whether Endicott’s considerations constitute a sufficient defense of the disjunctive strategy is still open to debate. But one thing is clear—in the face of numerous and weighty objections, Mind-Brain Type Identity (in one form or another) remains viable as a theory of mind-body relations.

6. References and Further Reading

  • Armstrong, D.M. (1968). A Materialist Theory of the Mind, London, Routledge.
  • Baier, Kurt (1962). Pains. Australasian Journal of Philosophy 40 (May): 1-23.
  • Block, Ned & Fodor, Jerry A. (1972). “What psychological states are not.” Philosophical Review 81 (April):159-81
  • Borst, Clive V. (ed.) (1970). The Mind/Brain Identity Theory. Macmillan.
  • Braddon-Mitchell, D. and Jackson, F. (1996). Philosophy of Mind and Cognition, Oxford, Blackwell.
  • Endicott, Ronald P. (1993). “Species-specific properties and more narrow reductive strategies.” Erkenntnis 38 (3):303-21.
  • Feigl, H. (1958). “The ‘Mental’ and the ‘”Physical’,” in Feigl, H., Scriven, M. and Maxwell, G. (eds.) Concepts, Theories and the Mind-Body Problem, Minneapolis, Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, Vol. 2, reprinted with a Postscript in Feigl 1967.
  • Feigl, H. (1967). The “Mental” and the “Physical,” The Essay and a Postscript, Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press.
  • Feyerabend, Paul K. (1963). “Comment: Mental Events and the Brain.” Journal of Philosophy 60 (11):295-296.
  • Fodor, Jerry A. (1974). “Special sciences.” Synthese 28:97-115.
  • Kim, Jaegwon (1992). “Multiple realization and the metaphysics of reduction.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 52 (1):1-26.
  • Lewis, D. (1966). “An Argument for the Identity Theory,” Journal of Philosophy, 63, 17-25.
  • Lewis, D. (1969). “Review of Art, Mind, and ReligionJournal of Philosophy 66, 23-35.
  • Lewis, D. (1970). “How to Define Theoretical Terms,” Journal of Philosophy, 67, 427-446.
  • Lewis, D. (1972). “Psychophysical and Theoretical Identifications,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 50, 249-258.
  • Nagel, Thomas (1965). “Physicalism.” Philosophical Review 74 (July):339-56.
  • Place, U.T. (1956). “Is Consciousness a Brain Process?,” British Journal of Psychology, 47, 44-50,
  • Place, U.T. (1960). “Materialism as a Scientific Hypothesis,” Philosophical Review, 69, 101-104.
  • Place, U.T. (1967). “Comments on Putnam’s “Psychological Predicates”’. In Capitan, W.H. and Merrill, D.D. (eds) Art, Mind and Religion, Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh University Press.
  • Place, U.T. (1988). “Thirty Years on–Is Consciousness still a Brain Process?,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 66, 208-219.
  • Putnam, Hilary (1967). “The Nature of Mental States,” In W.H. Capitan & D.D. Merrill (eds.), Art, Mind, and Religion. Pittsburgh University Press.
  • Rorty, Richard (1965). “Mind-body identity, privacy, and categories,” Review of Metaphysics 19 (September): 24-54.
  • Ryle, G. (1949). The Concept of Mind, London, Hutchinson.
  • Smart, J.J.C. (1959). “Sensations and Brain Processes,” Philosophical Review, 68, 141-156.
  • Taylor, C. (1967). “Mind-body identity, a side issue?” Philosophical Review 76 (April):201-13.

Author Information

Steven Schneider
Email: sjs@inbox.com
Harvard University
U. S. A.

Theories of Emotion

There are different theories of emotion to explain what emotions are and how they operate. This is challenging, since emotions can be analyzed from many different perspectives. In one sense, emotions are sophisticated and subtle, the epitome of what make us human. In another sense, however, human emotions seem to be very similar to (if not the same as) the responses that other animals display. Further, the emotions that we have and how we express them reflect our social environment, but it also seems likely that emotions were shaped by natural selection over time. These and other conflicting features of the emotions make constructing a theory difficult and have led to the creation of a variety of different theories.

Theories of emotion can be categorized in terms of the context within which the explanation is developed. The standard contexts are evolutionary, social and internal. Evolutionary theories attempt to provide an historical analysis of the emotions, usually with a special interest in explaining why humans today have the emotions that they do. Social theories explain emotions as the products of cultures and societies. The internal approach attempts to provide a description of the emotion process itself.  This article is organized around these three categories and will discuss the basic ideas that are associated with each. Some specific theories, as well as the main features of emotion will also be explained.

Table of Contents

  1. Emotion
  2. Evolutionary Theories
    1. Natural Selection in Early Hominids
    2. Adaptations Shared by All Animals: Plutchik
    3. Historical, but Not Adaptationist: Griffiths
  3. Social and Cultural Theories
    1. Motivations for the Social Approach
    2. Emotions Are Transitory Social Roles: Averill
  4. Theories of the Emotion Process
    1. Cognitive Theories
      1. Judgment Theories
      2. Cognitive Appraisal Theories
    2. Non-Cognitive Theories
      1. Some Emotions Are Non-Cognitive: Ekman and Griffiths
      2. All Emotions Are Non-Cognitive: Robinson
    3. Somatic Feedback Theories
  5. Conclusion
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. References
    2. Suggested Reading

1. Emotion

Emotion is one type of affect, other types being mood, temperament and sensation (for example, pain). Emotions can be understood as either states or as processes. When understood as a state (like being angry or afraid), an emotion is a type of mental state that interacts with other mental states and causes certain behaviors.

Understood as a process, it is useful to divide emotion into two parts. The early part of the emotion process is the interval between the perception of the stimulus and the triggering of the bodily response. The later part of the emotion process is a bodily response, for example, changes in heart rate, skin conductance, and facial expression. This description is sufficient to begin an analysis of the emotions, although it does leave out some aspects of the process such as the subjective awareness of the emotion and behavior that is often part of the emotion response (for example, fighting, running away, hugging another person).

The early part of the process is typically taken to include an evaluation of the stimulus, which means that the occurrence of an emotion depends on how the individual understands or “sees” the stimulus. For example, one person may respond to being laid-off from a job with anger, while another person responds with joy—it depends on how the individual evaluates this event. Having this evaluative component in the process means that an emotion is not a simple and direct response to a stimulus. In this way, emotions differ from reflexes such as the startle response or the eye-blink response, which are direct responses to certain kinds of stimuli.

The following are some of the features that distinguish emotion from moods. An emotion is a response to a specific stimulus that can be internal, like a belief or a memory. It is also generally agreed that emotions have intentional content, which is to say that they are about something, often the stimulus itself. Moods, on the other hand, are typically not about anything, and at least some of the time do not appear to be caused by a specific stimulus. Emotions also have a relatively brief duration—on the order of seconds or minutes—whereas moods last much longer. Most theories agree about these features of the emotions. Other features will be discussed in the course of this article. There is much less agreement, however, about most of these other features that the emotions may (or may not) have.

2. Evolutionary Theories

The evolutionary approach focuses on the historical setting in which emotions developed. Typically, the goal is to explain why emotions are present in humans today by referring to natural selection that occurred some time in the past.

It will help to begin by clarifying some terminology. Evolution is simply “change over generational time” (Brandon, 1990, p. 5). Change to a trait can occur because of natural selection, chance, genetic drift, or because the trait is genetically linked with some other trait. A trait is an adaptation if it is produced by natural selection. And a trait is the result of natural selection only when “its prevalence is due to the fact that it conferred a greater fitness” (Richardson, 1996, p. 545), where fitness means reproductive success.

However, a trait can enhance fitness without being an adaptation. One example, noted by Darwin in The Origin of Species, is the skull sutures in newborns:

The sutures in the skulls of young mammals have been advanced as a beautiful adaptation for aiding parturition [that is, live birth], and no doubt they facilitate, or may be indispensable for this act; but as sutures occur in the skulls of young birds and reptiles, which have only to escape from a broken egg, we may infer that this structure has arisen from the laws of growth, and has been taken advantage of in the parturition of the higher animals (p. 218).

In this case, the evidence from non-mammals indicates that this trait was not selected because it aids live birth, although it later became useful for this task.

In order to know that a trait is an adaptation, we have to be familiar with the circumstances under which the selection occurred (Brandon, 1990; Richardson, 1996). However, often the historical evidence is not available to establish that a new trait replaced a previous one because the new trait increased fitness. This is especially true for psychological traits because there is no fossil record to examine. Hence, establishing that an emotion is an adaptation presents some difficult challenges.

Nevertheless, this has not prevented the development of theories that explain emotions as adaptations. The attractiveness of this approach is easy to see. Since all humans have emotions and most non-human animals display emotion-like responses, it is likely that emotions (or emotion-like behaviors) were present in a common ancestor. Moreover, emotions appear to serve an important function, which has led many to think that the certain emotions have been selected to deal with particular problems and challenges that organisms regularly encounter. As Dacher Keltner et al. has stated, “Emotions have the hallmarks of adaptations: They are efficient, coordinated responses that help organisms to reproduce, to protect offspring, to maintain cooperative alliances, and to avoid physical threats” (Keltner, Haidt, & Shiota, 2006, p. 117).

Three different ways in which the evolutionary position has been developed will be discussed in the following sections. The first is based on the claim that emotions are the result of natural selection that occurred in early hominids. The second also claims that emotions are adaptations, but suggests that the selection occurred much earlier. Finally, the third position suggests that emotions are historical, but does not rely on emotions being adaptations.

a. Natural Selection in Early Hominids

The theories in the first group claim that the emotions were selected for in early hominids. Most of these theories suggest that this selection occurred in response to problems that arose because of the social environment in which these organisms lived (Tooby & Cosmides, 1990; Cosmides & Tooby, 2000; Nesse, 1990; Keltner et al., 2006). Some examples of the problems that early hominids may have encountered, and the emotions that may have been selected in response to these problems, are listed in Table 1.

Table 1

Table 1. Some possible examples of emotions that were selected for in early hominids.
These emotions, it is suggested, have been selected to deal with the types of problems indicated.

Although the time period during which this selection is believed to have occurred is typically not specified with any precision, the general period begins after the human lineage diverged from that of the great apes, 5 to 8 million years ago, and continues through the appearance of Homo sapiens, which was at least 150,000 years ago (Wood & Collard, 1999; Wood, 1996).

Adherents of this position suggest that each emotion should be understood as a set of programs that guide cognitive, physiological, and behavioral processes when a specific type of problem is encountered (Tooby & Cosmides, 1990; Cosmides & Tooby, 2000; Nesse, 1990). In Randolph Nesse’s words, “The emotions are specialized modes of operation shaped by natural selection to adjust the physiological, psychological, and behavioral parameters of the organism in ways that increase its capacity and tendency to respond adaptively to the threats and opportunities characteristic of specific kinds of situations” (1990, p. 268).

For example, Cosmides and Tooby suggest that sexual jealousy is an adaptation that occurred in “our hunger-gatherer ancestors” (2000, p. 100). As they explain it, sexual jealousy was selected to deal with a group of related problems. The main one is that a mate is having sex with someone else, but other problems include the harm that has been done to the victim’s status and reputation, the possibility that the unfaithful mate has conceived with the rival, and the likelihood that the victim of the infidelity has been deceived about a wide variety of other matters (2000, p. 100).

According to Cosmides and Tooby, the emotion of sexual jealousy, deals with these problems in the following ways:

Physiological processes are prepared for such things as violence, sperm competition, and the withdrawal of investment; the goal of deterring, injuring, or murdering the rival emerges; the goal of punishing, deterring, or deserting the mate appears; the desire to make oneself more competitively attractive to alternative mates emerges; memory is activated to reanalyze the past; confident assessments of the past are transformed into doubts; the general estimate of the reliability and trustworthiness of the opposite sex  (or indeed everyone) may decline; associated shame programs may be triggered to search for situations in which the individual can publicly demonstrate acts of violence or punishment that work to counteract an (imagined or real) social perception of weakness; and so on (2000, p. 101).

Cosmides and Tooby, and others who have similar theories, stress that these emotions are responses that enhanced fitness when the selection occurred—whenever that was in the past. Although these emotions are still present in humans today, they may no longer be useful, and may even be counterproductive, as Cosmides and Tooby’s description of the more violent aspects of sexual jealousy illustrates.

b. Adaptations Shared by All Animals: Plutchik

In contrast to theories that claim that the emotions are the result of natural selection that occurred in early hominids, another position is that the selection occurred much earlier, and so the adaptations are shared by a wider collection of species today. Robert Plutchik claims that there are eight basic emotions, each one is an adaptation, and all eight are found in all organisms (1980, 1984). According to Plutchik, the emotions are similar to traits such as DNA or lungs in air breathing animals—traits that are so important that they arose once and have been conserved ever since. In the case of the emotions, which he calls “basic adaptations needed by all organisms in the struggle for individual survival” (1980, p. 145), Plutchik suggests that the selection occurred in the Cambrian era, 600 million years ago. The eight adaptations are incorporation, rejection, destruction, protection, reproduction, reintegration, orientation, and exploration (see Table 2 for a description of each).

Table 2

Table 2. This table lists the eight basic emotions in Robert Plutchik theory. On the left are the behaviors that, according to Plutchik, are the result of natural selection, and on the right are the emotions associated with these behaviors. The first emotion listed in each row (e.g., fear, anger, joy) is the basic emotion, the second is the same emotion except at a greater intensity (that is, terror, rage, ecstasy) (1980, 1984).

In Plutchik’s theory, these adaptations are, in one sense, types of animal behaviors. The term “emotion” is just a particular way of describing these behaviors in humans. However, he does acknowledge that the same behaviors are not found in all species. The emotions that appear in humans are more complex than what are found in lower species, “but the basic functional patterns remain invariant in all animals, up to and including humans” (1980, p. 130).

Plutchik’s theory also accounts for more than just these eight emotions. Other emotions, he says, are either combinations of two or three of these basic emotions, or one of these eight emotions experienced at a greater or a milder intensity. Some examples are: anger and disgust mixing to form contempt; fear and sadness mixing to form despair; and with regard to levels of intensity, annoyance is a milder form of anger, which is itself a milder form of rage.

c. Historical, but Not Adaptationist: Griffiths

Although the trend when explaining emotions from a historical point of view is to focus on adaptations, an alternative is simply to identify the traits that are present in a certain range of species because of their shared ancestry. According to Paul Griffiths, some emotions should be identified and then classified in this way (1997, 2004). This classification creates a psychological category, which Griffiths terms the affect program emotions: surprise, anger, fear, sadness, joy, and disgust. In Griffiths’ theory, the other emotions belong to different categories—the higher-cognitive emotions and the socially constructed emotions—and in some cases a single vernacular term, for example, anger, will have instances that belong to different categories. Affect programs are explained further in section 4.

Griffiths’ idea is that these emotions are basically the same as other traits that are studied and classified by evolutionary biology. An affect program emotion is, “no different from a trait like the human arm, which has unique features but can be homologized more or less broadly with everything from a chimpanzee arm to a cetacean fin” (1997, p. 230). For example, sadness, one of Griffiths’ affect program emotions, occurs in all humans and in other related species. This trait may differ slightly from species to species, but it is a single trait because all of the occurrences can be traced back to a common ancestor.

Griffiths suggests that this method of classification will identify the emotions that are carried out by similar mechanisms in different species. For example, “threat displays in chimps look very different from anger in humans, but when their superficial appearance is analyzed to reveal the specific muscles whose movement produces the expression and the order in which those muscles move, it becomes clear that they are homologues of one another. The same is almost certainly true of the neural mechanisms that control those movements” (Griffiths, 2004, p. 238). Rather than simply focusing on the functions of the emotions, this kind of analysis is more useful for psychology and neuropsychology because these sciences are interested in identifying the mechanisms that drive behavior (Griffiths, 2004).

3. Social and Cultural Theories

The second main approach to explaining the emotions begins with the idea that emotions are social constructions. That is, emotions are the products of societies and cultures, and are acquired or learned by individuals through experience. Virtually everyone who defends this position acknowledges that emotions are to some degree, natural phenomena. Nonetheless, the central claim made in these theories is that the social influence is so significant that emotions are best understood from this perspective.

a. Motivations for the Social Approach

This section will discuss some of the motivations for adopting this approach to explaining the emotions. Some brief examples to show how these ideas have been developed are also reviewed.

1. A number of anthropological studies have found discrepancies among the emotion words used in different languages. In particular, there are emotion words in other languages that do not correspond directly or even closely to emotion words in English. Given that individuals experience the emotions that they have terms for (and vice versa), the claim that follows from these findings is that people in different cultures have and experience different emotions. The following are some of the examples that are often used to illustrate the variability of emotion terms.

The people of Ifaluk, a small island in the Pacific, have an emotion that they refer to as fago. Catherine Lutz translates fago as “compassion/love/sadness” and claims that it is unlike any single western emotion (1988). The Japanese have the emotion amae, which is a feeling of dependency upon another’s love. This is similar to the feeling that children have towards their mothers, but it is experienced by adults. (Morsbach & Tyler, 1986). And there are several cultures in which anger and sadness are not distinguished as separate, discrete emotions (Orley, 1970 [quoted in Russell, 1991]; Davitz, 1969; M. Z. Rosaldo, 1980; R. I. Rosaldo, 1984). (See Russell [1991] for a comprehensive review of this literature.)

2. Emotions typically occur in social settings and during interpersonal transactions—many, if not most, emotions are caused by other people and social relationships. Thus, in many cases emotions may be best understood as interactions between people, rather than simply as one individual’s response to a particular stimulus (Parkinson, 1996). Brian Parkinson and his colleagues have developed a theory based upon these considerations (Parkinson, 1996, 1997; Parkinson, Fischer, & Manstead, 2005). In brief, Parkinson describes emotion as:

something that emerges directly through the medium of interaction. Interpersonal factors are typically the main causes of emotion, and emotions lead people to engage in certain kinds of social encounter or withdraw from such interpersonal contact. Many emotions have relational rather than personal meanings … and the expression of these meanings in an emotional interaction serves specific interpersonal functions depending on the nature of the emotion (1996, p. 680).

Rom Harré also points out that language, social practices, and other elements of an individual’s culture have a significant role in the formation of emotions. Individuals in a society develop their emotions based on what they are exposed to and experience, either directly or indirectly (1986, 1995). One example that Harré uses to demonstrate this is an emotion that depended upon religious beliefs and the norms that develop around those beliefs in the Middle Ages. Accidie was a negative emotion that Harré and Finlay-Jones describe as “boredom, dejection, or even disgust with fulfilling one’s religious duty” (Harré & Finlay-Jones, 1986, p. 221). Moreover, this emotion was “the major spiritual failing to which those who should have been dutiful succumbed” and “to feel it at all was a sin” (p. 221). Nevertheless, experience it people did. Today, although people still get bored and dejected, this emotion no longer exists because our emotions are, according to Harré and Finlay-Jones, “defined against the background of a different moral order” (p. 222).

3. Emotions and their expression are regulated by social norms, values, and expectations. These norms and values influence what the appropriate objects of emotion are (that is, what events should make a person angry, happy, jealous, and so on), and they also influence how emotions should be expressed.

As an example of how specific and recognizable these norms, values, and expectations sometimes are, one can consider “emotion rules” that Americans often follow. James Averill (1993; see also 1982) has identified the rules for anger, some of which are listed here:

  • A person has the right (duty) to become angry at intentional wrongdoing or at unintentional misdeeds if those misdeeds are correctable (for example, due to negligence, carelessness, or oversight).
  • Anger should be directed only at persons and, by extension, other entities (one’s self, human institutions) that can be held responsible for their actions.
  • Anger should not be displaced on an innocent third party, nor should it be directed at the target for reasons other than the instigation.
  • The aim of anger should be to correct the situation, restore equity, and/or prevent recurrence, not to inflict injury or pain on the target or to achieve selfish ends through intimidation.
  • The angry response should be proportional to the instigation; that is, it should not exceed what is necessary to correct the situation, restore equity, or prevent the instigation from happening again.
  • Anger should follow closely the provocation and not endure longer than is needed to correct the situation (typically a few hours or days, at most) (pp. 182–84).

Once these rules are specified by society (either implicitly or explicitly), they become, Averill says, “part of our ‘second nature'” (1993, p. 184), and so we follow them without any deliberate effort.

Claire Armon-Jones goes further and says that the purpose of the emotions is to reinforce society’s norms and values (1986b, see also 1985, 1986a). Allowing that emotions may also serve other purposes, some of the functions that they have are “the regulation of socially undesirable behavior and the promotion of attitudes which reflect and endorse the interrelated religious, political, moral, aesthetic and social practices of a society” (1986b, p. 57). For example, an individual’s envy of someone who is successful (or his guilt over having cheated someone) are both emotions that have been prescribed by the individual’s society so that the individual will take the appropriate attitude towards success and cheating.

Of course, there are times when emotion responses do not adhere well to what one may think of as moral rules or values, for instance, taking pleasure in creating graffiti or taking pride in hurting people. For these cases, Armon-Jones suggests that the emotion has still been learned by the individual, just not in a way that is consistent with what the larger portion of the society would endorse. Rather, the individual has acquired the emotion from some sub-population of society or a peer-group that the individual identifies with (1986b).

b. Emotions Are Transitory Social Roles: Averill

Many theories have been developed from the social perspective, but one that has been particularly significant is James Averill’s, which will be reviewed in this section (1980, 1982, 1986). According to Averill, “an emotion is a transitory social role (a socially constituted syndrome) that includes an individual’s appraisal of the situation and that is interpreted as a passion rather than as an action” (1980, p. 312). These transitory social roles and syndromes are generated by social norms and expectations, and so, by these means, social norms and expectations govern an individual’s emotions.

Averill employs the notion of a syndrome to indicate that each emotion (like fear, anger or embarrassment), covers a variety of elements. A syndrome is a collection of all of the appropriate responses of a particular emotion, any of which may at certain times constitute an emotion response, but none of which are essential or necessary for that emotion syndrome. It also consists of beliefs about the nature of the eliciting stimuli and perhaps some natural (that is, non-social) elements. All of these various components are linked together for an individual by principles of organization. These principles are what allow the various elements to be construed coherently as one particular emotion (1982).

For example, grief is a syndrome. Every individual who understands this syndrome may at different times have the following grief responses: shock, crying, refusing to cry (that is, keeping a stiff upper lip), declining to eat, neglecting basic responsibilities, and so on. Further, the conditions that the individual understands should elicit grief are also part of this syndrome: the death of a loved one, the loss of a valuable object, a setback at work, rainy days, and so forth.

Bringing these parts together into one coherent whole are the mental constructs that allow an individual to construe all of these various elements as grief. An individual labels both his response at a funeral and his response to his favorite baseball team losing as grief, even if the two responses have nothing in common. Additionally, with an understanding of the grief syndrome an individual can judge when others are experiencing grief and whether another individual’s grief is genuine, severe, mild, and so on.

The idea of emotions as transitory social roles is distinct from the notion of a syndrome, but characterizes the same phenomena, in particular, the eliciting conditions and the responses for an emotion. In Averill’s theory, transitory social roles are the roles that individuals adopt when they choose to play a particular part in a situation as it unfolds. That being said, although the individual chooses the role, Averill stresses that the emotional responses are interpreted by the agent as passive responses to particular situations, not as active choices.

The transitory social roles are rule governed ways of performing a social role, and so individuals adopt a role that is consistent with what a given situation calls for. For example, a grief response is appropriate at a funeral, but different grief responses are appropriate at the burial and at the service before the burial. In order to have an emotion response that is consistent with social norms and expectations, the individual must understand what the role they are adopting means in the context in which it is used.

Summarizing these different resources from Averill’s theory, the syndromes are used to classify emotions and demarcate them from each other. The transitory social roles are useful for explaining how the emotion responses relate to the society as well as the specific social context. Considering an emotion as a syndrome, the individual has a variety of choices for the emotion response. The transitory social role imposes rules that dictate which response is appropriate for the situation. For example, the possible responses for anger may include pouting, yelling, hitting, or perhaps no overt behavior at all. In a particular situation, say a baseball game, a player may adopt a social role that includes pushing the umpire as an anger response. Yelling at the umpire would have been another role the player could have adopted.  However, social norms and expectations dictate that pouting in this situation would not be an appropriate response.

4. Theories of the Emotion Process

The third category of theories contains those that attempt to describe the emotion process itself. Generally speaking, the emotion process begins with the perception of a stimulus, although in some cases the “stimulus” may be internal, for example, a thought or a memory. The early part of the emotion process is the activity between the perception and the triggering of the bodily response (that is, the emotion response), and the later part of the emotion process is the bodily response: changes in heart rate, blood pressure, facial expression, skin conductivity, and so forth.

Most of the theories that will be considered in this section focus on the early part of the emotion process because—according to these theories—the specific emotion that occurs is determined during this part of the process. There is, however, disagreement about how simple or complex the early part of the emotion process might be, which has lead to competing cognitive and non-cognitive theories. These two types of theories are discussed in this section, as is a third type, the somatic feedback theories.

a. Cognitive Theories

The cognitive theories contend that the early part of the emotion process includes the manipulation of information and so should be understood as a cognitive process. This is in contrast to theories that state that the generation of the emotion response is a direct and automatic result of perceiving the stimulus—these non-cognitive theories are discussed below.

Two observations demonstrate some of the motivation for the cognitive position. First, different individuals will respond to the same event with different emotions, or the same individual may at different times respond differently to the same stimulus. For example, one person may be relieved to be laid-off from her job, while a co-worker greets the same news with dread. Or one person may, as a young woman, be excited to be laid-off from her job, but several years later find being laid-off frightening. As the psychologists Ira Roseman and Craig Smith point out, “Both individual and temporal variability in reaction to an event are difficult to explain with theories that claim that stimulus events directly cause emotional response” (2001, p. 4).

Second, there is a wide range of seemingly unrelated events that cause the same emotion. None of these events share any physical feature or property, but all of them can cause the same response. Roseman and Smith provide an example using sadness and comment on the consequence of this example for a theory of emotion:

sadness may be elicited by the death of a parent (see Boucher & Brandt, 1981), the birth of a child (see, for example, Hopkins, Marcus, & Campbell, 1984), divorce (for example, Richards, Hardy, & Wadsworth, 1997), declining sensory capacity (Kalayam, Alexopoulos, Merrell, & Young, 1991), not being accepted to medical school (Scherer, 1988), or the crash of one’s computer hard drive … These examples pose problems for theories claiming that emotions are unconditioned responses to evolutionary specified stimulus events or are learned via generalization or association (2001, p. 4).

Cognitive theories account for these two observations by proposing that the way in which the individual evaluates the stimulus determines the emotion that is elicited. Every individual has beliefs, as well as goals, personal tendencies, and desires in place before the emotion causing event is encountered. It is in light of these factors that an individual evaluates the event. For example, different emotions will occur depending on whether an individual evaluates being laid-off as consistent with her current goals or inconsistent with them.

i. Judgment Theories

Judgment theories are the version of the cognitive position that have been developed by philosophers. The basic idea, as Robert Solomon puts it, is that an emotion is “a basic judgment about our Selves and our place in our world, the projection of the values and ideals, structures and mythologies, according to which we live and through which we experience our lives” (1993, p. 126). Judging in this context is the mental ability that individuals use when they acknowledge a particular experience or the existence of a particular state of the world; what Martha Nussbaum calls “assent[ing] to an appearance” (2004, p. 191).

Taking anger as an example, in Solomon’s theory, “What constitutes the anger is my judging that I have been insulted and offended” (1977, p. 47). Nussbaum has a similar, but more detailed, description of anger as the following set of beliefs: “that there has been some damage to me or to something or someone close to me; that the damage is not trivial but significant; that it was done by someone; that it was done willingly; that it would be right for the perpetrator of the damage to be punished” (2004, p. 188). In some contexts, Nussbaum treats judgments and beliefs interchangeably and it is sometimes the case that a series of judgments constitute the emotion.

Elaborating upon her example, Nussbaum points out how the different beliefs are related to the emotion. She notes that, “each element of this set of beliefs is necessary in order for anger to be present: if I should discover that not x but y had done the damage, or that it was not done willingly, or that it was not serious, we could expect my anger to modify itself accordingly or recede” (2004, p. 188). Thus, a change in an individual’s beliefs—in his or her way of seeing the world—entails a different emotion, or none at all.

Judging is the central idea in these theories because it is something that the agent actively does, rather than something that happens to the individual. This in turn reflects the judgment theorists’ claim that in order to have an emotion the individual must judge (evaluate, acknowledge) that events are a certain way. Of course, one can make judgments that are not themselves emotions. For example, the judgment that the wall is red, or the judgment that the icy road is dangerous. One way to distinguish the judgments that are emotions from those that are not is to suggest (like Nussbaum) that the judgment must be based on a certain set of beliefs. If those beliefs are present, then the emotion will occur; if they are not, then it won’t. A second response is to be more specific about the nature of the judgment itself. The judgments related to emotions are, as Solomon says, “self-involved and relatively intense evaluative judgments … The judgments and objects that constitute our emotions are those which are especially important to us, meaningful to us, concerning matters in which we have invested our Selves” (1993, p. 127).

It is also important to note that, although these theories claim that emotion is a cognitive process, they do not claim that it is a conscious or a deliberative process.  As Solomon says, “by ‘judgment’, I do not necessarily mean ‘deliberative judgment’ … One might call such judgments ‘spontaneous’ as long as ‘spontaneity’ isn’t confused with ‘passivity'” (1977, p. 46). For example, the judgment that I have been insulted and offended does not necessarily require any conscious mental effort on my part.

The last issue that needs to be addressed concerns the bodily response. All of the judgment theories state that judgments are necessary for an emotion. While these theories acknowledge that in many cases various bodily responses will accompany the emotion, many do not consider the bodily response an integral part of the emotion process. Nussbaum believes that this can be demonstrated by considering the consequences of having the requisite mental states while not having a bodily response:

There usually will be bodily sensations and changes involved in grieving, but if we discovered that my blood pressure was quite low during this whole episode, or that my pulse rate never went above sixty, there would not, I think, be the slightest reason to conclude that I was not grieving. If my hands and feet were cold or warm, sweaty or dry, again this would be of no critical value (2004, p. 195).

Some judgment theorists are, however, more accommodating and allow that the bodily response is properly considered part of the emotion, an effect of the judgments that are made. Thus, William Lyons describes his theory, the causal-evaluative theory, as follows:

the causal-evaluative theory gets its name from advocating that X is to be deemed an emotional state if and only if it is a physiologically abnormal state caused by the subject of that state’s evaluation of his or her situation. The causal order is important, emotion is a psychosomatic state, a bodily state caused by an attitude, in this case an evaluative attitude (1980, pp. 57–58).

In theory such as Lyons’, the bodily response is considered part of the emotion process and the emotion is determined by the cognitive activity—the judgment or evaluation—that occurs (Lyons 1980, pp. 62–63; see also Roseman and Smith, 2001, p. 6).

ii. Cognitive Appraisal Theories

Cognitive appraisal theories are the cognitive theories that have been developed by psychologists. Like the judgment theories, the cognitive appraisal theories emphasize the idea that the way in which an individual evaluates or appraises the stimulus determines the emotion. But unlike the judgment theories, the cognitive appraisal theories do not rely on the resources of folk psychology (beliefs, judgments, and so forth). The cognitive appraisal theories also offer a more detailed analysis of the different types of appraisals involved in the emotion process.

This section will focus on Ira Roseman’s theory (1984), which was one of the first cognitive appraisal theories. As an early contribution, Roseman’s theory is in some ways simpler than more recent cognitive appraisal theories and so will serve as a good introduction. Similar models are offered by Roseman, Antoniou, and Jose [1996], Roseman [2001], Lazarus [1991], and Scherer [1993, 2001]. The basic theoretical framework is the same for all of the cognitive appraisal theories. The main differences concern the exact appraisals that are used in this process.

Roseman’s model, which is described in Table 3, has five appraisal components that can produce 14 discrete emotions. The appraisal components and the different values that each component can take are motivational state (appetitive, aversive), situational state (motive-consistent, motive-inconsistent), probability (certain, uncertain, unknown), power (strong, weak), and agency (self-caused, other-caused, circumstance-caused). The basic idea is that when a stimulus is encountered it is appraised along these five dimensions. Each appraisal component is assigned one of its possible values, and together these values determine which emotion response will be generated.

Table 3

Table 3. The different appraisal components in Roseman’s theory are motivational state, situational state, probability, power, and agency. The arrows point to the different values that each appraisal component can take. Each emotion type takes the values that its placement in the chart indicates. When the emotion is placed such that it lines up with more than one value for an appraisal component (e.g., anger can be uncertain or certain), any of those values can be assigned for that emotion. Adapted from Roseman (1984, p. 31).

For example, for joy, the situational state must be appraised as motive-consistent, the motivational state as appetitive, agency must be circumstance-caused, probability must be certain, and power can be either weak or strong. Notice also that the different emotions all use the same appraisal components, and many emotions take the same values for several of the components. For example, in Roseman’s model, anger and regret take the same values for all of the appraisals except for the agency component; for that appraisal, regret takes the value self-caused and anger takes other-caused.

The five appraisal components are described as follows:

  1. The motivational state appraisal distinguishes between states that the individual views as desirable (appetitive) and states that are viewed as undesirable (aversive). This is not an evaluation of whether the event itself is positive or negative; rather it is an evaluation of whether the event includes some important aspect that is perceived as a goal or some aspect that is perceived as a punishment. A punishment (or something perceived as a punishment) that is avoided is a positive event, but still includes an evaluation of a punishment. For example, according to Roseman, although relief is a positive emotion, it includes an evaluation that some important aspect of the event is aversive. Conversely, sorrow, a negative emotion, includes an evaluation that some important aspect of the event is appetitive.
  2. The situational state component determines whether the desirable or undesirable quality of the event is present or absent. The appraisal that something desirable is present and the appraisal that something undesirable is absent are both motive-consistent. On the other hand, the appraisal that something desirable is absent or something undesirable is present is motive-inconsistent. So for instance, the situational state for both joy and relief is motive-consistent. But, joy includes the appraisals that there is a desirable state and it is present, and relief includes the appraisals that there is an undesirable state and it is absent.
  3. The probability component evaluates whether an event is definite (certain), only possible (uncertain), or of an unknown probability. For this component, an outcome of uncertainty contributes to hope instead of joy or relief, which both involve an appraisal that the event is certain (that is, the outcome of the event has been determined). The possibility that the event can be appraised as having an unknown probability was added by Roseman in order to account for surprise, which is often considered a basic emotion (for example, Izard, 1977; Ekman, 1992). For this appraisal, unknown differs from uncertain in that unknown is the value that is assigned when the distinction between motive-consistent versus motive-inconsistent cannot be made. When the distinction can be made, the value is assigned certain or uncertain.
  4. The evaluation of power is the individual’s perception of his or her strength or weakness in a situation. These values distinguish, for example, shame (weak) and regret (strong), as well as dislike (weak) and anger (strong). Roseman suggests a situation that would be likely to cause an evaluation of weakness rather than strength. He suggests that we “consider someone being robbed at gunpoint. Will this person, quite unjustly treated but quite weak, be feeling anger? I contend that he would not, though he would probably feel some negative emotion towards his assailant. This emotion, in … [my] theory, is dislike” (1984, p. 27).
  5. Lastly, the agency component. An evaluation is made about whether the event was caused by the individual, caused by some other person, or is merely a result of the situation (that is, the event is perceived as lacking an agent). This appraisal usually determines to whom or towards what the emotion is directed. Making this evaluation sometimes requires a subtle understanding of what the emotion-causing stimulus is. For instance, consider an individual who is presented with a gift by a friend. If the individual focuses on the gift and having just received it (the general state of affairs), his emotion is joy. If the individual focuses on the friend who has just given the gift (focuses on another person), the emotion is liking.

Just like the judgment theorists, Roseman and the other appraisal theorists say that these appraisals do not have to be deliberate, or even something of which the individual is consciously aware. To illustrate this, consider someone accidentally spilling a glass of water on you versus intentionally throwing the glass of water on you. According to Roseman’s theory, in the first case, the agency appraisal would most likely be circumstance-caused. In the latter case, it would be other-caused. As a result, different emotions would be elicited. Most people have had an experience like this and can see that determining these values would not take any conscious effort. The values are set outside of conscious awareness.

Unlike some of the judgment theorists, all of the cognitive appraisal theorists agree that the appraisals are followed by a bodily response, which is properly consider part of the emotion process. Roseman suggests that once the appraisals have been made, a response that has the following parts is set in motion: (1) “the thoughts, images, and subjective ‘feeling’ associated with each discrete emotion,” (2) “the patterns of bodily response,” (3) the “facial expressions, vocal signals, and postural cues that communicate to others which emotion one is feeling,” (4) a “behavioral component [that] comprises actions, such as running or fighting, which are often associated with particular emotions,” and (5) “goals to which particular emotions give rise, such as avoiding some situation (when frightened) or inflicting harm upon some person (when angered)” (1984, pp. 19–20).

b. Non-Cognitive Theories

Non-cognitive theories are those that defend the claim that judgments or appraisals are not part of the emotion process. Hence, the disagreement between the cognitive and the non-cognitive positions primarily entails the early part of the emotion process. The concern is what intervenes between the perception of a stimulus and the emotion response. The non-cognitive position is that the emotion response directly follows the perception of a relevant stimulus. Thus, instead of any sort of evaluation or judgment about the stimulus, the early part of the emotion process is thought to be reflex-like.

The non-cognitive theories are in many ways a development of the folk psychological view of emotion. This is the idea that emotions are separate from the rational or cognitive operations of the mind: cognitive operations are cold and logical, whereas emotions are hot, irrational, and largely uncontrollable responses to certain events. The non-cognitive position has also been motivated by skepticism about the cognitive theories. The non-cognitive theorists deny that propositional attitudes and the conceptual knowledge that they require (for example, anger is the judgment that I have been wronged) are necessary for emotions. Advocates of the non-cognitive position stress that a theory of emotion should apply to infants and non-human animals, which presumably do not have the cognitive capabilities that are described in the judgment theories or the cognitive appraisal theories.

With respect to the non-cognitive theories themselves, there are two different approaches. The first develops an explanation of the non-cognitive process, but claims that only some emotions are non-cognitive. The second approach describes the non-cognitive process in a very similar way, but defends the idea that all emotions are non-cognitive.

i. Some Emotions Are Non-Cognitive: Ekman and Griffiths

Paul Ekman originally developed what is now the standard description of the non-cognitive process (1977), and more recently Paul Griffiths has incorporated Ekman’s account into his own theory of the emotions (1997). This section will review the way in which Ekman and Griffiths describe the non-cognitive process. The next section will examine a theory that holds that all emotions are non-cognitive, a position that Ekman and Griffiths do not defend.

Ekman’s model is composed of two mechanisms that directly interface with each other: an automatic appraisal mechanism and an affect programme. Griffiths adopts a slightly different way of describing the model; he treats Ekman’s two mechanisms as a single system, which he calls the affect program. Griffiths also suggests that there is a separate affect program for each of several emotions: surprise, fear, anger, disgust, sadness, and joy (1997, p. 97). (As noted in section one, Griffiths identifies this class of emotions, the affect programs, historically.)

Describing the automatic appraisal mechanism, Ekman says:

There must be an appraiser mechanism which selectively attends to those stimuli (external or internal) which are the occasion for activating the affect programme … Since the interval between stimulus and emotional response is sometimes extraordinarily short, the appraisal mechanism must be capable of operating with great speed. Often the appraisal is not only quick but it happens without awareness, so I must postulate that the appraisal mechanism is able to operate automatically. It must be constructed so that it quickly attends to some stimuli, determining not only that they pertain to emotion, but to which emotion, and then activating the appropriate part of the affect programme (1977, p. 58).

The automatic appraisal mechanism is able to detect certain stimuli, which Ekman calls elicitors. Elicitors can vary by culture, as well as from individual to individual. On a more general level, however, there are similarities among the elicitors for each emotion. These are some of the examples that Ekman offers:

Disgust elicitors share the characteristic of being noxious rather than painful; … fear elicitors share the characteristic of portending harm or pain. One of the common characteristics of some of the elicitors of happiness is release from accumulated pressure, tension, discomfort, etc. Loss of something to which one is intimately attached might be a common characteristic of sadness elicitors. Interference with ongoing activity might be characteristic of some anger elicitors (1977, pp. 60–61).

Related to Ekman’s notion of an elicitor, Griffiths suggests that this system includes a “biased learning mechanism,” which allows it to easily learn some things, but makes it difficult for it to learn others. For example, it is easier for humans to acquire a fear of snakes than a fear flowers (Griffiths, 1997, pp. 88–89). Furthermore, this system “would have some form of memory, storing information about classes of stimuli previously assessed as meriting emotional response” (1997, p. 92).

The second mechanism that Ekman describes, what he calls the affect programme, governs the various elements of the emotion response: the skeletal muscle response, facial response, vocal response, and central and autonomic nervous system responses (1977, p. 57; see also Griffiths, 1997, p. 77). According to Ekman, this is a mechanism that “stores the patterns for these complex organized responses, and which when set off directs their occurrence” (1977, p. 57).

Griffiths also points out that the affect programs (recall that, in Griffiths’ parlance, affect program refers to the whole system) have several of the features that Fodor (1983) identified for modular processes. In particular, when the appropriate stimulus is presented to the system the triggering of the response is mandatory, meaning that once it begins it cannot be interfered with or stopped. The affect programs are also encapsulated, or cut off from other mental processes (1997, pp. 93–95). Ekman appears to have been aware of the modular nature of this system when he wrote, “The difficulty experienced when trying to interfere with the operation of the affect programme, the speed of its operation, its capability to initiate responses that are hard to halt voluntarily, is what is meant by out-of-control quality to the subjective experiences of some emotions” (1977, p. 58).

Ekman and Griffiths both believe that this system accounts for a significant number of the emotions that humans experience, but neither think that it describes all emotions. Ekman says that the automatic appraisal mechanism is one kind of appraisal mechanism, but he also believes that cognitive appraisals are sometimes utilized. Griffiths defends the view that the vernacular term emotion does not pick out a single psychological class. In addition to the affect program emotions, he suggests some emotions are cognitively mediated and some are socially constructed.

ii. All Emotions Are Non-Cognitive: Robinson

An alternative view is that the emotion process is always a non-cognitive one. That is, a system like the one described by Ekman and Griffiths accounts for all occurrences of emotion. This position is defended by Jenefer Robinson (1995, 2004, 2005). It is also similar to the theories developed by William James (1884) and, more recently, Jesse Prinz (2004a), which are discussed in the next section. See Zajonc (1980, 1984) for another important defense of the non-cognitive position.

In her “exclusively non-cognitive” theory, Robinson claims that any cognitive processes that occur in an emotion-causing situation are in addition to the core process, which is non-cognitive. She acknowledges that in some cases, an emotion might be caused by cognitive activity, but this is explained as cognitive activity that precedes the non-cognitive emotion process. For example, sometimes an individual’s fear is in response to cognitively complex information such as the value of one’s investments suddenly dropping. In this case, a cognitive process will determine that the current situation is dangerous, and then what Robinson calls an affective appraisal will be made of this specific information and a fear response will be triggered. As Robinson describes this part of her theory, “My suggestion is that there is a set of inbuilt affective appraisal mechanisms, which in more primitive species and in neonates are automatically attuned to particular stimuli, but which, as human beings learn and develop, can also take as input more complex stimuli, including complex ‘judgments’ or thoughts” (2004, p. 41).

This explanation allows Robinson to maintain the idea that emotions are non-cognitive while acknowledging that humans can have emotions in response to complex events. This aspect of her theory can also be used to explain how an individual can be cognitively aware that he or she has been unjustly treated, or been unexpectedly rewarded, but not experience any emotion (for example, anger, or sadness, or happiness)—a situation which does seem to occur sometimes. For example, the cognitive appraisal may indicate that the individual has been unjustly treated, but the affective appraisal will not evaluate this as worthy of an emotion response.

Robinson also suggests that the non-cognitive process may be followed by cognitive activity that labels an emotion response in ways that reflect the individual’s thoughts and beliefs. The non-cognitive process might generate an anger response, but then subsequent cognitive monitoring of the response and the situation causes the emotion to be labeled as jealousy. Thus, the individual will take him or herself to be experiencing jealousy, even though the actual emotion process was the one specific to anger (2004, 2005).

c. Somatic Feedback Theories

The theories discussed in this section have varied in the importance that they place on the bodily changes that typically during the emotion process. The judgment theorist Martha Nussbaum is dismissive of the bodily changes, whereas the cognitive appraisal theorists (that is, the psychologists) hold that the bodily response is a legitimate part of the process and has to be included in any complete description of the emotions. Meanwhile, all of the non-cognitive theorists agree that bodily changes are part of the emotion process.

However, the cognitive theories all maintain that it is the cognitive activity that determines the specific emotion that is produced (that is, sadness, anger, fear, and so forth.) and the non-cognitive position is not very different in this regard. Ekman’s automatic appraisal mechanism and Robinson’s affective appraisals are both supposed to determine which emotion is generated.

The further question is whether there is a unique set of bodily changes for each emotion. The cognitive appraisal theorist Klaus Scherer claims that each appraisal component directs specific bodily changes, and so his answer to this question is affirmative (2001); Griffiths says that is likely that each affect program emotion has a unique bodily response profile (1997, pp. 79–84); and Robinson is skeptical that different emotions can be distinguished by any of the features of the bodily response, except perhaps the facial expression (2005, pp. 28–34). Nevertheless, although answering this question is important for a complete understanding of the emotions, it does not greatly affect the theories mentioned here, which are largely based on what occurs in the early part of the emotion process.

The somatic feedback theorists differ from the cognitive and non-cognitive positions by claiming that the bodily responses are unique for each emotion and that it is in virtue of the unique patterns of somatic activity that the emotions are differentiated. Thus, according to these theories, there is one set of bodily changes for sadness, one set for anger, one for happiness, and so on. This is a claim for which there is some evidence, although except for facial expressions, the current evidence is not very strong (see Ekman, 1999; Levenson, Ekman, & Friesen, 1990; Prinz, 2004b). In any case, it is the feedback that the mind (or brain) gets from the body that makes the event an emotion.

William James (1884) was the first to develop a somatic feedback theory, and recently James’ model has been revived and expanded by Antonio Damasio (1994, 2001) and Jesse Prinz (2004a, 2004b). Somatic feedback theories suggest that once the bodily response has been generated (that is, a change in heart rate, blood pressure, facial expression, and so forth), the mind registers these bodily activities, and this mental state (the one caused by the bodily changes) is the emotion.

James describes it this way: “the bodily changes follow directly the perception of the exciting fact [that is, the emotion causing event], and … our feeling of the same changes as they occur is the emotion,” (1884, p. 189–90, italics and capitalization removed). Note that James’ theory overlaps with the non-cognitive theories insofar as James suggests that when the stimulus is perceived, a bodily response is triggered automatically or reflexively (1884, p. 195–97). The way in which he describes this process is just as central to the non-cognitive theories as it is to his own: “the nervous system of every living thing is but a bundle of predispositions to react in particular ways upon the contact of particular features of the environment. . . . The neural machinery is but a hyphen between determinate arrangements of matter outside the body and determinate impulses to inhibition or discharge within its organs” (1884, p. 190). Hence, according to James, when the appropriate type of stimulus is perceived (that is a bear), this automatically causes a bodily response (trembling, raised heart rate, and so forth), and the individual’s awareness of this bodily response is the fear.

A consequence of this view is that without a bodily response there cannot be an emotion. This is a point that James illustrates with the following thought experiment:

If we fancy some strong emotion, and then try to abstract from our consciousness of it all the feelings of its characteristic bodily symptoms, we find we have nothing left behind, no “mind-stuff” out of which the emotion can be constituted, and that a cold and neutral state of intellectual perception is all that remains (1884, p. 193; notice that Nussbaum articulates the opposite intuition in a quote above).

Jesse Prinz has recently expanded upon James’ theory. For Prinz, as for James, the emotion is the mental state that is caused by the feedback from the body. However, Prinz makes a distinction between what this mental state registers and what it represents. According to Prinz, an emotion registers the bodily response, but it represents simple information concerning what each emotion is about—for example, fear represents danger, sadness represents the loss of something valued, anger represents having been demeaned.

Like James, Prinz suggests that the bodily response is primarily the result of a non-cognitive process. In Prinz’s example in Figure 1, there is no mental evaluation or appraisal that the snake is dangerous, rather the perception of the snake triggers the bodily changes. In this case, Prinz says that the bodily changes that occur in response to perceiving a snake can be explained as an adaptation. Our bodies respond in the way that they do to the perception of a snake because snakes are dangerous, and so danger is what the mental state is representing (2004a, p. 69).

Figure 1

Figure 1. An illustration of Prinz’s somatic feedback theory. In this example, fear is the mental state caused by feedback from the body (that is, the perception of the bodily changes). This mental state registers the bodily changes, but represents meaningful, albeit simple, information. In this example the mental state represents danger. Adapted from Prinz (2004a, p. 69).

The advantage that Prinz’s theory has over James’ is that it incorporates a plausible account of the intentionality of emotions into a somatic feedback theory. In Prinz’s theory, the mental state (the emotion) is caused by bodily activity, but, rather than being about the bodily activity, the emotion is about something else, namely these simple pieces of information that the mental state represents.

The third theorist in this group, Antonio Damasio, is also able to account for the intentionality of the mental state that is caused by feedback from the body. Here, Damasio’s account differs from Prinz’s because Damasio takes it that the emotion process does include cognitive evaluations, at least for most emotions. A word of clarification before proceeding: what James and Prinz call the emotion, Damasio refers to as a feeling.

In Damasio’s theory, a typical case begins with thoughts and evaluations about the stimulus, and this mental activity triggers a bodily response—this process Damasio calls “the emotion.” A mental representation of the bodily activity is then generated in the brain’s somatosensory cortices—this is the feeling according to Damasio (1994, p. 145). This feeling occurs “in juxtaposition” to the thoughts and evaluations about the stimulus that triggered the bodily changes in the first place.

Figure 2

Figure 2. Damasio’s somatic feedback theory. The part of this process that includes (B) and (C) is what Damsio calls the emotion. The mental representation of the activity in the body, (D), Damasio calls the feeling. Since (B) and (D) co-occur, the feeling will be accompanied by the information that triggered the bodily response.

According to Damasio, these feelings are crucial in helping us make decisions and choose our actions (see Damasio’s somatic marker hypothesis, 1994, 1996). As an illustration of this, let us say that Bill’s brother-in-law has just offered to let him in on a risky, but possibly lucrative business venture. Although Bill realizes that there are many aspects of the situation to consider, the thought of losing a lot of money causes a bodily response. The feedback from Bill’s body is then juxtaposed with the thought of being tangled up in a losing venture with his brother-in-law. It is this negative feeling that informs Bill’s choice of behavior, and he declines the offer without ever pondering all of the costs and benefits. Bill could have considered the situation more thoroughly, but acting on this kind of feeling is, according to Damasio, often the way in which actions are chosen.

Another important feature of Damasio’s account (and one that Prinz has adopted) is the idea that there is an as-if loop in the brain—as in ‘as-if the body were active.’ According to Damasio, the mental representations that constitute feelings can occur in the way just described, or the brain areas that evaluate the stimulus (the amygdala and the prefrontal cortices) can directly signal the somatosensory cortices instead of triggering bodily activity. The somatosensory cortices will respond as if the bodily activity was actually occurring. This will generate a feeling more quickly and efficiently, although it may not feel the same as a genuine bodily response (1994, p. 155–56). In any case, the consequence is that there can be a feeling even if the body is not involved. The possibility that there is an as-if loop in the brain allows the somatic feedback theorists to explain how individuals who cannot receive the typical feedback from the body can still have feelings (or in Prinz’s language, emotions), for instance, those individuals who have suffered spinal cord injuries.

5. Conclusion

This article has outlined the basic approaches to explaining the emotions, it has reviewed a number of important theories, and it has discussed many of the features that emotions are believed to have. One tentative conclusion that can now be drawn is that it is unlikely that any single theory will prevail anytime soon, especially since not all of these theories are in direct competition with each other. Some of them are compatible, for instance, an evolutionary theory and a theory that describes the emotion process can easily complement each other; Griffiths’ theory of the affect program emotions demonstrates that these two perspectives can be employed in a single theory. On the other hand, some of the theories are simply inconsistent, like the cognitive and non-cognitive theories, and so the natural expectation is that one of these positions will eventually be eliminated. Many of the theories, however, fall somewhere in between, agreeing about some features of emotion, while disagreeing about others.

The empirical evidence that exists and continues to be collected is one topic that has not been discussed in this article. Being familiar with this research is central to analyzing and critiquing the theories. In the past forty years, a vast amount of data has been collected by cognitive and social psychologists, neuroscientists, anthropologists, and ethologists. This empirical research has made theorizing about the emotions an interesting challenge. A problem that remains for the theorist of emotion is accounting for all of the available empirical evidence.

6. References and Further Reading

a. References

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  • Armon-Jones, C. (1986a). The thesis of constructionism. In R. Harré (Ed.), The social construction of emotions (pp. 32–56). Oxford, UK: Blackwell.
  • Armon-Jones, C. (1986b). The social functions of emotion. In R. Harré (Ed.), The social construction of emotions (pp. 57–82). Oxford, UK: Blackwell.
  • Averill, J. R. (1980). A constructivist view of emotion. In R. Plutchik & H. Kellerman (Eds.), Emotion: Theory, research, and experience (pp. 305–339). New York: Academic Press.
  • Averill, J. R. (1982). Anger and aggression: An essay on emotion. New York: Springer-Verlag.
  • Averill, J. R. (1986). The acquisition of emotions during adulthood. In R. Harré (Ed.), The social construction of emotions (pp. 98–118). Oxford, UK: Blackwell.
  • Averill, J. R. (1993). Illusions of anger. In R. B. Felson & J. T. Tedeschi (Eds.), Aggression and violence: Social interactionist perspectives (pp. 171–192). Washington, DC: American Psychological Association.
  • Boucher, J. D. & Brandt, M. E. (1981). Judgment of emotion: American and Malay antecedents. Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology, 12, 272–283.
  • Brandon, R. N. (1990). Adaptation and environment. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press.
  • Cosmides, L. & Tooby, J. (2000). Evolutionary psychology and the emotions. In M. Lewis & J. M. Haviland-Jones (Eds.), Handbook of emotions (2nd ed., pp. 91–115). New York: Guilford Press.
  • Damasio, A. R. (1994). Descartes’ error: Emotion, reason, and the human brain. New York: G. P. Putnam.
  • Damasio, A. R. (1996). The somatic marker hypothesis and the possible functions of the prefrontal cortex. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London. Series B, 351, 1413–1420.
  • Damasio, A. R. (2001). Fundamental feelings. Nature, 413, 781.
  • Darwin, C. (2003). On the origin of species by means of natural selection (J. Carroll, Ed.). Peterborough, Ontario: Broadview.
  • Davitz, J. R. (1969). The language of emotion. New York: Academic Press.
  • Ekman, P. (1977). Biological and cultural contributions to body and facial movement. In J. Blacking (Ed.), The anthropology of the body (pp. 39–84). London: Academic Press.
  • Ekman, P. (1992). An argument for basic emotions. Cognition and Emotion, 6, 169–200.
  • Ekman, P. (1999). Facial expressions. In T. Dalgleish & M. J. Power (Eds.), Handbook of cognition and emotion (pp. 301–320). New York: Wiley.
  • Fodor, J. A. (1983). Modularity of mind: An essay on faculty psychology. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Griffiths, P. E. (1997). What emotions really are: The problem of psychological categories. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
  • Griffiths, P. E. (2004). Is emotion a natural kind? In R. C. Solomon (Ed.), Thinking about feeling: Contemporary philosophers on emotions (pp. 233–249). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Harré, R. (1986). An outline of the social constructionist viewpoint. In R. Harré (Ed.), The social construction of emotions (pp. 2–14). Oxford, UK: Blackwell.
  • Harré, R. (1995). Emotion and memory: The second cognitive revolution. In A. P. Griffiths (Ed.), Philosophy, psychology, and psychiatry (pp. 25–40). New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Harré, R., & Finlay-Jones, R. (1986). Emotion talk across times. In R. Harré (Ed.), The social construction of emotions (pp. 220–233). Oxford, UK: Blackwell.
  • Hopkins, J., Marcus, M., & Campbell, S. B. (1984). Postpartum depression: A critical review. Psychological Bulletin, 95, 498–515.
    Izard, C. E. (1977). Human emotions. New York: Plenum Press.
    James, W. (1884). What is an emotion? Mind, 9, 188–205.
  • Kalayam, B., Alexopoulos, G. S., Merrell, H. B., & Young, R. C. (1991). Patterns of hearing loss and psychiatric morbidity in elderly patients attending a hearing clinic. International Journal of Geriatric Psychiatry, 6, 131–136.
  • Keltner, D., Haidt, J., & Shiota, M. N. (2006). Social functionalism and the evolution of emotions. In M. Schaller, J. A. Simpson, D. T. Kenrick (Eds.), Evolution and social psychology (pp. 115–142). New York: Psychology Press.
  • Lazarus, R. S. (1991). Emotion and adaptation. New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Levenson, R. W., Ekman, P., & Friesen, W. V. (1990). Voluntary facial action generates emotion-specific autonomic nervous system activity. Psychophysiology, 27, 363–384.
  • Lutz, C. (1988). Unnatural emotions: Everyday sentiments on a Micronesian atoll & their challenge to Western theory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
  • Lyons, W. E. (1980). Emotion. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Morsbach, H., & Tyler, W. J. (1986). A Japanese emotion: Amae. In R. Harré (Ed.), The social construction of emotions (pp. 289–307). Oxford, UK: Blackwell.
  • Nesse, R. (1990). Evolutionary explanations of emotions. Human Nature, 1, 261–289.
  • Nussbaum, M. (2004). Emotions as judgements of value and importance. In R. C. Solomon (Ed.), Thinking about feeling: Contemporary philosophers on emotions (pp. 183–199). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Orley, J. H. (1970). Culture and mental illness. Nairobi, Kenya: East Africa.
  • Parkinson, B. (1996). Emotions are social. British Journal of Psychology, 87, 663–683.
  • Parkinson, B. (1997). Untangling the appraisal–emotion connection. Personality & Social Psychology Review, 1, 62–79.
  • Parkinson, B., Fischer, A., & Manstead, A. S. R. (2005). Emotion in social relations: Cultural, group, and interpersonal processes. New York: Psychology Press.
  • Plutchik, R. (1980). Emotion, a psychoevolutionary synthesis. New York: Harper & Row.
  • Plutchik, R. (1984). Emotions: A general psychoevolutionary theory. In K. R. Scherer & P. Ekman (Eds.), Approaches to emotion (pp. 197–219). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.
  • Prinz, J. J. (2004a). Gut reactions: A perceptual theory of emotion. New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Prinz, J. J. (2004b). Embodied emotions. In R. C. Solomon (Ed.), Thinking about feeling: Contemporary philosophers on emotions (pp. 44–58). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Richards, M., Hardy, R., & Wadsworth, M. (1997). The effects of divorce and separation on mental health in a national UK birth cohort. Psychological Medicine, 27, 1121–1128.
  • Richardson, R. C. (1996). The prospects for an evolutionary psychology: Human language and human reasoning. Minds and Machines, 6, 541–557.
  • Robinson, J. (1995). Startle. The Journal of Philosophy, 92, 53–74.
  • Robinson, J. (2004). Emotion: Biological fact or social construction? In R. C. Solomon (Ed.), Thinking about feeling: Contemporary philosophers on emotions (pp. 28–43). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Robinson, J. (2005). Deeper than reason: Emotion and its role in literature, music, and art. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.
  • Rosaldo, M. Z. (1980). Knowledge and passion: Ilongot notions of self and social life. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
  • Rosaldo, R. I. (1984). Grief and a headhunter’s rage: On the cultural forces of emotions. In E. M. Bruner (Ed.), Text, play, and story: The construction and reconstruction of self and society (pp. 178–195). Washington, D.C: American Ethnological Society.
  • Roseman, I. J. (1984). Cognitive determinants of emotions: A structural theory. In P. Shaver (Ed.), Review of Personality and Social Psychology: Vol. 5. Emotions, relationships, and health (pp. 11–36). Beverly Hills, CA: Sage.
  • Roseman, I. J. (2001). A model of appraisal in the emotion system: Integrating theory, research, and applications. In K. R. Scherer, A. Schorr, & T. Johnstone (Eds.), Appraisal processes in emotion: Theory, methods, research (pp. 68–91). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Roseman, I. J., Antoniou A. A., & Jose P. E. (1996). Appraisal determinants of emotions: Constructing a more accurate and comprehensive theory. Cognition and Emotion, 10, 241–278.
  • Roseman, I. J., & Smith, C. A. (2001). Appraisal theory: Overview, assumptions, varieties, controversies. In K. R. Scherer, A. Schorr, & T. Johnstone (Eds.), Appraisal processes in emotion: Theory, methods, research (pp. 3–19). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Russell, J. A. (1991). Culture and the categorization of emotions. Psychological Bulletin, 110, 426–450.
  • Scherer, K. R. (1988). Criteria for emotion-antecedent appraisal: A review. In V. Hamilton, G. H. Bower, & N. H. Frijda (Eds.), Cognitive perspectives on emotion and motivation (pp. 89–126). Dordrecht, Netherlands: Klumer.
  • Scherer, K. R. (1993). Studying the emotion-antecedent appraisal process: An expert system approach. Cognition and Emotion , 7, 325–355.
  • Scherer, K. R. (2001). Appraisal considered as a process of multilevel sequential checking. In K. R. Scherer, A. Schorr, & T. Johnstone (Eds.), Appraisal processes in emotion: Theory, methods, research (pp. 92–120). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Solomon, R. C. (1977). The logic of emotion. Noûs, 11, 41–49.
  • Solomon, R. C. (1993). The passions: Emotions and the meaning of life (2nd ed.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett.
  • Tooby, J., & Cosmides, L. (1990). The past explains the present: Emotional adaptations and the structure of ancestral environments. Ethology and Sociobiology, 11, 375–424.
  • Wood, B. (1996). Human evolution. BioEssays, 18, 945–954.
  • Wood, B., & Collard, M. (1999). The human genus. Science, 284, 65–71.
  • Zajonc, R. B. (1980). Feeling and thinking: Preferences need no inferences. American Psychologist, 35, 151–175.
  • Zajonc, R. B. (1984). On the primacy of affect. American Psychologist, 39, 117–123.

b. Suggested Reading

  • Lewis, M., Haviland-Jones, J. M., & Barrett, L. F. (Eds.). (2008). Handbook of emotions (3rd ed.). New York: Guilford Press.
  • Scherer, K. R., Schorr, A., & Johnstone, T. (Eds.). (2001). Appraisal processes in emotion: Theory, methods, research. New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Solomon, R. C. (Ed.). (2003). What is an emotion?: Classic and contemporary readings (2nd ed.). New York: Oxford University Press.
  • Solomon, R. C. (Ed.). (2004). Thinking about feeling: Contemporary philosophers on emotions. New York: Oxford University Press.

Author Information

Gregory Johnson
Email: gregory.s.johnson@drexel.edu
Drexel University
U. S. A.

The Paradox of Fiction

How is it that we can be moved by what we know does not exist, namely the situations of people in fictional stories? The so-called “paradox of emotional response to fiction” is an argument for the conclusion that our emotional response to fiction is irrational. The argument contains an inconsistent triad of premises, all of which seem initially plausible. These premises are (1) that in order for us to be moved (to tears, to anger, to horror) by what we come to learn about various people and situations, we must believe that the people and situations in question really exist or existed; (2) that such “existence beliefs” are lacking when we knowingly engage with fictional texts; and (3) that fictional characters and situations do in fact seem capable of moving us at times.

A number of conflicting solutions to this paradox have been proposed by philosophers of art. While some argue that our apparent emotional responses to fiction are only “make-believe” or pretend, others claim that existence beliefs aren’t necessary for having emotional responses (at least to fiction) in the first place. And still others hold that there is nothing especially problematic about our emotional responses to works of fiction, since what these works manage to do (when successful) is create in us the “illusion” that the characters and situations depicted therein actually exist.

Table of Contents

  1. Radford’s Initial Statement of the Paradox
  2. The Pretend Theory
  3. Objections to the Pretend Theory
    1. Disanalogies with Paradigmatic Cases of Make-Believe Games
    2. Problems with Quasi-Emotions
  4. The Thought Theory
  5. Objections to the Thought Theory
  6. The Illusion Theory
  7. References and Further Reading

1. Radford’s Initial Statement of the Paradox

In a much-discussed 1975 article, and in a series of “Replies to my Critics” written over the next two decades, Colin Radford argues that our apparent ability to respond emotionally to fictional characters and events is “irrational, incoherent, and inconsistent” (p. 75). This on the grounds that (1) existence beliefs concerning the objects of our emotions (for example, that the characters in question really exist; that the events in question have really taken place) are necessary for us to be moved by them, and (2) that such beliefs are lacking when we knowingly partake of works of fiction. Taking it pretty much as a given that (3) such works do in fact move us at times, Radford’s conclusion, refreshing in its humility, is that our capacity for emotional response to fiction is as irrational as it is familiar: “our being moved in certain ways by works of art, though very ‘natural’ to us and in that way only too intelligible, involves us in inconsistency and so incoherence” (p. 78).

The need for existence beliefs is supposedly revealed by the following sort of case. If what we at first believed was a true account of something heart-wrenching turned out to be false, a lie, a fiction, etc., and we are later made aware of this fact, then we would no longer feel the way we once did—though we might well feel something else, such as embarrassment for having been taken in to begin with. And so, Radford argues, “It would seem that I can only be moved by someone’s plight if I believe that something terrible has happened to him. If I do not believe that he has not and is not suffering or whatever, I cannot grieve or be moved to tears” (p. 68). Of course, what Radford means to say here is: “I can only be rationally moved by someone’s plight if I believe that something terrible has happened to him. If I do not believe that he has not and is not suffering or whatever, I cannot rationally grieve or be moved to tears.” Such beliefs are absent when we knowingly engage with fictions, a claim Radford supports by presenting and then rejecting a number of objections that might be raised against it.

One of the major objections to his second premise considered by Radford is that, at least while we are engaged in the fiction, we somehow “forget” that what we are reading or watching isn’t real; in other words, that we get sufficiently “caught up” in the novel, movie, etc. so as to temporarily lose our awareness of its fictional status. In response to this objection, Radford offers the following two considerations: first, if we truly forgot that what we are reading or watching isn’t real, then we most likely would not feel any of the various forms of pleasure that frequently accompany other, more “negative” emotions (such as fear, sadness, and pity) in fictional but not real-life cases; and second, the fact that we do not “try to do something, or think that we should” (p. 71) when seeing a sympathetic character being attacked or killed in a film or play, implies our continued awareness of this character’s fictional status even while we are moved by what happens to him. This second consideration—an emphasis on the behavioral disanalogies between our emotional responses to real-life and fictional characters and events—is one that crops up repeatedly in the arguments of philosophers such as Kendall Walton and Noel Carroll, whose positive accounts are nevertheless completely opposed to one another.

Finally, Radford thinks there can be no denying his third premise, that fictional characters themselves are capable of moving us—as opposed to, say, actual (or perhaps merely possible) people in similar situations, who have undergone trials and tribulations very much like those in the story. So his conclusion that our emotional responses to fiction are irrational appears valid and, however unsatisfactory, at the very least non-paradoxical. Summarizing his position in a 1977 follow-up article, with specific reference to the emotion of fear, Radford writes that existence beliefs “[are] a necessary condition of our being unpuzzlingly, rationally, or coherently frightened. I would say that our response to the appearance of the monster is a brute one that is at odds with and overrides our knowledge of what he is, and which in combination with our distancing knowledge that this is only a horror film, leads us to laugh—at the film, and at ourselves for being frightened” (p. 210).

Since the publication of Radford’s original essay, many Anglo-American philosophers of art have been preoccupied with exposing the inadequacies of his position, and with presenting alternative, more “satisfying” solutions. In fact, few issues of The British Journal of Aesthetics, Philosophy, or The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism have come out over the past 25 years which fail to contain at least one piece devoted to the so-called “paradox of emotional response to fiction.” As recently as April 2000, Richard Joyce writes in a journal article that “Radford must weary of defending his thesis that the emotional reactions we have towards fictional characters, events, and states of affairs are irrational. Yet, for all the discussion, the issue has not.been properly settled” (p. 209). It is interesting to note that while virtually all of those writing on this subject credit Radford with initiating the current debate, none of them have adopted his view as their own. At least in part, this must be because what Radford offers is less the solution to a mystery (how is it that we can be moved by what we know does not exist?) than a straightforward acceptance of something mysterious about human nature (our ability to be moved by what we know does not exist is illogical, irrational, even incoherent).

To date, three basic strategies for resolving the paradox in question have turned up again and again in the philosophical literature, each one appearing in a variety of different forms (though it should be noted, other, more idiosyncratic solutions can also be found). It is to these strategies, and some of the powerful criticisms that have been levied against them, that we now briefly turn.

2. The Pretend Theory

Pretend theorists, most notably Kendall Walton, in effect deny premise (3), arguing that it is not literally true that we fear horror film monsters or feel sad for the tragic heroes of Greek drama. As noted above, Walton’s defense of premise (2) also rests on a playing up of the behavioral disanalogies between our responses to real-life versus fictional characters and events. But unlike Radford, who looks at real-life cases of emotional response and the likelihood of their elimination when background conditions change in order to defend premise (1), Walton offers nothing more than an appeal to “common sense”: “It seems a principle of common sense, one which ought not to be abandoned if there is any reasonable alternative, that fear must be accompanied by, or must involve, a belief that one is in danger” (1978, pp. 6-7).

According to Walton, it is only “make-believedly” true that we fear horror film monsters, feel sad for the Greek tragic heroes, etc. He admits that these characters move us in various ways, both physically and psychologically—the similarities to real fear, sadness, etc. are striking—but regardless of what our bodies tell us, or what we might say, think, or believe we are feeling, what we actually experience in such cases are only “quasi-emotions” (e.g., “quasi-fear”). Quasi-emotions differ from true emotions primarily in that they are generated not by existence beliefs (such as the belief that the monster I am watching on screen really exists), but by “second-order” beliefs about what is fictionally the case according to the work in question (such as the belief that the monster I am watching on screen make-believedly exists. As Walton puts it, “Charles believes (he knows) that make-believedly the green slime [on the screen] is bearing down on him and he is in danger of being destroyed by it. His quasi-fear results from this belief” (p. 14). Thus, it is make-believedly the case that we respond emotionally to fictional characters and events due to the fact that our beliefs concerning the fictional properties of those characters and events generates in us the appropriate quasi-emotional states.

What has made the Pretend Theory in its various forms attractive to many philosophers is its apparent ability to handle a number of additional puzzles relating to audience engagement with fictions. Such puzzles include the following:

  • Why a reader or viewer of fictions who does not like happy endings can get so caught up in a particular story that, for example, he wants the heroine to be rescued despite his usual distaste for such a plot convention. Following Walton, there is no need to hypothesize conflicting desires on the part of the reader here, since “It is merely make-believe that the spectator sympathizes with the heroine and wants her to escape. .[H]e (really) wants it to be make-believe that she suffers a cruel end” (p. 25).
  • How fictional works—especially suspense stories—can withstand multiple readings or viewings without becoming less effective. According to Walton, this is possible because, on subsequent readings/viewings, we are simply playing a new game of pretend—albeit one with the same “props” as before: “The child hearing Jack and the Beanstalk knows that make-believedly Jack will escape, but make-believedly she does not know that he will. It is her make-believe uncertainty.not any actual uncertainty, that is responsible for the excitement and suspense that she feels” (p. 26).

3. Objections to the Pretend Theory

Despite its novelty, as well as Walton’s heroic attempts at defending it, the Pretend Theory continues to come under attack from numerous quarters. Many of these attacks can be organized under the following two general headings:

a. Disanalogies with Paradigmatic Cases of Make-Believe Games

Walton introduces and supports his theory with reference to the familiar games of make-believe played by young children—games in which globs of mud are taken to be pies, for example, or games in which a father, pretending to be a vicious monster, will stalk his child and lunge at him at the crucial moment: “The child flees, screaming, to the next room. But he unhesitatingly comes back for more. He is perfectly aware that his father is only ‘playing,’ that the whole thing is ‘just a game,’ and that only make-believedly is there a vicious monster after him. He is not really afraid” (1978, p. 13). Such games rely on what Walton calls “constituent principles” (e.g., that whenever there is a glob of mud in a certain orange crate, it is make-believedly true that there is a pie in the oven) which are accepted or understood to be operating. However, these principles need not be explicit, deliberate, or even public: “one might set up one’s own personal game, adopting principles that no one else recognizes. And at least some of the principles constituting a personal game of make-believe may be implicit” (p. 12). According to Walton, just as a child will experience quasi-fear as a result of believing that make-believedly a vicious monster is coming to get him, moviegoers watching a disgusting green slime make its way towards the camera will experience quasi-fear as a result of believing that, make-believedly, they are being threatened by a fearsome creature. In both cases, it is this quasi-fear which makes it the case that the respective game players are make-believedly (not really) afraid.

To the extent that one is able to identify significant disanalogies with familiar games of make-believe, then, Walton’s theory looks to be in trouble. One such disanalogy concerns our relative lack of choice when it comes to (quasi-)emotional responses to fiction films and novels. Readers and viewers of such fictions, the argument goes, don’t seem to have anything close to the ability of make-believe game-playing children to control their emotional responses. On the one hand, we can’t just turn such responses off—refuse to play and prevent ourselves from being affected—like kids can. As Noel Carroll writes in his book, The Philosophy of Horror, “if it [the fear produced by horror films] were a pretend emotion, one would think that it could be engaged at will. I could elect to remain unmoved by The Exorcist; I could refuse to make believe I was horrified. But I don’t think that that was really an option for those, like myself, who were overwhelmedly struck by it” (1990, p. 74).

On the other hand, Carroll also points out that as consumers of fiction we aren’t able to just turn our emotional responses on, either: “if the response were really a matter of whether we opt to play the game, one would think that we could work ourselves into a make-believe dither voluntarily. But there are examples [of fictional works] which are pretty inept, and which do not seem to be recuperable by making believe that we are horrified. The monsters just aren’t particularly horrifying, though they were intended to be” (p. 74). Carroll cites such forgettable pictures as The Brain from Planet Arous and Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman as evidence of his claim that some fictional texts simply fail to generate their intended emotional response.

Another proposed disanalogy between familiar examples of make-believe game-playing and our emotional engagement with fictions focuses on the phenomenology of the two cases. The objection here is that, assuming the accuracy of Walton’s account when it comes to children playing make-believe, it is simply not true to ordinary experience that consumers of fictions are in similar emotional states when watching movies, reading books, and the like. David Novitz, for one, notes that “many theatre-goers and readers believe that they are actually upset, excited, amused, afraid, and even sexually aroused by the exploits of fictional characters. It seems altogether inappropriate in such cases to maintain that our theatre-goers merely make-believe that they are in these emotional states” (1987, p. 241). Glenn Hartz makes a similar point, in stronger language:

My teenage daughter convinces me to accompany her to a “tear-jerker” movie with a fictional script. I try to keep an open mind, but find it wholly lacking in artistry. I can’t wait for it to end. Still, tears come welling up at the tragic climax, and, cursing, I brush them aside and hide in my hood on the way to the car. Phenomenologically, this description is perfectly apt. But it is completely inconsistent with the Make-Believe Theory, which says emotional flow is always causally dependent on make-believe. [H]ow can someone who forswears any imaginative involvement in a series of fictional events.respond to them with tears of sadness? (1999, p. 572)Carroll too argues that “Walton’s theory appears to throw out the phenomenology of the state [here ‘art-horror’] for the sake of logic” (1990, p. 74), on the grounds that, as opposed to children playing make-believe, when responding to works of fiction we do not seem to be aware at all of playing any such games.

Of course, Walton’s position is that the only thing required here is the acceptance or recognition of a constituent principle underlying the game in question, and this acceptance may well be tacit rather than conscious. But Carroll thinks that it “strains credulity” to suppose that not only are we unaware of some of the rules of the game, but that “we are completely unaware of playing a game. Surely a game of make-believe requires the intention to pretend. But on the face of it, consumers of horror do not appear to have such an intention” (pp. 74-75). Although he disagrees with Walton’s Pretend Theory on other grounds, Alex Neill offers a powerful reply to objections which cite phenomenological disanalogies. In his words, what philosophers such as Novitz, Hartz, and Carroll miss “is that the fact that Charles is genuinely moved by the horror movie.is precisely what motivates Walton’s account”:

By labeling this kind of state ‘quasi-fear,’ Walton is not suggesting that it consists of feigned or pretended, rather than actual, feelings and sensations. .Rather, Walton label’s Charles’s physiological/psychological state ‘quasi-fear’ to mark the fact that what his feelings and sensations are feelings and sensations of is precisely what is at issue. .On his view, we can actually be moved by works of fiction, but it is make-believe that we are moved to is fear. (1991, pp. 49-50)Suffice to say, the question whether objections to Walton’s Pretend Theory on the grounds of phenomenological difference are valid or not continues to be discussed and debated.

b. Problems with Quasi-Emotions

In arguing that Walton’s quasi-emotions are unnecessary theoretical entities, some philosophers have pointed to cases of involuntary reaction to visual stimuli—the so-called “startle effect” in film studies terminology—where the felt anxiety, repulsion, or disgust is clearly not make-believe, since these reactions do not depend at all on beliefs in the existence of what we are seeing. Simo Säätelä for example, argues that “fear is easy to confuse with being shocked, startled, anxious, etc. Here the existence or non-existence of the object can hardly be important. When we consider fear [in fictional contexts] this often seems to be a plausible analysis—it is simply a question of a mistaken identification of sensations and feelings. Thus no technical redescription in terms of make-believe is needed” (1994, p. 29). One problem with turning this objection into a full-blown theory of emotional response to fiction in its own right, as both S„„tel„ and Neill have suggested doing, is that there seem to be at least some cases of fearing fictions where the startle effect is not involved. Another problem is that it is not at all clear what equivalents to the startle effect are available in the case of emotions such as, say, pity and regret.

A similar objection to Walton’s quasi-emotional states has been put forward by Glenn Hartz. He argues not that our responses to fiction are independent of belief, to be understood on the model of the startle effect, but that they are pre-conscious: that real (as opposed to pretend) beliefs which are not consciously entertained are automatically generated by certain visual stimuli. These beliefs are inconsistent with what the spectator—fully aware of where he is and what he is doing—explicitly avows. As Hartz puts it, “how could anything as cerebral and out-of-the-loop as ‘make believe’ make adrenaline and cortisol flow?” (1999, p. 563).

4. The Thought Theory

Thought theories boldly deny premise (1), the old and established thesis, traceable as far back as Aristotle and central to the so-called “Cognitive Theory of emotions,” (see Theories of Emotion) that existence beliefs are a necessary condition of (at the very least rational) emotional response. At the heart of the Thought Theory lies the view that, although our emotional responses to actual characters and events may require beliefs in their existence, there is no good reason to hold up this particular type of emotional response as the model for understanding emotional response in general. What makes emotional response to fiction different from emotional response to real world characters and events is that, rather than having to believe in the actual existence of the entity or event in question, all we need do is “mentally represent” (Peter Lamarque), “entertain in thought” (Noel Carroll), or “imaginatively propose” (Murray Smith) it to ourselves. By highlighting our apparent capacity to respond emotionally to fiction—by treating this as a central case of emotional response in general—the thought theorist believes he has produced hard evidence in support of the claim that premise (1) stands in need of modification, perhaps even elimination.

Even before the first explicit statement of the Thought Theory in a 1981 article by Lamarque, a number of philosophers rejected existence beliefs as a requirement for emotional response to fictions. Instead, they argued that the only type of beliefs necessary when engaging with fictions are “evaluative” beliefs about the characters and events depicted; beliefs, for example, about whether the characters and events in question have characteristics which render them funny, frightening, pitiable, etc. Eva Schaper, for example, in an article published three years before Lamarque’s, writes that:

We need a distinction.between the kind of beliefs which are entailed by my knowing that I am dealing with fiction, and the kind of beliefs which are relevant to my being moved by what goes on in fiction. .[B]eliefs about characters and events in fiction.are alone involved in our emotional response to what goes on. (1978, p. 39, 44)

More recently, but again without reference to the Thought Theory, R.T. Allen argues that, “A novel.is not a presentation of facts. But true statements can be made about what happens in it and beliefs directed towards those events can be true or false. .Once we realize that truth is not confined to the factual, the problem disappears” (1986, p. 66).

Although the two are closely related, strictly-speaking this version of the Thought Theory should not be confused with what is often referred to as the “Counterpart Theory” of emotional response to fiction. As Gregory Currie explains, according to this latter theory, “we experience genuine emotions when we encounter fiction, but their relation to the story is causal rather than intentional; the story provokes thoughts about real people and situations, and these are the intentional objects of our emotions” (1990, p. 188). Walton himself provides an early statement of the Counterpart Theory: “If Charles is a child, the movie may make him wonder whether there might not be real slimes or other exotic horrors like the one depicted in the movie, even if he fully realizes that the movie-slime itself is not real. Charles may well fear these suspected dangers; he might have nightmares about them for days afterwards” (1978, p. 10). Some variations of this theory go so far as make their claims with reference to possible as opposed to real people and situations. Regardless, it is important to note that Counterpart theories have at least as much in common with Pretend theories as with Thought theories, since, like the former, they seem to require a modification of Radford’s third premise (it is not the fictional works themselves that move us, but their real or possible counterparts).

5. Objections to the Thought Theory

Somewhat surprisingly, the Thought Theory has generated relatively little critical discussion, a fact in virtue of which it can be said to occupy a privileged position today. In a 1982 article, however, Radford himself attacks it on the following grounds:

Lamarque claims that I am frightened by ‘the thought’ of the green slime. That is the ‘real object’ of my fear. But if it is the moving picture of the slime which frightens me (for myself), then my fear is irrational, etc., for I know that what frightens me cannot harm me. So the fact that we are frightened by fictional thoughts does not solve the problem but forms part of it. (pp. 261-62]

More recently, film-philosopher Malcolm Turvey criticizes the Thought Theory on the grounds that it appears to ignore the concrete nature of the moving image, instead hypothesizing a “mental entity as the primary causal agent of the spectator’s emotional response” (1997, p. 433). According to Turvey, because we can and frequently do respond to the concrete presentation of cinematic images in a manner that is indifferent to their actual existence in the world, and because there is nothing especially mysterious about this fact, no theory at all is needed to solve the problem of emotional response to fiction film.

Even if it is correct with respect to the medium of film, however, what we might call Turvey’s “concreteness consideration” does not stand up as a critique of the Thought Theory generally. In the case of literature, for example, the reader obviously does not respond emotionally to the words as they appear on the printed page, but rather to the mental images these words serve to conjure in his mind.

It is also debatable whether the Thought Theory cannot be revised so as to incorporate the concreteness consideration, by simply redefining the psychological attitude referred to by Carroll as “entertaining” in either neutral or negative terms. In order for us to be moved by a work of fiction, the revised theory would go, all we need do is adopt a nonassertive—though still evaluative—psychological attitude towards the images which appear before us on screen (while watching a film) or in our minds (when thinking about them later, or perhaps while reading about them in a book). Turvey himself makes a move in this direction when he writes that “the spectator’s capacity to ‘entertain’ a cinematic representation of a fictional referent does not require the postulation of an intermediate, mental entity such as a ‘thought’ or ‘imagination’ in order to be understood” (1997, p. 456).

Arguing on behalf of the Thought Theory, Murray Smith invites us to “imagine gripping the blade of a sharp knife and then having it pulled from your grip, slicing through the flesh of your hand. If you shuddered in reaction to the idea, you didn’t do so because you believed that your hand was being cut by a knife” (1995, p. 116). In part due to its intuitive plausibility, in part due to its ability to explain away certain behavioral disanalogies with real-life cases of emotional response (for example: although he frightens us, the reason we don’t run out of the theater when watching the masked killer head towards us on the movie screen is because we never stop believing for a moment that what we are watching is only a representation of someone who doesn’t really exist), few philosophers have sought to meet the challenge posed by the Thought Theory head on.

Perhaps the biggest problem for the Thought Theory lies in its difficulty justifying its own presuppositions. In his original article, Radford asks the following questions in order to highlight the mysterious nature of our emotional responses to fiction: “We are saddened, but how can we be? What are we sad about? How can we feel genuinely and involuntarily sad, and weep, as we do knowing as we do that no one has suffered or died?” (1977, p. 77). These are questions the Thought theorist will have a tough time answering to the satisfaction of anyone not already inclined to agree with him. That is to say, where the Thought theorist seems to run into trouble is in explaining just why it is the mere entertaining in thought of a fictional character or event is able to generate emotional responses in audiences.

6. The Illusion Theory

Illusion theorists, of whom there seem to be fewer and fewer these days, deny Radford’s second premise. They suggest a mechanism—whether it be some loose concept of “weak” or “partial” belief, Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s famous “willing suspension of disbelief,” Freud’s notion of “disavowal” as adapted by psychoanalytic film theorists such as Christian Metz, or something else entirely—whereby existence beliefs are generated in the course of our engagement with works of fiction.

In Section 1, we came across one of the most powerful objections to have been levied against the Illusion Theory to date: the obvious behavioral disanalogies between our emotional responses to real-life versus fictional characters and events. Even when the existence beliefs posited by the Illusion theorist are of the weak or partial variety, Walton argues that

Charles has no doubts about the whether he is in the presence of an actual slime. If he half believed, and were half afraid, we would expect him to have some inclination to act on his fear in the normal ways. Even a hesitant belief, a mere suspicion, that the slime is real would induce any normal person seriously to consider calling the police and warning his family. Charles gives no thought whatever to such courses of action. (1978, p. 7)The force of this and related objections has led to a state of affairs in which Gregory Currie, in a lengthy essay on the paradox of emotional response to fiction, can devote all of two sentences to his dismissal of the Illusion Theory:

Hardly anyone ever literally believes the content of a fiction when he knows it to be a fiction; if it happens at moments of forgetfulness or intense realism in the story (which I doubt), such moments are too brief to underwrite our often sustained responses to fictional events and characters. Henceforth, I shall assume the truth of [Radford’s second premise] and consider the [other] possibilities. (1990, pp. 188-89)Notice, however, that a tremendous amount of weight seems to be placed here on the word “literally.” Is it really true to the facts that when normal people—not philosophers or film theorists!—talk about the “believability” of certain books they have read and movies they have seen, the notions of belief and believable-ness they have in mind are metaphorical, or else simply confused or mistaken? And that everyday talk of being “absorbed by” fictions, “engaged in” them, “lost” in them, etc. can be explained away solely in terms of such non-belief dependent features of the fictions in question as their “vividness” and “immediacy”?

It certainly isn’t clear whether the Illusion Theory in any form can be salvaged as a possible solution to the paradox of emotional response to fiction. It isn’t even clear whether what we have here really qualifies as a “paradox” at all. As Richard Moran (1994) argues, with reference to what he takes to be non-problematic cases of emotional response to modal facts (things that might have happened to us but didn’t) and historical facts (things that happened to us in the past): “our paradigms of ordinary emotions exhibit a great deal of variety., and.the case of fictional emotions gains a misleading appearance of paradox from an inadequate survey of examples”(p. 79). What is clear, however, is that the various debates surrounding the topic of emotional response to fiction continue to rage in the philosophical literature.

7. References and Further Reading

  • Allen, R.T. (1986) “The Reality of Responses to Fiction.” British Journal of Aesthetics 26.1, pp. 64-68.
  • Carroll, N. (1990) The Philosophy of Horror; or, Paradoxes of the Heart. New York, Routledge.
  • Currie, G. (1990) The Nature of Fiction. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
  • Hartz, G. (1999) “How We Can Be Moved by Anna Karenina, Green Slime, and a Red Pony.” Philosophy 74, pp. 557-78.
  • Joyce, R. (2000) “Rational Fear of Monsters.” British Journal of Aesthetics 40.2, pp. 209-224.
  • Lamarque, P. (1981) “How Can We Fear and Pity Fictions?” British Journal of Aesthetics 21.4, pp. 291-304.
  • Moran, R. (1994) “The Expression of Feeling in Imagination.” Philosophical Review 103.1, pp. 75-106.
  • Neill, A. (1991) “Fear, Fiction and Make-Believe.” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 49.1, pp. 47-56.
  • Novitz, D. (1987) Knowledge, Fiction and Imagination. Philadelphia, Temple University Press.
  • Radford, C. (1975) “How Can We Be Moved by the Fate of Anna Karenina?” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplemental Vol. 49, pp. 67-80.
  • Radford, C. (1977) “Tears and Fiction.” Philosophy 52, pp. 208-213.
  • Säätelä, S. (1994) “Fiction, Make-Believe and Quasi Emotions.” British Journal of Aesthetics 34, pp. 25-34.
  • Schaper, E. (1978) “Fiction and the Suspension of Disbelief.” British Journal of Aesthetics 18, pp. 31-44.
  • Smith, M. (1995) “Film Spectatorship and the Institution of Fiction.” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 53.2, pp. 113-27.
  • Turvey, M. (1997) “Seeing Theory: On Perception and Emotional Response in Current Film Theory.” Film Theory and Philosophy, R. Allen and M. Smith (Eds.). Oxford, Oxford University Press, pp. 431-57.
  • Walton, K. (1978) “Fearing Fictions.” Journal of Philosophy 75.1, pp. 5-27.

Author Information

Steven Schneider
Email: sjs@inbox.com
Harvard University
U. S. A.

Cheng Hao (Cheng Mingdao, 1032—1085)

Cheng_HaoCheng Hao, also known as Cheng Mingdao, was a pioneer of the neo-Confucian movement in the Song and Ming dynasties, which is often regarded as the second epoch of the development of Confucianism, with pre-Qin classical Confucianism as the first, and contemporary Confucianism as the third. If neo-Confucianism is to be understood as the learning of li (conventionally translated as “principle”), then Cheng Hao and his younger brother Cheng Yi can be regarded as the true founders of neo-Confucianism, as with them li came to be regarded as the ultimate reality of the universe for the first time in Chinese history . Cheng Hao’s unique understanding of the ultimate reality is that it is not some entity but rather is the “life-giving activity.” This understanding strikes a similar tone to Martin Heidegger’s Being of beings which was created almost a millennium later. Assuming the identity of li and human nature, Cheng Hao argues that human nature is good, since what is essential to human nature is humanity (ren), also the cardinal virtue in Confucianism, and this is nothing but this life-giving activity. A person of ren is the one who is in one body with “ten thousand things” and therefore can feel their pains and itches just as one can feel them in one’s own body. This is an idea central to the whole idealist school (xinxue, learning of heart-mind) of the neo-Confucian movement, a movement culminating in Wang Yangming.

Table of Contents

  1. Life and Works
  2. Principle
  3. Goodness of Human Nature
  4. Origin of Evil
  5. Moral Cultivation
  6. Influence
  7. References and Further Reading

1. Life and Works

Cheng Hao was born in Huangpi of the present Hubei Province in Mingdao Year 1 of Emperor Ren of the Song dynasty (1032) and so is also called Mr. Mingdao. He and his younger brother Cheng Yi (1033-1107) are often referred to as “the two Chengs” by later Confucians. Growing up, the brothers moved quite often as their father, Cheng Xiang, was appointed as a local official in various places. In 1046, his father became acquainted with Zhou Dunyi (1016-1073), one of the so-called “five Confucian masters” of the Northern Song. He sent Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi – who themselves turned out to be the other two of the five masters – to study with Zhou for about a year. In 1057, after passing the civil service examination, Cheng Hao followed in his father’s footsteps and started his own career as a local official, culminating in his initial participation in (1069) and eventual withdrawal from (1070) the reform movement led by Wang Anshi (1021-1086). Cheng Hao returned to Luoyang after 1072 and continued to assume a few minor official positions, but he spent most of his time studying and teaching Confucian classics together with his brother. During this period, the brothers also had frequent discussions with the final two of the five masters, Shao Yong (1011-1077) and Zhang Zai (1020-1077). The former was their neighbor in Luoyang, and the latter was their uncle.

Cheng Hao’s philosophical ideas are largely developed in conversations with his students, many of whom recorded his sayings. In 1168, Zhu Xi (1130-1200) edited some of these recorded sayings in Chengs’ Surviving Sayings (Yishu) in 25 volumes, in which 4 volumes are attributed to Cheng Hao and 11 volumes to Cheng Yi. The first 10 volumes are sayings by the two masters, where in most cases it is not clearly indicated which saying belongs to which brother. In 1173, Zhu Xi edited Chengs’ Additional Sayings (Waishu) in 12 volumes, including those recorded sayings circulated among scholars and not included in Yishu (in most cases, it is not indicated which saying belongs to which Cheng). As Zhu Xi himself acknowledged that the authenticity of sayings in this second collection is mixed, it should be used with caution. Before Zhu Xi edited these two works, Yang Shi (1053-1135), one of the common students of the two Chengs, rewrote some of these sayings in a literary form in The Purified Words of the Two Chengs (Cuiyan). However, it mostly represents Cheng Yi’s views. Cheng Hao’s own writings, mostly official documents, letters, and poetry, are collected in the first four volumes of Chengs’ Collected Writings (Wenji). In addition, Cheng Hao wrote a correction of the Great Learning, which is included in Chengs’ Commentary on Classics (Jingshuo). All of these are now conveniently collected in the two volume edition of Works of the Two Chengs (Er Cheng Ji) by Zhonghua Shuju, Beijing (1981).

2. Principle

What is called neo-Confucianism in Western scholarship is most frequently called lixue, or the learning of li (commonly translated as “principle”), in Chinese scholarship. Lixue refers to neo-Confucianism in the Song and Ming (and sometimes Qing) dynasties. However, although “neo-Confucianism” was originally used to translate lixue, it is now sometimes understood more broadly than lixue to include Confucianism in the Tang Dynasty which preceded it. Cheng Hao and his younger brother Cheng Yi can be properly regarded as the founders of neo-Confucianism as the learning of principle. Although Shao Yong, Zhou Dunyi, and Zhang Zai are often also treated as neo-Confucians in this sense, it is in Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi that li first becomes the central concept in a philosophical system. Cheng Hao makes a famous claim that “although I have learned much from others, the two words tian li are what I grasped myself” (Waishu 12; 425). Tian is commonly translated as “heaven,” although it can also mean “sky” or “nature.” By combining these two words, however, Cheng Hao does not mean to emphasize that it is a principle of heaven or a heavenly principle but simply that heaven, the term traditionally used to refer to the ultimate reality, is nothing but principle (see Yishu 11; 132), and so tian li simply means “heaven-principle.” As a matter of fact, not only tian, but many other terms such as “change” (yi), dao, shen (literally “god,” but Cheng Hao focuses on its meaning of “being wonderful and unfathomable” ), “human nature” (xing), and “lord” (di) are all seen as identical to principle. For example, Cheng Hao claims that “what the heaven embodies does not have sound or smell. In terms of the reality, it is change; in terms of principle, it is dao; in terms of its function, it is god; in terms of its destiny in a human being, it is human nature” (Yishu 1; 4). “Tian is nothing but principle. We call it god to emphasize the wonderful mystery of principle in ten thousand things, just as we call it lord (di) to characterize its being the ruler of events ” (Yishu 11; 132). He even identifies it with heart-mind (xin) (Yishu 5; 76) and propriety (li). Because Cheng Hao thinks that all these terms have the same referent as principle, his philosophy is often regarded an ontological monism.

From this it becomes clear in what sense Cheng Hao claims that he grasps the meaning of tian li on his own. After all he must be aware that not only the two words separately, tian and li, but even the two words combined into one phrase, tian li, had appeared in Confucian texts before him. So what he means is that principle is understood here as the ultimate reality of the universe that has been referred to as heaven, god, lord, dao, nature, heart-mind, and change among others. In other words, with Cheng Hao “principle” acquires an ontological meaning for the first time in the Confucian tradition. Thus Cheng Hao claims that “there is only one principle under heaven, and so it is efficacious throughout the world. It has not changed since the time of three kings and remains the same between heaven and earth” (Yishu 2a; 39). In contrast, everything in the world exists because of principle. Thus Cheng Hao claims that “ten thousand things all have principle, and it is easy to follow it but difficult to go against it” (Yishu 11; 123). In other words, things prosper when principle is followed and disintegrate when it is violated. One of the most unique ideas of Cheng Hao is that ten thousand things form one body, and he tells us that “the reason that ten thousand things can be in one body is that they all have principle” (Yishu 2a; 33).

While principle is the ontological foundation of ten thousand things, Cheng Hao emphasizes that, unlike Plato’s form, it is not temporally prior to or spatially outside of ten thousand things. This can be seen from his discussion of two related pairs of ideas. The first pair is dao and concrete things (qi). After quoting from the Book of Change that “what is metaphysical (xing er shang) is called dao, while what is physical (xing er xia) is called concrete thing” (Yishu 11; 119), Cheng Hao immediately adds that “outside dao there are no things and outside things there is no dao” (Yishu 4; 73). In other words, what is metaphysical is not independent of the physical; the former is right within the latter. The second pair is principle (dao, human nature, god) and vital force (qi). In Cheng Hao’s view, “everything that is tangible is vital force, and only dao is intangible” (Yishu 6; 83). However, he emphasizes that “human nature is inseparable from vital force, and vital force is inseparable from human nature” (Yishu 1; 10), and that “there is no god (shen) outside vital force, and there is no vital force outside god” (Yishu 1; 10).

What does Cheng Hao precisely mean by principle, which is intangible and does not have sound or smell? Although translated here as “principle” according to convention, li for Cheng Hao is not a reified entity as the common essence shared by all things or universal law governing these things or inherent principle followed by these things or patterns exhibited by these things. Li as used by Cheng is a verb referring to activity, not a noun referring to thing. For example, he says that “the cold in the winter and the hot in the summer are [vital forces] yin and yang; yet the movement and change [of vital forces] is god” (Yihsu 11; 121). Since god for Cheng means the same as li, li is here understood as the movement and change of vital forces and things constituted by vital forces. Since things and li are inseparable, as li is understood as movement and change, all things are things that move and change, while movement and change are always movement and change of things. Things are tangible, have smell, and make sound, but their movement and change is intangible and does not have sound or smell. We can never perceive things’ activities, although we can perceive things that act. For example we can perceive a moving car, but we cannot perceive the car’s moving. In Cheng Hao’s view, principle as activity is present not only in natural things but also in human affairs. Thus, illustrating what he means by “nowhere between heaven and earth there is no dao” (Yishu 4; 73), Cheng points out that “in the relation of father and son, to be father and son lies in affection; in the relation of king and minister, to be king and minister lies in seriousness (reverence). From these to being husband and wife, being elder and younger brothers, being friends, there is no activity that is no dao. That is why we cannot be separated from dao even for a second” (Yishu 4; 73-74). Cheng makes it clear that the principle that governs these human relations is such activity as affection and reverence.

However, in what sense can li as activity be regarded as the ontological foundation of things, as activity is not self-existent and has to belong to something? For Cheng Hao, li is a special kind of activity. To explain this, Cheng Hao appeals to the idea of the unceasing life-giving activity (sheng sheng) from the Book of Change. Commenting on the statement that “The unceasing life-giving activity is called change” in the Book of Change, Cheng Hao argues that “it is right in this life-giving activity that li is complete” (Yishu 2a; 33). So li is the kind of activity that gives life. It is indeed in this sense of life-giving activity that Cheng Hao regards dao and tian as identical to li, as he claims that “because of this [the unceasing life-giving activity] tian can be dao. Tian is dao only because it is the life-giving activity” (Yishu 2a; 29). Thus, although life-giving activity is always the life-giving activity of ten thousand things, ten thousand things cannot come into being without the life-giving activity. It is in this sense that the life-giving activity of ten thousand things becomes ontologically prior to ten thousand things that have the life-giving activity. This is quite similar to Martin Heidegger’s ontology of Being: while Being is always the Being of beings, beings are being because of their Being.

3. Goodness of Human Nature

Since for Cheng Hao, human nature (xing) is nothing but principle destined in human beings, and since principle is nothing but life-giving activity (sheng), this life-giving activity is also human nature. It is in this sense that he speaks approvingly of Gaozi’s sheng zhi wei xing, a view criticized in the Mencius. By sheng zhi wei xing, Gaozi means that “what one is born with is nature.” Mencius criticizes this view and argues that human nature is what distinguishes human beings from non-human beings, which according to him is the beginning of four cardinal Confucian virtues: humanity (ren), rightness (yi), propriety (li), and wisdom (zhi). When Cheng Hao claims that what Gaozi says is indeed correct, however, he does not mean to disagree with Mencius. On the contrary, he endorses Mencius’ view in the same passage where he approves Gaozi’s view. This is because Cheng Hao has a very different understanding of sheng in sheng zhi wei xing than Gaozi does. For Gaozi, sheng means what one is born with, while for Cheng Hao it is the life-giving activity, which is the ultimate reality of the universe. So for Gaozi the phrase says that what humans are born with is human nature, but for Cheng Hao it means that the life-giving activity is human nature. This is most clear because Cheng Hao quotes this saying of Gaozi together with the statement from the Book of Change that “the greatest virtue of heaven and earth is the life-giving activity” and then explains this statement in his own words: “the most spectacular aspect of things is their atmosphere of life-giving activity” (Yishu 11; 120).

To understand human nature as the life-giving activity, it is important to see the actual content of human nature for Cheng Hao: “These five, humanity, rightness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness, are human nature. Humanity is like the complete body and the other four are like the four limbs” (Yishu 2a; 14). So his view of human nature is basically the same as Mencius, except he adds the fifth component, faithfulness. Since these five components of human nature are also five cardinal Confucian virtues, Cheng Hao talks about “virtuous human nature” (dexing) and “virtue of human nature” (xing zhi de): “ ‘virtuous nature’ indicates the worthiness of nature and so means the same thing as goodness of human nature. ‘Virtues of human nature’ refers to what human nature possesses” (Yishu 11; 125). To illustrate the goodness of human nature, Cheng Hao highlights the importance of humanity (ren), regarding it as the complete human nature that includes the other four components, because “rightness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness are all humanity” (2a; 16-17). For Cheng, humanity is precisely the life-giving activity. In the same passage in which he affirms Gaozi’s saying, after stating that “the atmosphere of life-giving activity is most spectacular,” Cheng Hao further makes it clear that it is humanity that continues the life-giving activity: “ ‘what is great and originating becomes (in humans) the first and chief (quality of goodness).’ This quality is known as humanity” (Yishu 11; 120). Thus, for Cheng Hao, humanity is not merely a human virtue. It is actually no different from the life-giving activity. Just like heaven, dao, god, and lord, it is indistinguishable from principle (li) as the ultimate reality.

Understood as life-giving activity, it becomes clear why human nature, which can be illustrated by humanity (as it includes other components of human nature) is good. In Cheng Hao’s view, this sense of life-giving activity that humanity (ren) has is best explained by doctors when they refer to a person who is numb as lacking ren: “doctors regard a person as not-ren when the person cannot feel pain and itch; we regard a person as lacking humanity when the person does not know, is not conscious of, and cannot recognize rightness and principle. This is the best analogy” (Yishu 2a; 33). A person whose hands and feet are numb cannot even feel the pain of oneself, to say nothing of that of others. In contrast, “a person of humanity will be in one body with ten thousand things” (2a; 15). This means that a person of humanity, a person who is not numb (lacking ren) is sensitive to the pain of other beings, not only human beings but also non-human beings, in the same way that one is sensitive to one’s own pain.

A difficulty in understanding Cheng Hao’s view of human nature is that he sometimes seems to think that not only good but also evil can be attributed to human nature and principle. About the former, he states that, “while goodness indeed belongs to human nature, it cannot be said that evil does not belong to human nature” (Yishu 1; 10). About the latter, he says that “it is tian li that there are both good and evil in the world” (Yishu 2a; 14) and “that some things are good and some things are evil” (2b; 17). In both cases, however, Cheng Hao does not mean that evil belongs to human nature or principle in the same way as good belongs to human nature, and so what he says in these passages is not inconsistent with his view of human nature as good. As for evil belonging to human nature, Cheng Hao uses the analogy of water. Just as we cannot say muddy water is not water, so we cannot say the distorted human nature is not human nature. Here Cheng Hao makes it clear that water is originally clear, and human nature is originally good. That is why in the same passage in which he says that evil cannot be said not to belong to human nature, he emphasizes that Mencius is right in insisting that human nature is good. So goodness inherently belongs to human nature, while evil is only externally attached to and therefore can be detached from human nature, just as clearness inherently belongs to water, while mud is only externally mixed in and therefore can be eliminated from water (Yishu 1; 10-11). In the two passages in which Cheng Hao states that it is li or tian li that there are both good and evil people, Cheng does not mean that heaven or principle as life-giving activity is both good and evil. In such contexts, Cheng Hao means something different by li and tian li. It does not mean heaven or principle but means something similar to what Descartes sometimes called “natural light.” What he says in these passages is then that it is natural or naturally understandable (tian li) that there are good people and there are bad people. The question then is why it is natural or naturally understandable to have both good people and evil people when human nature is purely good.

4. Origin of Evil

Cheng Hao holds the view that human nature is good and yet thinks it natural that there are both good people and evil people. To explain this, like many other neo-Confucians, Cheng Hao appeals to the distinction between principle and vital force (qi). While the ideas of both principle (li) (to which human nature is identical) and vital force (qi), appeared in earlier Confucian texts, it is in neo-Confucianism that these two become an important pair. In Cheng Hao’s view, “it is not complete to talk about human nature without talking about qi, while it is not illuminating to talk about qi without talking about human nature” (Yishu 6; 81). It is common among neo-Confucians to regard human nature as good and to attribute the origin of evil to the vital force. In this respect Cheng Hao is not an exception. Cheng Hao claims that it is natural that there are good people and evil people precisely because of vital force. Thus, in the same passage in which he uses the analogy of water, after claiming that human nature and vital force cannot be separated from each other, he states that “human life is endowed with vital force, and therefore it is naturally understandable (li) that there are good and evil (people)…. Some people have been good since childhood, and some people have been evil since childhood. This is all because of the vital force they are endowed with” (Yishu 1; 10). Then he uses the analogy of water. Water is the same everywhere, but some water becomes muddy after flowing a short distance, some becomes muddy after flowing a long distance, and some remains clear even when flowing into the sea. The original state of water is clear; whether it remains clear or becomes muddy depends upon the condition of the route it flows. The original state of human nature is good; whether a person remains good or becomes evil depends upon the quality of the vital force the person is endowed with.

There is an apparent problem, however, with this solution to the problem of the origin of evil. Cheng Hao argues that what constitutes human nature is not only present in human beings but also in all ten thousand things. Thus, after explaining the five constant components of human nature – humanity, rightness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness – Cheng Hao points out that “all ten thousand things have the same nature, and these five are constant natures” (Yishu 9; 105). Cheng Hao repeatedly claims that ten thousand things form one body. In his view, this is “because all ten thousand things have the same principle”; human beings are born with a complete nature, but “we cannot say other things do not have it” (Yishu 2a; 33). Thus Cheng Hao argues that horses and cows also love their children, because the four beginnings that Mencius talks about are also present in them (Yishu 2b; 54). In other words, in terms of nature, there is no difference between human beings and other beings. The difference between human beings and other beings lies in their ability to extend (tui) the principle destined in ten thousand things (to extend the natural love beyond one’s intimate circle), and the difference in this ability further lies in the kind of vital force they are respectively endowed with. Thus Cheng Hao argues that “Humans can extend the principle, while things cannot because their vital force is muddy” (Yishu 2a; 33). Here, he emphasizes that the vital force that animals are endowed with is not clear. In contrast, “the vital force that human beings are endowed with is most clear, and therefore human beings can become partner [with heaven and earth]” (Yishu 2b; 54). In addition to this distinction between clear and muddy vital forces, Cheng Hao also claims that the vital force that humans are endowed with is balanced (zheng), while the vital force that animals are endowed with is one-sided (pian). After reaffirming that human heart-mind is the same as the heart-mind of animals and plants, he says that “the difference between human beings and other beings is whether the vital force they are respectively endowed with is balanced or one-sided [between yin and yang]. Neither yin alone nor yang alone can give birth to anything. When one-sided, yin and yang give birth to birds, beast, and barbarians; when balanced, yin and yang give birth to humans” (Yishu 1; 4; see also Yishu 11; 122).

Cheng Hao thus makes precisely the same distinction between good people and evil people as he makes between human beings and animals. The apparent problem here would seem to be that evil people would then be indistinguishable from animals since they are both endowed with turbid, one-sided, and mixed vital force, as Cheng Hao does often regard evil people as beasts. However, the problem is rather: since Cheng Hao believes that animals cannot be transformed into human beings because their endowed vital force is turbid, one-sided, and mixed, how can he believe, as he does, that evil humans who are also endowed with such turbid, one-sided, and mixed vital force can be transformed into moral beings and even sages? In other words, what is the difference between evil humans and beasts that makes the difference?

Cheng Hao seems to be aware of this problem, and he attempts to solve it by making the distinction between host vital force (zhu qi) and alien or guest vital force (ke qi). For example, he states that “rightness (yi) and the principle (li) on the one side and the alien vital force on the other often fight against each other. The distinction between superior persons and inferior persons is made according to the degree of the one conquered by another. The more the principle and rightness gain the upper hand…the more the alien vital force is extinguished” (Yishu 1; 4-5). For human beings, the host vital force is the one that is constitutive of human beings, which makes human being a bodily existence, while the guest vital force is constitutive of the environment, in which a human being, as a bodily existence, is born and lives. This distinction between host and alien vital force is equivalent to the one between internal (nei qi) and external vital force (wai qi) that his brother Cheng Yi makes, and therefore the analogy the Cheng Yi uses to explain the latter distinction can assist us in understanding the former distinction. For Cheng Yi, the internal vital force is not mixed with but absorbs nourishment from the external vital force. Then he uses the analogy of fish in water to explain it: “The life of fish is not caused by water. However, only by absorbing nourishment from water can fish live. Human beings live between heaven and earth in the same way as fish live in water. The nourishment humans receive from drinking and food is from the external vital force” (Yishu 15; 165-166).

In this analogy, a fish has both its internal or host vital force, the vital force that it is internally endowed with, which accounts for its corporeal form, and its external or guest vital force, the vital force it is externally endowed with, which provides the environment in which fish can live. This analogy performs the same function as Cheng Hao’s own analogy of water (mentioned above). Water itself is a bodily being with a nature and internal vital force, both of which guarantee its clearness. However, water has to exist in external vital force (river, for example). If this external vital force is also favorable, the water will remain clear, but if it is not favorable, the water will become muddy. In this analogy, water is equivalent to human beings, and “the clearness of water is equivalent to the goodness of human nature” (Yishu 1; 11). Through such an analogy, Cheng Hao attempts to show that, in addition to human nature, humans are endowed both internally with the host vital force, which is constitutive of human body, and externally with the alien vital force, which makes up the natural and social environment in which humans live. Therefore, not only is human nature all good, but the host vital force constitutive of human beings is also pure, clear, and balanced. Neither of the two can account for human evil. However, since human beings are corporeal beings, they must be born to and live in the midst of external vital force, which can be pure or impure. It is the quality of this external or guest vital force, purity or impurity, and the way people deal with it, that distinguishes between good and evil people. If the external vital force is also pure, it will provide the necessary nourishment to the internal vital force and therefore the original good human nature will not be damaged, and people will be good. If the external vital force is turbid and human beings living in it have not developed immunity to it, their internal vital force will be malnourished or even polluted and the original good human nature will be damaged, and people will be evil.

Thus, in Cheng Hao’s view, although both evil people and animals are endowed with muddy, mixed, and one-sided vital force, evil people are endowed with it externally as the necessary environment in which they have to live, while animals are endowed with it internally as constitutive of their bodily existence. In other words, such muddy, mixed, and one-sided vital force is the external guest vital force for human beings but is the internal host vital force for animals. Since the host vital force constitutive of animals – the vital force that makes animals animals – is muddy, mixed, and one-sided, animals can never be transformed into moral beings. On the other hand, since the host vital force constitutive of evil people, just as that constitutive of good people, is originally pure, clear, and balanced, but is only later polluted by muddy, mixed, and one-sided alien vital force, they can be made to become good by clearing up the pollution. Here, just as muddy water, when purified, does not enter into a state it has never been in before but simply returns to its original state of clearness, so an evil person, when made good, does not become an entirely new being, but simply returns to its original state of goodness (Yishu 1; 10-11). A return to this original state requires moral cultivation.

5. Moral Cultivation

Cheng Hao’s distinction between the host vital force and guest vital force makes a great contribution to the solution of the problem of the origin of evil. At least this is a step further than simply appealing to the distinction between principle and vital force. Still it is hard to say that it is completely successful, as it seems to attribute the origin of evil entirely to the external environment, which is also suggested by Mencius in his analogies of the growing of wheat (Mencius 6a7) and the Niu Mountain (Mencius 6a8). Some scholars believe such a view is implausible, and even both Cheng Hao and Mencius think that an evil person is also responsible for becoming bad. However, neither of them provides a satisfactory explanation about the internal origin of evil. Perhaps their very idea of the original goodness of human nature prevents such an explanation, just as Xunzi’s idea of the original badness of human nature perhaps prevents him from a satisfactory explanation of the origin of goodness: Xunzi does appeal to the transformative influence of sages and their teaching as a solution to the problem, but then he faces the problem of the origin of sages as their nature, as he claims, is also evil.

Whether Cheng Hao’s solution to the problem of the origin of evil is satisfactory or not, it is undeniable that one can become evil even though his or her nature is good. So Cheng Hao emphasizes the importance of moral cultivation. Since evil occurs when the turbid external vital force pollutes one’s originally clean internal vital force, just as the dust and dirt in the river makes the originally clear water muddy, what is needed is to purify the contaminated internal vital force, just as the turbid water must settle to become clear. This process is called cultivation of the vital force (yang qi) in Mencius. When the internal vital force is cultivated to the utmost, it becomes as clear, bright, pure, and complete as it is in its original state. This is also what Mencius calls “flood-like” vital force (haoran zhi qi), and so Cheng Hao puts a great emphasis on the passage of the Mencius in which Mencius talks about the cultivation of this flood-like vital force (Yishu 11; 117). Cheng Hao claims that “the flood-like vital force is nothing but my own [internally endowed] vital force. When it is cultivated instead of being harmed, it can fill between heaven and earth. Once it is blocked by private desires, however, it will immediately become withered” (Yishu 2a; 20). In other words, Mencius’ flood-like vital force is what everyone is originally internally endowed with, and everyone should cultivate it in case it gets contaminated by the turbid external vital force.

How does one cultivate the flood-like vital force? Cheng Hao claims that it does not come from outside. Rather it results from “consistent moral actions (jiyi)” (Yishu 2a; 29 and Yishu 11; 124). So jiyi becomes the way to cultivate the flood-like vital force. Thus, commenting on the passage in which Mencius talks about the flood-like vital force, Cheng Hao points out that, “cultivated straightly from dao and along the line of principle, it fills up between heaven and earth. [Mencius says that] ‘it is to be accompanied with rightness and dao,’ which means that it takes rightness as its master and never diverts from dao. [Mencius says that] ‘This is generated by consistent moral actions,’ which means that everything one does is in accordance with rightness” (Yishu 1; 11).

To say that cultivation of vital force consists in consistent moral actions, however, for Cheng Hao, does not mean that one has to exert artificial effort to do what is right, even though one does not have the inclination to do it. For this reason, he repeatedly cites Mencius’ claim that “while you must never let it out of your mind, you must not forcibly help it grow either” (Mencius 2a2). In other words, one has to set one’s mind on moral actions and yet cannot force such actions upon oneself. What is important for Cheng Hao is that, when one engages oneself in moral practices, one is not to regulate one’s action with the principle of rightness, as otherwise one will not be able to feel joy in it. In Cheng Hao’s view, this is a distinction best exemplified by the sage king Shun, who “practices from rightness and humanity” instead of “practicing rightness and humanity” (Yishu 3; 61). In other words, one cannot regard morality as external rules that constrain one’s action but as internal source that inclines one to act naturally, without effort, and at ease.

A person becomes evil because of the turbid external force. However, the turbid force can also make one evil because a person’s will is not firm. Thus another way of moral cultivation is to firm up one’s will (chi zhi). While cultivation of the vital force can help firming up one’s original good will, firming up one’s original good will can also help cultivate the vital force. Thus, referring to Mencius’ view about the relationship between these two, Cheng Hao states that, “for a person whose vital force is yet to be cultivated, the activity of the vital force may move one’s will, and the decision of one’s will may cause the movement of the vital force. However, to a person whose virtue is fulfilled, since the will is already firmed up, the vital force will not be able to change one’s will” (Yishu 1; 11). So in Cheng Hao’s view, to avoid being polluted by turbid vital force, it is important to firm up one’s will: “as soon as one’s will is firmed up, the vital force cannot cause any trouble” (Yishu 2b; 53). On the one hand, if one’s will is not firm, it may be disturbed by violent vital force; on the other hand, if one’s will is firm, the vital force cannot disturb it.

In order to firm up one’s will, Cheng Hao claims that it is most important to live in reverence (ju jing). The primary function of being in reverence is to overcome one’s selfish desires: “As soon as one has selfish desires, [one’s heart-mind] will wither, and the flood-like vital force will be lacking” (Yishu 2a; 29). To be reverent inside is to overcome selfish desires. As soon as these selfish desires are overcome, one will be like a sage, who “is happy with things because they are things one ought to be happy with, and is angry at things because they are things one ought to be angry at. The sage’s being happy or angry is thus according to things and not according to his own likes or dislikes” (Wenji 2; 461). This is because, in Cheng Hao’s view, the inborn virtues of sages and worthies are also complete in everyone’s original nature. Thus when not harmed, one need only practice straightly from the inside. If there is some damage, one must be reverent so that it can be purified and return to its original state (Yishu 1; 1).

These two ways of moral cultivation – cultivation of the vital force (yang qi), which relies upon consistent moral actions (jiyi), and firming up one’s will (chi zhi), which relies upon one’s being reverent (ju jin) – are what the Book of Chang calls “being reverent (jing) so that one’s inner [heart-mind] will be upright and being right (yi) so that one’s external [actions] will be in accord [with principle].” The former is internal and the latter is external. In Cheng Hao’s view, they are also the only ways to become a sage. One of the common features of these two methods is that they both aim at one’s virtues so that a virtuous person takes delight in being virtuous without making forced efforts (Yishu 2a; 20). Thus, just as he emphasizes “being reverent so that the inner will be straightened” (jing yi zhi nei) instead of “using reverence to straighten the inner” (yi jing zhi nei), he emphasizes “being morally right so that one’s external action will be squared” (yi yi fang wai) instead of “using rightness to square one’s external action” (yi yi fang wai) (Yishu 11; 120). (Although these two Chinese phrases appear identical in romanization, they contain different characters, as can be seen from their different translations.) Moreover, while the two ways can be respectively called internal way and external way, Cheng Hao emphasizes that it is important “to combine the inner way and the external way” (Yishu 1; 9). In other words, these two ways are not separate, as if one could practice one without practicing the other.

6. Influence

Han Yu (768-824), an important Tang dynasty Confucian, established a lineage of the Confucian tradition (daotong) from Yao, Shun, Yu, Tang, King Wen, King Wu, Duke of Zhou, Confucius, and Mencius. He claimed that, after Mencius, this lineage was interrupted. Cheng Yi accepted this Confucian daotong and claimed that his brother Cheng Hao was the first one to continue this lineage after Mencius (Wenji 11; 640). While there may be some exaggeration in such a claim, particularly as it is in the tomb inscription he wrote for his own brother, there is also truth in it. According to one widely accepted chronology, there are three epochs of Confucianism: pre-Qin Classical Confucianism, neo-Confucianism in the Song and Ming dynasties, and contemporary Confucianism. In the second stage, as far as neo-Confucianism can be characterized as the learning of principle, Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi can indeed be regarded as its true founders, and their learning, through their numerous students, to a large extent determined the later development of neo-Confucianism. While the two brothers share fundamentally similar views and most of these students learned from both, different students noticed and exaggerated their different emphases and thus developed different schools. Among all their students, Xie Liangzuo (1050-1103) and Yang Shi (1053-1135) are the most distinguished. Yang Shi transmitted Cheng Yi’s teaching through his student Luo Congyan (1072-1135) and the latter’s student Li Tong (1093-1163), to Zhu Xi. The synthesizer of the lixue school of neo-Confucianism, Xie Liangzuo transmitted Cheng Hao’s learning through a few generations of students such as Wang Ping (1082-1153) and Zhang Jiucheng (1092-1159) to Lu Jiuyuan (1139-1193) and eventually to Wang Yangming, the culminating figure of the xinxue school of neo-Confucianism. Sometimes a third school of neo-Confucianism, xingxue (learning of human nature), is identified, whose most important representative is Hu Hong (?-1161). Hu Hong continued the learning of his father, Hu Anguo (1074-1138), who in turn was also influenced by Xie Liangzuo. In this sense, Cheng Hao leaves his mark on all three main schools of neo-Confucianism (all recognized, in Chinese scholarship, as lixue, learning of principle, understood in the broad sense).

7. References and Further Reading

  • Bol, Peter. Neo-Confucianism in History. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2008.
    • There are scattered discussions of Cheng Hao throughout the book.
  • Chan, Wing-tsit. A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963.
    • Chapter 31 is the most extensive English translation of selected sayings and writings by Cheng Hao.
  • Chang, Carsun. The Development of Neo-Confucianism, vol. 1. New Haven, Conn.: College and University Press, 1957.
    • Chapter 9 is devoted to Cheng Hao.
  • Cheng, Hao & Cheng, Yi. Collected Works of the Two Chengs (Er Cheng Ji). Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 1988.
    • A collection of the works and sayings of Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi.
  • Fung, Yu-lan (Feng, Yulan). A History of Chinese Philosophy. Vol. II. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953.
    • Chapter XII, Section 2, is a combined study of Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi.
  • Graham, A.C. Two Chinese Philosophers. La Salle, Illinois: Open Court, 1992.
    • The only book length study of Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi in English.
  • Hon, Tze-ki. “Cheng Hao.” In A. S. Cua, ed., Encyclopedia of Chinese Philosophy. New York: Routledge, 2003.
    • A full length article on Cheng Hao’s philosophy.
  • Hsu, Fu-kuan. “Chu Hsi and Cheng Brothers.” In Wing-tsit Chan, ed., Chu Hsi and Neo-Confucianism. Honolulu: University of Hawaii, 1986.
    • A study of the similarity and difference between Zhu Xi and the Cheng brothers.
  • Huang, Siu-chi. Essentials of Neo-Confucianism: Eight Major Philosophers of the Song and Ming Periods. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1999.
    • One chapter is devoted to a philosophical study of Cheng Hao.
  • Huang, Yong. “Confucian Love and Global Ethics: How the Cheng Brothers Would Help Respond to Christian Criticisms.” Asian Philosophy 15/1 (2005): 35-60.
    • A discussion of the contemporary significance of the Cheng brothers’ interpretation of love with distinction.
  • Huang, Yong. “The Cheng Brothers’ Onto-Theological Articulation of Confucian Values.” Asian Philosophy 17/3 (2007): 187-211.
    • An interpretation of the Cheng brothers’ li as life-giving activity.
  • Huang, Yong. “Neo-Confucian Political Philosophy: The Cheng Brothers on Li (Propriety) as Political, Psychological, and Metaphysical.” Journal of Chinese Philosophy 34/2 (2007): 217-239.
    • An exposition of the Cheng brothers’ li as rules of action, as one’s inner feeling, and as human nature.
  • Huang, Yong. “Why Be Moral? The Cheng Brothers’ Neo-Confucian Answer.” Journal of Religious Ethics 36/2 (2008): 321-353.
    • A discussion of the Cheng brothers’ conception of human nature as a response to the question of why be moral.
  • Wong, Wai-ying. “The Status of li in the Cheng Brothers’ Philosophy.” Dao: A Journal of Comparative Philosophy 3/1 (2003): 109-119.
    • An important study of the Cheng brothers’ conception of propriety.
  • Wong, Wai-ying. “Morally Bad in the Philosophy of the Cheng Brothers.” Journal of Chinese Philosophy 36/1 (2009): 157-176.
    • A good discussion of the Cheng brothers’ view of evil.

Author Information

Yong Huang
Email: yhuang@kutztown.edu
Kutztown University of Pennsylvania
U. S. A.

Epistemic Circularity

An epistemically circular argument defends the reliability of a source of belief by relying on premises that are themselves based on the source. It is a widely shared intuition that there is something wrong with epistemically circular arguments.

William Alston, who first used the term in this sense, argues plausibly that there is no way to know or to be justified in believing that our basic sources of belief–such as perception, introspection, intuitive reason, memory and reasoning–are reliable except by using such epistemically circular arguments. And many contemporary accounts of knowledge and justification allow our gaining knowledge and justified beliefs by relying on such arguments. Indeed, any account that accepts that a belief source can deliver knowledge (or justified beliefs) prior to one’s knowing (or believing justifiably) that the source is reliable allows this. It allows our knowing the premises of an epistemically circular argument without already knowing the conclusion, and using the argument for attaining knowledge of the conclusion. Still, we have the intuition that any such account makes knowledge too easy.

In order to avoid too easy knowledge via epistemic circularity, we need to assume that a source can yield knowledge only if we first know that it is reliable. However, this assumption leads to the ancient problem of the criterion and the danger of landing in radical skepticism. Skepticism could be avoided if our knowledge about reliability were basic or noninferential. It could also be avoided if we had some sort of “non-evidential” entitlement to taking our sources to be reliable. Both options are problematic.

One might think that we have to allow easy knowledge and some epistemic circularity because it is the only way to avoid skepticism. If we do so, however, we still need to explain what is then wrong with other epistemically circular arguments. One possible explanation is that they fail to be dialectically effective. You cannot rationally convince someone who doubts the conclusion of the epistemically circular argument, because such a person also doubts the premises. Another possible explanation is that such arguments fail to defeat a reliability defeater: if you have a reason to believe that one of your sources of belief is unreliable, you have a defeater for all beliefs based on the source. You cannot defeat this defeater and regain justification for these beliefs by means of epistemically circular arguments. Yet, there are still disturbing cases in which you do not doubt the reliability of a source; you are just ignorant of it. The present account allows your gaining knowledge about the reliability of the source too easily.

Thus there seems to be no completely satisfactory solution to the problem of epistemic circularity. This suggests that the ancient problem of the criterion is a genuine skeptical paradox.

Table of Contents

  1. Alston on Epistemic Circularity
  2. Epistemic Failure
  3. Easy Knowledge and the KR Principle
  4. Coherence and Reflective Knowledge
  5. The Problem of the Criterion
  6. Basic Reliability Knowledge
  7. Wittgenstein, Entitlement and Practical Rationality
  8. Sensitivity
  9. Dialectical Ineffectiveness and the Inability to Defeat Defeaters
  10. Epistemology and Dialectic
  11. References and Further Reading

1. Alston on Epistemic Circularity

When Descartes tried to show that clear and distinct perceptions are true by relying on premises that are themselves based on clear and distinct perceptions, he was quickly made aware that there was something viciously circular in his attempt. It seems that we cannot use reason to show that reason is reliable. Thomas Reid [1710-1796] (1983, 276) pointed out that such an attempt would be as ridiculous as trying to determine a man’s honesty by asking the man himself whether he was honest or not. Such a procedure is completely useless. Whether he were honest or not, he would of course say that he was. All attempts to show that any of our sources of belief is reliable by trusting its own verdict of its reliability would be similarly useless.

The most detailed characterization of this sort of circularity in recent literature is given by William Alston (1989; 1991; 1993), who calls it “epistemic circularity.” He argues that there is no way to show that any of our basic sources of belief–such as perception, intuitive reason, introspection, memory or reasoning–is reliable without falling into epistemic circularity: there is no way to show that such a source is reliable without relying at some point or another on premises that are themselves derived from that source. Thus we cannot have any noncircular reasons for supposing that the sources on which we base our beliefs are reliable. What kind of circularity is this?

Alston (1989; 1993, 12-15) takes sense perception as an example. If we wish to show that sense perception is reliable, the simplest and most fundamental way is to use a track-record argument. We collect a suitable sample of beliefs that are based on sense perception and take the proportion of truths in the sample as an estimation of the reliability of that source of belief. We rely on the following inductive argument:

At t1, S1 formed the perceptual belief that p1, and p1 is true.

At t2, S2 formed the perceptual belief that p2, and p2 is true.

.
.
.

At tn, Sn formed the perceptual belief that pn, and pn is true.

Therefore, sense perception is a reliable source of belief.

How are we to determine whether the particular perceptual beliefs mentioned in the premises are true? The only way seems to be to form further perceptual beliefs. Thus the premises of the track-record argument for the reliability of sense perception are themselves based on sense perception. The kind of circularity involved in this argument is not logical circularity because the conclusion that sense perception is reliable is not used as one of the premises. Nevertheless, we cannot consider ourselves justified in accepting the premises unless we assume that sense perception is reliable. Since this kind of circularity involves commitment to the conclusion as a presupposition of our supposing ourselves to be justified in accepting the premises, Alston calls it epistemic circularity.

Epistemic circularity is thus not a feature of the argument as such. It relates to our attempt to use the argument to justify the conclusion or to arrive at a justified belief by reasoning from the premises to the conclusion. In order to succeed, such attempts require that we be justified in accepting the premises. According to Alston, we cannot suppose ourselves to be justified in holding the premises unless we somehow assume the conclusion. He explains our commitment to the conclusion dialectically: “If one were to challenge our premises and continue the challenge long enough, we would eventually be driven to appeal to the reliability of sense perception in defending our right to those premises.¨ (1993, 15)

Surprisingly, Alston (1989; 1993, 16) argues that epistemic circularity does not prevent our using an epistemically circular argument to show that sense perception is reliable or to justify the claim that it is. Neither does it prevent our being justified in believing or even knowing that sense perception is reliable. This is so if there are no higher-level requirements for justification and knowledge, such as the requirement that we be justified in believing that sense perception is reliable. If we can have justified perceptual beliefs without already being justified in believing that sense perception is reliable, we can be justified in accepting the premises of the track-record argument and using it for attaining justification for the conclusion.

Alston does not suggest that there are higher-level requirements for knowledge and justification. His account of justification is a form of generic reliabilism that do not make such requirements. According to such reliabilism,

S’s belief that p is justified if and only if it has a sufficiently reliable causal source.

If reliabilism is true, we can very well be justified in believing the premises of the track-record argument without being justified in believing the conclusion. It merely requires that the conclusion be, in fact, true. If sense perception is reliable along with other relevant sources–such as introspection and inductive reasoning–we can be justified in accepting the premises and thus arrive at a justified belief in the conclusion by reasoning inductively from the premises. Moreover, nothing prevents our coming to know the conclusion by means of such reasoning.

What, then, is wrong with epistemically circular arguments? This is what Alston states:

Epistemic circularity does not in and of itself disqualify the argument. But even granting this point, the argument will not do its job unless we are justified in accepting its premises; and that is the case only if sense perception is in fact reliable. This is to offer a stone instead of bread. We can say the same of any belief-forming practice whatever, no matter how disreputable. We can just as well say of crystal ball gazing that if it is reliable, we can use a track-record argument to show that it is reliable. But when we ask whether one or another source of belief is reliable, we are interested in discriminating those that can be reasonably trusted from those that cannot. Hence merely showing that if a given source is reliable it can be shown by its record to be reliable, does nothing to indicate that the source belongs to the sheep rather that with the goats. (1993, 17)

This is puzzling. Earlier Alston grants that, assuming reliabilism, we can use an epistemically circular track-record argument to show that sense perception is reliable. Now he is suggesting that such an argument shows at most the conditional conclusion that if a given source is reliable it can be shown by its record to be reliable. This seems merely to contradict the point he already granted.

We can make sense of this if we distinguish between two kinds of showing. When Alston talks about showing he usually has in mind something we could call “epistemic showing.” Showing in this sense requires a good argument with justified premises. If we have such an epistemically circular argument for the reliability of sense perception, we can show the categorical conclusion that sense perception is reliable. Assuming that reliabilism is true and that sense perception, introspection and induction are reliable processes, the premises of the track-record argument are surely justified, and the justification of the premises is transmitted to the conclusion. If this is all that is required for showing, then epistemic circularity does not disqualify the argument.

There is another sense of showing, that of “dialectical showing.” Showing in this sense is relative to an audience, and it requires that we have an argument that our audience takes to be sound, otherwise we would be unable to rationally convince it. If we assume that our audience is skeptical about the reliability of sense perception, it is clear that we cannot convince such an audience with an epistemically circular argument. This is so because the audience would also be skeptical about the truth of the premises. Assuming that our audience is skeptical only about perception and not about introspection and induction, we can only show to such an audience Alston’s hypothetical conclusion: if sense perception is reliable, we can show–in the epistemic sense–that it is.

Whether this is what Alston has in mind or not, it is one possible diagnosis of the failure of epistemically circular arguments. Although they may provide justification for our reliability beliefs, they are unable to rationally remove doubts about reliability. They are not dialectically effective against the skeptic.

2. Epistemic Failure

The problem of epistemic circularity derives from our intuition that there is something wrong with it. Many philosophers have expressed doubts that this intuition is completely explained by dialectical considerations. The fault seems to be epistemic rather than just dialectical. Richard Fumerton (1995) and Jonathan Vogel (2000) argue that we cannot gain knowledge and justified beliefs by means of epistemically circular reasoning. They conclude that any account of knowledge or justification that allows this must be mistaken. Their target is reliabilism in particular. Fumerton writes:

You cannot use perception to justify the reliability of perception! You cannot use memory to justify the reliability of memory! You cannot use induction to justify the reliability of induction! Such attempts to respond to the skeptic’s concerns involve blatant, indeed pathetic, circularity. Frankly, this does seem right to me and I hope it seems right to you, but if it does, then I suggest you have a powerful reason to conclude that externalism is false. (1995, 177)

If the mere reliability of a process is sufficient for giving us justification, as reliabilism entails, then we can use it to obtain a justified belief even about its own reliability. According to Fumerton, this counterintuitive result shows that reliabilism is false.

Vogel (2000, 613-623) gives the example of Roxanne, who has a car with a highly reliable gas gauge and who believes implicitly what the gas gauge indicates, without knowing that it is reliable. In order to gain knowledge about the reliability of the gauge, she undertakes the following procedure. She looks at the gauge often and forms a belief not only about how much gas there is in the tank, but also about the reading of the gauge. For example, when the gauge reads ‘F’, she believes both that the gauge reads ‘F’ and that the tank is full. She combines these beliefs into the belief:

(1) On this occasion, the gauge reads ‘F’ and the tank is F.

Surely, the perceptual process by which Roxanne forms her belief about the reading of the gauge is reliable, but so is, by hypothesis, the process through which she reaches the belief that the tank is full. Roxanne’s belief in (1) is thus the result of a reliable process. She then repeats this process on several occasions and forms beliefs of the form:

(2) On this occasion, the gauge reads ‘X’ and the tank is X.

From a representative set of such beliefs, she concludes inductively that:

(3) The gauge is reliable.

Because induction is also a reliable process, the whole process by which Roxanne reaches her conclusion is reliable. Thus reliabilism allows that in this way she gains knowledge that the gauge is reliable.

Vogel assumes that this process, which he calls bootstrapping, is illegitimate and concludes that reliabilism goes wrong in improperly ratifying bootstrapping as a way of gaining knowledge.

We have an intuition that there is something wrong with this sort of epistemically circular reasoning. Here, it is difficult to explain the intuition in terms of some sort of dialectical failure because there is nobody who is questioning the reliability of the gauge and who needs to be convinced about the matter. It is merely assumed that Roxanne did not originally know that it was reliable. It follows from reliabilism that she can gain this knowledge by this sort of bootstrapping, which is contrary to our intuitions.

3. Easy Knowledge and the KR Principle

Epistemic circularity is not only a problem for reliabilism. As Alston pointed out, any epistemological theory that does not set higher-level requirements for knowledge or justified belief is bound to allow epistemic circularity. The problem is that such a theory makes knowledge and justified belief about reliability intuitively too easy.

Stewart Cohen (2002) argues that any theory that rejects the following principle allows knowledge about reliability too easily:

KR: A potential knowledge source K can yield knowledge for S, only if S knows K is reliable.

Theories that reject this KR principle allow that a belief source can deliver knowledge prior to one’s knowing that the source is reliable. Cohen calls such knowledge “basic” knowledge. (Note that he uses the phrase in a nonstandard way.) Theories that allow for basic knowledge can appeal to our basic knowledge in order to explain how we know that our belief sources are reliable:

According to such views, we first acquire a rich stock of basic knowledge about the world. Such knowledge, once obtained, enables us to learn how we are situated in the world, and so to learn, among other things, that our belief sources are reliable. (2002, 310)

In obtaining such knowledge of reliability we reason in a way that is epistemically circular. The problem is that we gain knowledge too easily.

It is not only reliabilism that rejects the KR principle: there are other currently popular theories that do so. For example, evidentialism makes knowledge a function of evidence. An evidentialist who denies the KR principle allows that one can know that p on the basis of evidence E without knowing that E is a reliable indication of the truth of p. Such evidentialism allows our gaining knowledge of reliability through epistemically circular reasoning.

However, the principle does not seem to be strong enough because even some theories that accept it do not avoid epistemic circularity, and thus make knowledge too easy. The KR principle, as Cohen formulates it, does not make any requirements about epistemic order. It does not require in particular that knowledge about the reliability of source K be prior to (or independent of) knowledge based on K. It allows that we gain both kinds of knowledge simultaneously.

4. Coherence and Reflective Knowledge

According to holistic coherentism, knowledge is generated simultaneously in the whole system of beliefs once a sufficient degree of coherence is achieved. It is clear that meta-level beliefs about the sources of belief and their reliability can increase the coherence of the whole system of beliefs. So coherentism that requires such a meta-level perspective into the reliability of the sources of belief satisfies the KR principle: I can know that p only if I also know that the source of my belief that p is reliable.

However, as James Van Cleve (2003, 55-57) points out, coherentism does not avoid the problem of easy knowledge. It allows that we gain knowledge through epistemically circular reasoning. The steps by which we gain such knowledge may be exactly the same as in the foundationalist version. The only difference is that when, according to foundationalism, knowledge is first generated in the premises and then transmitted to the conclusion, coherentism makes it appear simultaneously in the premises and in the conclusion. The fact that knowledge is not generated in the premises until the conclusion is reached does not make it less easy to attain knowledge.

Ernest Sosa (1997) suggests that we can resolve the problems of circularity by his distinction between animal knowledge and reflective knowledge, but as both Cohen (2002, 326) and Van Cleve (2003, 57) point out, Sosa’s account allows knowledge about reliability too easily. Animal knowledge is knowledge as it is understood in simple reliabilism: it requires just a true and reliably formed belief. So it does not satisfy the KR principle and allows easy knowledge. We can attain animal knowledge about the reliability of a source through epistemically circular reasoning.

Sosa’s point is that reflective knowledge satisfies the principle. In addition to animal knowledge, it requires a coherent system of beliefs that includes an epistemic perspective into the reliability of the sources of belief. So a source delivers reflective knowledge for me only if I know that the source is reliable, yet it is still true that the epistemically circular track-record argument provides all the ingredients needed for such reflective knowledge. I attain animal knowledge about the reliability of perception by reasoning from my animal knowledge about the truth of particular perceptual beliefs. Once I have attained this knowledge, my system of beliefs also achieves a sufficient degree of coherence that transfers my animal knowledge into reflective knowledge. All this happens still too easily. It happens in fact as easily as before. The only difference is the points at which different sorts of knowledge are attained. The reasoning itself is exactly the same.

It seems that we can avoid allowing easy knowledge only by strengthening the KR principle. It must require that knowledge of the reliability of source K be prior to knowledge based on K. We must know that the source is reliable independently of any knowledge based on the source. The problem with coherentism and Sosa’s account is that they reject this strengthened KR principle, and this is why they make knowledge too easy.

5. The Problem of the Criterion

By affirming the strengthened KR principle we avoid the easy-knowledge problem but are in danger of falling into skepticism. The strengthened principle leads to the ancient problem of the criterion.

Ancient Pyrrhonian skeptics were puzzled about the disagreements that prevailed about any object of inquiry. They insisted that, in order to resolve these disagreements and to attain any knowledge, we need criteria that distinguish beliefs that are true from those that are false. However, there are also disagreements about the right criteria of truth. In order to resolve these disagreements and to know what the right criteria are, we need to know already which beliefs are true–the ones the criteria are supposed to pick out. We are thus caught in a circle.

If we understand the right criteria of truth as reliable sources of belief–sources that mostly produce true beliefs–we arrive at the following formulation of the problem of the criterion:

(1) We can know that a belief based on source K is true only if we first know that K is reliable.

(2) We can know that K is reliable only if we first know that some beliefs based on source K are true.

Assumption (1) is a formulation of the strengthened KR principle. Together with assumption (2), it leads to skepticism: we cannot know which sources are reliable nor which beliefs are true. To be sure, (2) does not require us to know that beliefs based on K are true through K itself; we can rely on some other source. However, (1) posits that this other source can deliver knowledge only if we first know that it is reliable, and (2) that, in order to know this, we need to know that some beliefs based on it are true. In order to know this, in turn, we once again have to rely on some third source, and so on. Because we cannot have an infinite number of sources, sooner or later we have to rely on sources already relied on at some earlier point. We are thus reasoning in a circle, and circular reasoning is unable to provide knowledge.

The circle we are caught in is not epistemic. It is a straightforwardly logical circle. It is clear that a logical circle does not produce knowledge. Such a circle is nowhere connected to reality. Thus in trying to avoid epistemic circularity, we are caught in a more clearly vicious circle–a logical circle.

It is natural to think that epistemic circularity is the lesser evil. If we only have the alternatives of making knowledge too easy or impossible, most philosophers would surely choose the former. This may be the motivation behind currently popular reliabilist and evidentialist epistemologies that deny higher-level requirements for knowledge, but are these really our only options? Could we not reject assumption (2) instead of (1)?

6. Basic Reliability Knowledge

One might concede that a source can give us knowledge only if we first know that it is reliable, but still deny that this knowledge of reliability must in turn be inferred from some other knowledge. One might insist instead that our knowledge about our own reliability is basic or noninferential. This would break the skeptic’s circle.

Thomas Reid (1983, 275) seems to be the traditional advocate of this position. He takes it as a first principle that our cognitive faculties are reliable. He states that first principles are self-evident: we know them directly without deriving them from some other truths (257). How is it possible to know directly a generalization that is only contingently true? It may be easy to see how we can directly know a generalization, such as “All triangles have three angles,” which is a necessary truth: we can simply see its truth through a priori intuition. However, we cannot simply see that our faculties are reliable. The faculty of a priori reason does not give us knowledge of contingent generalizations.

Reid (259-260) posits that there is a special faculty for knowing the first principles, which he calls common sense. Thus, common sense tells us that our faculties are reliable. However, it cannot give us knowledge unless we first know that it is reliable. How can we know this? The only available answer seems to be that we also know this through common sense. (Bergmann 2004, 722-724) There is a serious problem if we assume the skeptic’s strengthened KR principle. This entails that we can know that common sense is reliable only if we first know that it is reliable. We must know it before we know it, which is impossible. We avoid this result if we go back to Cohen’s original KR principle (Van Cleve, 2003, 50-52), but then we face epistemic circularity once again.

According to the Reidian view, knowledge about the reliability of our faculties is basic, and the source of it is common sense. However, common sense delivers this knowledge only if it is itself known to be reliable. If we accept Cohen’s original KR principle and deny the skeptic’s requirement that this knowledge be prior to other knowledge delivered by common sense, we allow that common sense delivers simultaneously basic knowledge about the reliability of our faculties and about the reliability of common sense itself. This is a coherent position.

However, this Reidian view allows one kind of epistemic circularity. Although it is not quite the same kind as in the track-record argument, it allows that we can know that a faculty is reliable by using that very same faculty. The only difference is that this is basic knowledge and not knowledge based on reasoning. It seems that this view makes knowledge about reliability even easier than before.

If we wanted to determine whether to trust a guru, we could construct an inductive argument based on the premises about the truth of what he says and leading to the conclusion that he is reliable. If our belief in the premises is itself based on what he tells us, our argument is epistemically circular. It seems that this cannot be a way of gaining knowledge about his reliability in that it would be intuitively too easy. It would be even easier to base our belief in his reliability on his simply saying that he is reliable. If we cannot gain knowledge through epistemically circular reasoning, how could we gain it by taking this more direct route?

7. Wittgenstein, Entitlement and Practical Rationality

Let us grant that we somehow presuppose the reliability of our sources of belief when we form and evaluate beliefs. What kind of normative status do these presuppositions have if they cannot have the status of basic knowledge? Many philosophers have been inspired by Wittgenstein’s last notebooks published as On Certainty (1969, §§ 341-343):

K the questions that we raise and our doubts depend upon the fact that some propositions are exempt from doubt, are as it were like hinges on which they turn.

That is to say, it belongs to the logic of our scientific investigations that certain things are indeed not doubted.

But it isn’t that the situation is like this: We just can’t investigate everything, and for that reason we are forced to rest content with assumption. If I want the door to turn, the hinges must stay put.

The idea is that in every context of inquiry there are certain propositions that are not and cannot be doubted. They are the hinges that must stay put if we are to conduct inquiry at all. According to Wittgenstein, these hinge propositions cannot be justified, neither can we know them. They are the presuppositions that make justification and knowledge possible.

Wittgenstein (§§ 163, 337) suggests that such hinge propositions include propositions about the reliability of our sources of belief. This explains why we cannot gain knowledge about reliability through epistemically circular reasoning, because we cannot have such knowledge at all. Wittgenstein may have thought so because he took hinge “propositions¨ to have no factual content and thus to be neither true nor false. Thus our concepts of knowledge and justification would not apply to them. However, this view is not very intuitive. Surely the sentence “Sense perception is reliable” appears to express a genuine proposition that is either true or false. If it does express such a proposition, we can have doxastic attitudes to the proposition, and these attitudes can be evaluated epistemically.

Crispin Wright (2004) follows Wittgenstein but takes hinge propositions to be genuine propositions that are epistemically evaluable. He provides an account of the structure of justification that explains why the justification of the premises in certain valid arguments does not transmit to the conclusion. Although the epistemically circular track-record argument is an inductive argument, the same account explains the transmission failure here.

According to Wright’s account, we cannot be justified in accepting the premises of Alston’s track-record argument unless we are already justified in accepting the conclusion that sense perception is reliable. This is why the justification we may have for the premises does not transmit to the conclusion: it presupposes a prior justification for the conclusion. Thus Wright accepts a version of the skeptic’s strengthened KR principle, which effectively blocks epistemically circular reasoning.

He then tries to avoid skepticism by distinguishing between ordinary evidential justification and non-evidential justification he calls “entitlement.” In order to form justified perceptual beliefs, we must already be entitled to take it for granted that sense perception is reliable. However, because this entitlement is a kind of unearned justification that requires no evidential work, we can break the skeptic’s circle.

Wright’s entitlement is not based on sources of justification, such as perception, introspection, memory or reasoning. We get it by default, which is why the KR principle does not apply to it. Thus it avoids the problem of the Reidian account.

Unfortunately, it has its own problems. One of these concerns the nature of entitlement. According to Wright, it is a kind of rational entitlement, but what kind is it? This is how he comments on certain of Wittgenstein’s passages:

I take Wittgenstein’s point in these admittedly not unequivocal passages to be that this is essential: one cannot but take certain such things for granted. (2004, 189)

This line of reply concedes that the best sceptical arguments have something to teach us–that the limits of justification they bring out are genuine and essential–but then replies that, just for that reason, cognitive achievement must be reckoned to take place within such limits. The attempt to surpass them would result not in an increase in rigour or solidity but merely in cognitive paralysis. (2004, 191)

Wright argues here that we cannot but take certain things for granted. In order to engage in inquiry and to form justified beliefs, one must accept certain presuppositions. Refusing to do that would mean cognitive paralysis. As Duncan Pritchard (2005) comments, this seems to be a defense of the practical rationality of assuming that the sources of one’s beliefs are reliable. Nothing is said for the truth of those presuppositions or of the epistemic rationality of accepting them.

Alston defends more explicitly the practical rationality of taking our sources of belief to be reliable:

In the nature of the case, there is no appeal beyond the practices we find ourselves firmly committed to, psychologically and socially. We cannot look into any issue whatever without employing some way of forming and evaluating beliefs; that applies as much to issues concerning the reliability of doxastic practices as to any others. Hence there is no alternative to employing the practices we find to be firmly rooted in our lives, practices we could abandon or replace only with extreme difficulty if at all. (1993, 125)

Alston adds that the suspension of all belief is not an option, and that there is no reason to substitute our firmly established doxastic practices for some new ones because neither would there be any noncircular defense of these new practices. Alston makes it quite clear that this is a defense of the practical rationality of engaging in firmly established practices and taking them to be reliable.

However, this defense of the practical rationality of taking our sources of belief to be reliable does not contradict skepticism. In posing the problem of the criterion, the skeptic is not denying the practical rationality of our using the practices that we in fact use. What he or she is denying is the epistemic rationality or justification of the beliefs produced by them. That it would be practically rational for us to assume that the practices are reliable and that they therefore produce justified beliefs is not something the skeptic would deny.

Alston (2005, 240-242) has since rejected this practical validation argument for our sources of belief and settled for a simpler form of Wittgensteinian contextualism. Now he does not tell what kind of entitlement we have to the hinge propositions about the reliability of our sources. Perhaps there is no entitlement, and we just have to blindly trust in their reliability. How, then, does this differ from skepticism?

Curiously enough, neither Wright nor Alston really avoid the allowing of epistemic circularity. Alston even underlines the fact that epistemically circular arguments can produce justification for our beliefs about reliability. His point seems to be that whether this in fact happens is something that we can have only practical reasons for assuming, which does not really explain what is wrong with these arguments.

According to Wright, the justification of the premises does not transmit to the conclusion if it requires that we already be independently justified in accepting the conclusion. However, because this independent justification is a different sort of non-evidential justification–entitlement–it is unclear why the argument fails in transmitting evidential justification. Assuming that the entitlements are already in place–that we are entitled to take introspection, sense perception and inductive reasoning to be reliable–nothing prevents our also gaining evidential justification for the conclusion that sense perception is reliable. At least nothing in Wright’s account does so.

Thus the appeal to default entitlement or practical rationality does not solve our problem: it does not avoid epistemic circularity. At the same time, it may be too concessive to skepticism.

8. Sensitivity

It is possible to reject the KR principle without allowing epistemic circularity. One might simply deny–as Wittgenstein does–that we have any knowledge about our own reliability. One could defend this view–as Wittgenstein does not do–on the basis of the sensitivity condition of knowledge. Analyses of knowledge as defended by Fred Dretske (1971) and Robert Nozick (1981) set the following necessary condition for S‘s knowing that p:

Sensitivity: if it were not true that p, S would not believe that p.

According to Cohen (2002, 316), our beliefs about the reliability of our sources of belief do not satisfy this condition. Assume that we form a belief in the reliability of sense perception on the basis of epistemically circular reasoning. According to the sensitivity condition, we cannot know on this basis that sense perception is reliable if we believed on this basis that it is reliable even if it were not reliable. It seems that this is exactly what is wrong with such arguments: they would cause us to believe that a source is reliable even if it were not. A guru would tell us that he is reliable even if he were not.

The sensitivity condition concerns the possible worlds in which our belief is false but which are otherwise closest to the actual world. Alvin Goldman (1999, 86) suggests that the relevant alternative to the hypothesis that visual perception is reliable is that visual perception is randomly unreliable. If this is the case in the closest possible worlds in which our belief in the reliability of visual perception is false, it may be that we can, after all, know that visual perception is reliable, because in these worlds it would produce a massive amount of inconsistent beliefs, and therefore we would not believe that it is reliable. So, are the worlds in which visual perception is randomly unreliable the closest unreliability worlds? It may be rather that the closest worlds are those in which visual perception is systematically unreliable, and in these worlds we believe that it is reliable. If this is the case, the sensitivity accounts explain very well the intuition that we cannot gain knowledge through epistemically circular reasoning.

Sensitivity accounts of knowledge have not been popular in recent years because they deny the intuitively plausible principle that knowledge is closed under known logical implication. However, as Cohen (2002) has shown, this principle has counterintuitive consequences as does the denial of the KR principle. It allows cases in which we gain knowledge too easily, and perhaps we should therefore accept a sensitivity account that can handle both problems at once. However, a more serious problem is that there are cases of inductive knowledge that do not satisfy the sensitivity condition (Vogel, 1987).

9. Dialectical Ineffectiveness and the Inability to Defeat Defeaters

Arguments are dialectical creatures, so it is natural to evaluate them in terms of their dialectical effectiveness. We have seen already that epistemically circular arguments are poor in this respect. They are not able to rationally convince someone who doubts the conclusion because such a person also doubts the premises. Such arguments therefore fail to be dialectically effective. It could be suggested that this is enough to explain our intuition that there is something wrong with them, and that they need not involve any epistemic failure. (Markie 2005; Pryor 2004)

When it is a question of one’s own self-doubts, we could even allow a kind of epistemic failure. Let us assume that I have doubts about the reliability of my color vision: I believe that my color vision is not reliable, or I have considered the matter and have decided to suspend judgment about it. This doubt is a defeater for my color beliefs: it defeats or undermines my justification for them. Now it seems clear that I cannot defeat this defeater and regain my justification for these beliefs through epistemically circular reasoning. Such reasoning would rely on those very same beliefs for which I have lost the justification. It is unable to defeat reliability defeaters. (Bergmann 2004, 717-720)

We can thus readily explain the failure of epistemically circular arguments in cases in which there are serious doubts about reliability. They fail to remove these doubts. However, as the case of Roxanne shows, dialectical ineffectiveness and the failure to defeat defeaters cannot be the only things that are wrong with epistemic circularity. Neither Roxanne nor anybody else doubts her gas gauge; she is just ignorant about its reliability. She has no knowledge or justified beliefs about the matter. Our intuition is that she cannot gain knowledge or justified beliefs about the reliability of the gauge through the process of bootstrapping.

10. Epistemology and Dialectic

Although the term “epistemic circularity¨ is of recent origin, the phenomenon itself has been well known since the ancient skeptics. Ancient Pyrrhonian skeptics argued that we should suspend belief unless we can resolve the disagreements that there are about any object of inquiry. We could try to resolve these disagreements by relying on reliable sources of belief. Unfortunately, we cannot do this because there is also a disagreement about which sources are reliable, and this disagreement must be resolved first. However, we cannot resolve this disagreement because it would be dialectically ineffective to defend a set of such sources by appealing to premises that are themselves based on them. This is something that the skeptics most emphatically condemned. (Lammenranta 2008)

They also assumed that this sort of failure to resolve disagreements was not merely dialectical. It also prevented our having knowledge. If we should suspend belief about some question, we would certainly not know what the correct answer is. In connecting epistemology closely to dialectic, skeptics were just following the ancient tradition of Plato and Aristotle. This tradition continued in Descartes and early modern philosophy, and seems to be alive even today among the followers of John L. Austin, Ludwig Wittgenstein, and Wilfrid Sellars.

In spite of this influential tradition that connects epistemology closely with dialectic, the mainstream of contemporary analytic epistemology takes epistemology to be independent of dialectical issues. Accordingly, we may very well know even if we cannot rationally defend ourselves against those who disagree with us. After all, our sources of belief may, in fact, be reliable, and if this is the case they will provide us with reasons for believing that they are reliable and that those who disagree with us are wrong.

However, most of us have the intuition that it would be too easy to gain knowledge about our own reliability in this way. Perhaps the intuition shows that epistemology is more closely connected to dialectic than is currently acknowledged. This would explain our uneasiness with epistemic circularity and show that the ancient problem of the criterion is a genuine skeptical paradox for which we still lack a plausible solution.

11. References and Further Reading

  • Alston, William P. “Epistemic Circularity.¨ Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 47 (1986). Reprinted in Epistemic Justification: Essays in the Theory of Knowledge. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989: 319-349.
    • The first and most influential account of the nature and significance of epistemic circularity.
  • Alston, William P. The Reliability of Sense Perception. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993.
    • Defends the inevitability of epistemic circularity and the practical rationality of engaging in firmly established doxastic practices.
  • Alston, William P. Beyond “Justification”: Dimensions of Epistemic Evaluation. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005: ch. 11.
    • Opts for Wittgensteinian contextualism concerning the status of reliability propositions.
  • Bergmann, Michael. “Epistemic Circularity: Malignant and Benign.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 69 (2004): 709-727.
    • Explains when epistemically circular arguments do and when they do not provide knowledge about reliability, and defends the Reidian common-sense approach.
  • Cohen, Stewart. “Basic Knowledge and the Problem of the Problem of Easy Knowledge.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 65 (2002): 309-329.
    • Poses the problem of easy knowledge and tries to avoid epistemic circularity.
  • Dretske, Fred, “Conclusive Reasons.¨ Australasian Journal of Philosophy 49 ( 1971): 1-22. Reprinted in Perception, Knowledge and Belief. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, 2000.
    • Defends an early version of the sensitivity condition of knowledge.
  • Fumerton, Richard. Metaepistemology and Skepticism. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 1995: ch. 6.
    • Accuses externalism of allowing epistemic circularity.
  • Goldman, Alvin I. Knowledge in a Social World, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999: section 3.3.
    • A Bayesian defense of the epistemic value of epistemic circularity.
  • Lammenranta, Markus. “Reliabilism and Circularity.¨ Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 56 (1996): 111-124.
    • Relates epistemic circularity to Chisholm’s version of the problem of the criterion.
  • Lammenranta, Markus. “Reliabilism, Circularity, and the Pyrrhonian Problematic.¨ Journal of Philosophical Research 28 (2003): 311-328.
    • Discusses reliabilist responses to epistemic circularity.
  • Lammenranta, Markus. “The Pyrrhonian Problematic.¨ The Oxford Handbook of Skepticism. Ed. John Greco. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.
    • Defends the dialectical nature and philosophical importance of the ancient Pyrrhonian problematic.
  • Lemos, Noah. “Epistemic Circularity Again.¨ Philosophical Issues 14 (2004): 254ƒ{270.
    • Examines and rejects some objections to Sosa’s view that epistemic circularity does not prevent our knowing that our ways of forming beliefs are reliable.
  • Markie, Peter. “Easy Knowledge.¨ Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 70 (2005): 406-416.
    • Argues that the failure in epistemically circular argument is dialectical rather than epistemic.
  • Nozick, Robert. Philosophical Explanations. Harvard University Press: Cambridge, Mass., 1981: ch. 3.
    • Defends the sensitivity (tracking) condition of knowledge and formulates the closure-based skeptical argument.
  • Pritchard, Duncan. “Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Contemporary Anti-Scepticism.¨ Readings of Wittgenstein’s On Certainty. Eds. D. Moyal-Sharrock & W. H. Brenner. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005: 189V224.
    • Discusses anti-skeptical views deriving from Wittgenstein’s On Certainty.
  • Pryor, James. “What’s Wrong with Moore’s Argument?¨ Philosophical Issues14 (2004): 349-378.
    • Defends the epistemic respectability of Moore’s proof of the external world.
  • Reid, Thomas. Inquiry and Essays. Eds. Ronald E. Beanblossom & Keith Lehrer. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1983.
    • An abbreviated edition of Reid’ major works on the philosophy of common sense.
  • Schmitt, Frederick F. “What Is Wrong with Epistemic Circularity?¨ Philosophical Issues 14 (2004): 379-402.
    • Argues that epistemically circular arguments do have the power of answering doubts about reliability.
  • Sosa, Ernest. “Philosophical Scepticism and Epistemic Circularity.¨ Aristotelian Society Supplementary Volume 68 (1994): 263-290. Reprinted in Skepticism: A Contemporary Reader. Eds. Keith DeRose & Ted A. Warfield. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999: 93-114.
    • Defends the inevitability and epistemic value of epistemically circular arguments.
  • Sosa, Ernest. “Reflective Knowledge in the Best Circles.¨ The Journal of Philosophy 94 (1997): 410-430.
    • Uses the distinction between animal knowledge and reflective knowledge to explain why epistemic circles are not vicious.
  • Van Cleve, James. “Is Knowledge Easy–or Impossible? Externalism as the Only Alternative to Skepticism.¨ The Skeptics: Contemporary Essays. Ed. Steven Luper. Hampshire: Ashgate, 2003.
    • Defends externalism and allowing epistemic circularity as the only alternatives to skepticism.
  • Vogel, Jonathan. “Tracking, Closure, and Inductive Knowledge.¨ The Possibility of Knowledge: Nozick and His Critics. Ed. Steven Luper-Foy. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 1987: 197-215.
    • Criticizes the sensitivity condition of knowledge for not allowing inductive knowledge.
  • Vogel, Jonathan. “Reliabilism Leveled.¨ The Journal of Philosophy 97 (2000): 602-623.
    • Criticizes reliabilism for allowing epistemically circular reasoning.
  • Wittgenstein, Ludwig. On Certainty. Eds. G. E. M. Anscombe & G. H. von Wright. Tr. D. Paul & G. E. M. Anscombe. Oxford: Blackwell, 1969.
    • An influential defense of the view that the presuppositions of knowledge are not known.
  • Wright, Crispin. “Warrant for Nothing (and Foundations for Free).¨ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 104 (2004): 167-211.
    • Uses the concept of entitlement to resolve skeptical paradoxes.

Author Information

Markus Lammenranta
Email: markus.lammenranta@helsinki.fi
University of Helsinki
Finland

Inconsistent Mathematics

Inconsistent mathematics is the study of commonplace mathematical objects, like sets, numbers, and functions, where some contradictions are allowed. Tools from formal logic are used to make sure any contradictions are contained and that the overall theories remain coherent. Inconsistent mathematics began as a response to the set theoretic and semantic paradoxes such as Russell’s Paradox and the Liar Paradox—the response being that these are interesting facts to study rather than problems to solve—and has so far been of interest primarily to logicians and philosophers. More recently, though, the techniques of inconsistent mathematics have been extended into wider mathematical fields, such as vector spaces and topology, to study inconsistent structure for its own sake.

To be precise, a mathematical theory is a collection of sentences, the theorems, which are deduced through logical proofs. A contradiction is a sentence together with its negation, and a theory is inconsistent if it includes a contradiction. Inconsistent mathematics considers inconsistent theories. As a result, inconsistent mathematics requires careful attention to logic. In classical logic, a contradiction is always absurd: a contradiction implies everything. A theory containing every sentence is trivial. Classical logic therefore makes nonsense of inconsistency and is inappropriate for inconsistent mathematics. Classical logic predicts that the inconsistent has no structure. A paraconsistent logic guides proofs so that contradictions do not necessarily lead to triviality. With a paraconsistent logic, mathematical theories can be both inconsistent and interesting.

This article discusses inconsistent mathematics as an active research program, with some of its history, philosophy, results and open questions.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
    1. An Example
  2. Background
    1. Motivations
    2. Perspectives
    3. Methods
    4. Proofs
  3. Geometry
  4. Set Theory
  5. Arithmetic
  6. Analysis
  7. Computer Science
  8. References and Further Reading
    1. Further Reading
    2. References

1. Introduction

Inconsistent mathematics arose as an independent discipline in the twentieth century, as the result of advances in formal logic. In the nineteenth century, a great deal of extra emphasis was placed on formal rigor in proofs, because various confusions and contradictions had appeared in the analysis of real numbers. To remedy the situation required examining the inner workings of mathematical arguments in full detail. Mathematics had always been conducted through step-by-step proofs, but formal logic was intended to exert an extra degree of control over the proofs, to ensure that all and only the desired results would obtain. Various reconstructions of mathematical reasoning were advanced.

One proposal was classical logic, pioneered by Giuseppe Peano, Gottlob Frege, and Bertrand Russell. Another was paraconsistent logic, arising out of the ideas of Jan Łukasiewicz and N. A. Vasil’év around 1910, and first realized in full by Jaśkowski in 1948. The first to suggest paraconsistency as a ground for inconsistent mathematics was Newton da Costa in Brazil in 1958. Since then, his school has carried on a study of paraconsistent mathematics. Another school, centered in Australia and most associated with the name of Graham Priest, has been active since the 1970s. Priest and Richard Routley have forwarded the thesis that some inconsistent theories are not only interesting, but true; this is dialetheism.

Like any branch of mathematics, inconsistent mathematics is the study of abstract structures using proofs. Paraconsistent logic offers an unusually exacting proof guide that makes sure inconsistency does not get out of hand. Paraconsistency is not a magic wand or panacea. It is a methodology for hard work. Paraconsistency only helps us from getting lost, or falling into holes, when navigating through rough terrain.

a. An Example

Consider a collection of objects. The collection has some size, the number of objects in the collection. Now consider all the ways that these objects could be recombined. For instance, if we are considering the collection {a, b}, then we have four possible recombinations: just a, just b, both a and b, or neither a nor b. In general, if a collection has κ members, it has 2κ recombinations. It is a theorem from the nineteenth century that, even if the collections in question are infinitely large, still κ < 2κ, that is, the number of recombinations is always strictly larger than the number of objects in the original collection. This is Georg Cantor’s theorem.

Now consider the collection of all objects, the universe, V. This collection has some size,
|V|, and quite clearly, being by definition the collection of everything, this size is the absolutely largest size any collection can be. (Any collection is contained in the universe by definition, and so is no bigger than the universe.) By Cantor’s theorem, though, the number of recombinations of all the objects exceeds the original number of objects. So the size of the recombinations is both larger than, and cannot be larger than, the universe,

This is Cantor’s paradox. Inconsistent mathematics is unique in that, if rigorously argued, Cantor’s paradox is a theorem.

2. Background

a. Motivations

There are at least two reasons to take an interest in inconsistent mathematics, which roughly fall under the headings of pure and applied. The pure reason is to study structure for its own sake. Whether or not it has anything to do with physics, for example, Reimann geometry is beautiful. If the ideas displayed in inconsistent mathematics are rich and elegant and support unexpected developments that make deep connections, then people will study it. G. H. Hardy’s A Mathematician’s Apology (1940) makes a stirring case that pure mathematics is inherently worth doing, and inconsistent mathematics provides some panoramic views not available anywhere else.

The applied reasons derive from a longstanding project at the foundations of mathematics. Around 1900, David Hilbert proposed a program to ensure mathematical security. Hilbert wanted:

  • to formalize all mathematical reasoning into an exact notation with algorithmic rules;
  • to provide axioms for all mathematical theories, such that no contradictions are provable (consistency), and all true facts are provable (completeness).

Hilbert’s program was (in part) a response to a series of conceptual crises and responses from ancient Greece through Issac Newton and G. W. Leibniz (see section 6 below) to Cantor. Each crisis arose due to the imposition of some objects that did not behave well in the theories of the day—most dramatically in Russell’s paradox, which seems to be about logic itself.

The inconsistency would not have been such trouble, except the logic employed at that time was explosive: From a contradiction, anything at all can be proved, so Russell’s paradox was a disaster. In 1931, Kurt Gödel’s theorems showed that consistency is incompatible with completeness, that any complete foundation for mathematics will be inconsistent. Hilbert’s program as stated is dead, and with it even more ambitious projects like Frege-Russell logicism.

The failure of completeness was hard to understand. Hilbert and many others had felt that any mathematical question should be amenable to a mathematical answer. The motive to inconsistency, then, is that an inconsistent theory can be complete. In light of Gödel’s result, an inconsistent foundation for mathematics is the only remaining candidate for completeness.

b. Perspectives

There are different ways to view the place of inconsistent mathematics, ranging from the ideological to the pragmatic.

The most extreme view is that inconsistent mathematics is a rival to, or replacement for, classical consistent mathematics. This seems to have been Routley’s intent. Routley wanted to perfect an “ultramodal universal logic,” which would be a flexible and powerful reasoning tool applicable to all subjects and in all situations. Routley argued that some subjects and situations are intractably inconsistent, and so the universal logic would be paraconsistent. He wanted such a logic to underly not only set theory and arithmetic, but metaphysics, ecology and economics. (For example, Routley and Meyer [1976] suggest that our economic woes are caused by using classical logic in economic theory.) Rotuley (1980, p.927) writes:

There are whole mathematical cities that have been closed off and partially abandoned because of the outbreak of isolated contradictions. They have become like modern restorations of ancient cities, mostly just patched up ruins visited by tourists.

In order to sustain the ultramodal challenge to classical logic it will have to be shown that even though leading features of classical logic and theories have been rejected, … by going ultramodal one does not lose great chunks of the modern mathematical megalopolis. … The strong ultramodal claim—not so far vindicated—is the expectedly brash one: we can do everything you can do, only better, and we can do more.

A more restrained, but still unorthodox, view is of inconsistency as a non-revisionary extension of classical theory. There is nothing wrong with the classical picture of mathematics, says a proponent of this position, except if we think that the classical picture exhausts all there is to know. A useful analogy is the extension of the rational numbers by the irrational numbers, to get the real numbers. Rational numbers are not wrong; they are just not all the numbers. This moderate line is found in Priest’s work. As articulated by da Costa (1974, p.498):

It would be as interesting to study the inconsistent systems as, for instance, the non-euclidean geometries: we would obtain a better idea of the nature of certain paradoxes, could have a better insight on the connections amongst the various logical principles necessary to obtain determinate results, etc.

In a similar vein, Chris Mortensen argues that many important questions about mathematics are deeper than consistency or completeness.

A third view is even more open-minded. This is to see all theories (within some basic constraints) as genuine, interesting and useful for different purposes. Jc Beall and Greg Restall have articulated a version of this view at length, which they call logical pluralism.

c. Methods

There are at least two ways to go about mathematical research in this field. The first is axiomatic. The second is model theoretic. The axiomatic approach is very pure. We pick some axioms and inference rules, some starting assumptions and a logic, and try to prove some theorems, with the aim of producing something on the model of Euclid, or Russell and A. N. Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica. This would be a way of obtaining results in inconsistent mathematics independently, as if we were discovering mathematics for the first time. On the axiomatic approach there is no requirement that the same theorems as classical mathematics be proved. The hardest work goes into choosing a logic that is weak enough to be paraconsistent, but strong enough to get results, and formulating the definitions and starting assumptions in a way that is compatible with the logic. Little work has so far been done using axiomatics.

By far more attention has been given to the model theoretic approach, because it allows inconsistent theories to “ride on the backs” of already developed consistent theories. The idea here is to build up models—domains of discourse, along with some relations between the objects in the domain, and an interpretation—and to read off facts about the attached theory. A way to do this is to take a model from classical mathematics, and to tinker with the interpretation, as in collapsed models of arithmetic (section 5 below). The model theoretic approach shows how different logics interact with different mathematical structures. Mortensen has followed through on this in a wide array of subjects, from the differential calculus to vector spaces to topology to category theory, always asking: Under what conditions is identity well-behaved? Let Φ(a) be some sentence about an object a. Mortensen’s question is, if a = b holds in a theory, then is it the case that Φ(a) exactly when Φ(b)? It turns out that the answer to this question is extremely sensitive to small changes in logic and interpretations, and the answer can often be “no.”

Most of the results obtained to date have been through the model theoretic approach, which has the advantage of maintaining a connection with classical mathematics. The model theory approach has the same disadvantage, since it is unlikely that radically new or robustly inconsistent ideas will arise from always beginning at classical ideas.

d. Proofs

It is often thought that inconsistent mathematics faces a grave problem. A very common mathematical proof technique is reductio ad absurdum. The concern, then, is that if contradictions are not absurd—a fortiori, if a theory has contradictions in it—then reductio is not possible. How can mathematics be done without the most common sort of indirect proof?

The key to working inconsistent mathematics is its logic. Much hinges on which paraconsistent logic we are using. For instance, in da Costa’s systems, if a proposition is marked as “consistent,” then reductio is allowed. Similarly, in most relevance logics, contraposition holds. And so forth. The reader is recommended to the bibliography for information on paraconsistent logic. Independently of logic, the following may help.

In classical logic, all contradictions are absurd; in a paraconsistent logic this is not so. But some things are absurd nevertheless. Classically, contradiction and absurdity play the same role, of being a rejection device, a reason to rule out some possibility. In inconsistent mathematics, there are still rejection devices. Anything that leads to a trivial theory is to be rejected. More, suppose we are doing arithmetic and hypothesize that Φ. But we find that Φ has as a consequence that j=k for every number j, k. Now, we are looking for interesting inconsistent structure. This may not be full triviality, but 0 = 1 is nonsense. Reject Φ.

There are many consistent structures that mathematicians do not, and will never, investigate, not by force of pure logic but because they are not interesting. Inconsistent mathematicians, irrespective of formal proof procedures, do the same.

3. Geometry

Intuitively, M. C. Escher’s “Ascending, Descending” is a picture of an impossible structure—a staircase that, if you walked continuously along it, you would be going both up and down at the same time. Such a staircase may be called impossible. The structure as a whole seems to present us with an inconsistent situation; formally, defining down as not up, then a person walking the staircase would be going up and not up, at the same time, in the same way, a contradiction. Nevertheless, the picture is coherent and interesting. What sorts of mathematical properties does it have? The answers to this and more would be the start of an inconsistent geometry.

So far, the study has focused on the impossible pictures themselves. A systematic study of these pictures is being carried out by the Adelaide school. Two main results have been obtained. First, Bruno Ernst conjectured that one cannot rotate an impossible picture. This was refuted in 1999 by Mortensen; later, Quigley designed computer simulations of rotating impossible Necker cubes. Second, all impossible pictures have been given a preliminary classification of four basic forms: Necker cubes, Reutersvärd triangles, Schuster pipes or fork, and Ernst stairs. It is thought that these forms exhaust the universe of impossible pictures. If so, an important step towards a fuller geometry will have been taken, since, for example, a central theme in surface geometry is to classify surfaces as either convex, flat, or concave.

Most recently, Mortensen and Leishman (2009) have characterized Necker cubes, including chains of Neckers, using linear algebra. Otherwise, algebraic and analytic methods have not yet been applied in the same way they have been in classical geometry. Inconsistent equational expressions are not at the point where a robust answer can be given to questions of length, area, volume etc. On the other hand, as the Adelaide school is showing, the ancient Greeks do not have a monopoly on basic “circles drawn in sand” geometric discoveries.

4. Set Theory

Set theory is one of the most investigated areas in inconsistent mathematics, perhaps because there is the most consensus that the theories under study might be true. It is here we have perhaps the most important theorem for inconsistent mathematics, Ross Brady’s (2006) proof that inconsistent set theory is non-trivial.

Set theory begins with two basic assumptions, about the existence and uniqueness of sets:

  • A set is any collection of objects all sharing some property Φ;
  • Sets with exactly the same members are identical.

These are the principles of comprehension (a.k.a. abstraction) and extensionality, respectively. In symbols,

x ∈ {z : Φ(z)} ↔ Φ(x);
x = y ↔ ∀z (zxzy).

Again, these assumptions seem true. When the first assumption, the principle of comprehension, was proved to have inconsistent consequences, this was felt to be highly paradoxical. The inconsistent mathematician asserts that a theory implying an inconsistency is not automatically equivalent to a theory being wrong.

Newton da Costa was the first to develop an openly inconsistent set theory in the 1960s, based on Alonzo Church’s set theory with a universal set, or what is similar, W. V. O. Quine’s new foundations. In this system, axioms like those of standard set theory are assumed, along with the existence of a Russell set

R = {x : xx}

and a universal set

V = {x : x = x}.

Da Costa has defined “russell relations” and extended this foundation to model theory, arithmetic and analysis.

Note that V ∈ V, since V = V. This shows that some sets are self-membered. This also means that V ≠ R, by the axiom of extensionality. On the other hand, in perhaps the first truly combinatorial theorem of inconsistent mathematics, Arruda and Batens (1982) proved

where ∪R is the union of R, the set of all the members of members of R. This says that every set is a member of a non-self-membered set. The Arruda-Batens result was obtained with a very weak logic, and shows that there are real set theoretical theorems to be learned about inconsistent objects. Arruda further showed that

where P (X) denotes all the subsets of X and ⊆ is the subset relation.

Routley, meanwhile, in 1977 took up his own dialetheic logic and used it on a full comprehension principle. Routley went as far as to allow a comprehension principle where the set being defined could appear in its own definition. A more mundane example of a set appearing in its own defining condition could be the set of “critics who only criticize each other.” One of Routley’s examples is the ultimate inconsistent set,

xZx Z.

Routley indicated that the usual axioms of classical set theory can be proven as theorems—including a version of the axiom of choice—and began work towards a full reconstruction of Cantorian set theory.

The crucial step in the development of Routley’s set theory came in 1989 when Brady adapted an idea from 1971 to produce a model of dialetheic set theory, showing that it is not trivial. Brady proves that there is a model in which all the axioms and consequences of set theory are true, including some contradictions like Russell’s, but in which some sentences are not true. By the soundness of the semantics, then, some sentences are not provable, and the theory is decidedly paraconsistent. Since then Brady has considerably refined and expanded his result.

A stream of papers considering models for paraconsistent set theory has been coming out of Europe as well. Olivier Esser has determined under what conditions the axiom of choice is true, for example. See Hinnion and Libert (2008) for an opening into this work.

Classical set theory, it is well known, cannot answer some fundamental questions about infinity, Cantor’s continuum hypothesis being the most famous. The theory is incomplete, just as Gödel predicted it would be. Inconsistent set theory, on the other hand, appears to be able to answer some of these questions. For instance, consider a large cardinal hypothesis, that there are cardinals λ such that for any κ < λ, also 2κ < λ. The existence of large cardinals is undecidable by classical set theory. But recall the universe, as we did in the introduction (section 1), and its size |V|. Almost obviously, |V| is such large a cardinal, just because everything is smaller than it. Taking the full sweep of sets into account, the hypothesis is true.

Set theory is the lingua franca of mathematics and the home of mathematical study of infinity. Since Zeno’s paradoxes it has been obvious that there is something paradoxical about infinity. Since Russell’s paradox, it has been obvious that there is something paradoxical about set theory. So a rigorously developed paraconsistent set theory serves two purposes. First, it provides a reliable (inconsistent) foundation for mathematics, at least in the sense of providing the basic toolkit for expressing mathematical ideas. Second, the mathematics of infinity can be refined to cover the inconsistent cases like Cantor’s paradox, and cases that have yet to be considered. See the references for what has been done in inconsistent set theory so far; what can be still be done in remains one of the discipline’s most exciting open questions.

5. Arithmetic

An inconsistent arithmetic may be considered an alternative or variant on the standard theory, like a non-euclidean geometry. Like set theory, though, there are some who think that an inconsistent arithmetic may be true, for the following reason.

Gödel, in 1931, found a true sentence G about numbers such that, if G can be decided by arithmetic, then arithmetic is inconsistent. This means that any consistent theory of numbers will always be an incomplete fragment of the whole truth about numbers. Gödel’s second incompleteness theorem states that, if arithmetic is consistent, then that very fact is unprovable in arithmetic. Gödel’s incompleteness theorems state that all consistent theories are terminally unable to process everything that we know is true about the numbers. Priest has argued in a series of papers that this means that the whole truth about numbers is inconsistent.

The standard axioms of arithmetic are Peano’s, and their consequences—the standard theory of arithmetic—is called P A. The standard model of arithmetic is N = {0, 1, 2, …}, zero and its successors. N is a model of arithmetic because it makes all the right sentences true. In 1934 Skolem noticed that there are other (consistent) models that make all the same sentences true, but have a different shape—namely, the non-standard models include blocks of objects after all the standard members of N. The consistent non-standard models are all extensions of the standard model, models containing extra objects. Inconsistent models of arithmetic are the natural dual, where the standard model is itself an extension of a more basic structure, which also makes all the right sentences true.

Part of this idea goes back to C. F. Gauss, who first introduced the idea of a modular arithmetic, like that we use to tell the time on analog clocks: On a clock face, 11 + 2 = 1, since the hands of the clock revolve around 12. In this case we say that 11 + 2 is congruent to 1 modulo 12. An important discovery in the late 19th century was that arithmetic facts are reducible to facts about a successor relation starting from a base element. In modular arithmetic, a successor function is wrapped around itself. Gauss no doubt saw this as a useful technical device. Inconsistent number theorists have considered taking such congruences much more seriously.

Inconsistent arithmetic was first investigated by Robert Meyer in the 1970’s. There he took the paraconsistent logic R and added to it axioms governing successor, addition, multiplication, and induction, giving the system R#. In 1975 Meyer proved that his arithemtic is non-trivial, because R# has models. Most notably, R# has finite models with a two element domain {0, 1}, with the successor function moving in a very tight circle over the elements. Such models make all the theorems of R# true, but keep equations like 0 = 1 just false.

The importance of such finite models is just this: The models can be represented within the theory itself, showing that a paraconsistent arithmetic can prove its own non-triviality. In the case of Meyer’s arithemetic, R# has a finitary consistency proof, formalizable in R#. Thus, in non-classical contexts, Gödel’s second incompleteness theorem loses its bite. Since 1976 relevance logicians have studied the relationship between R# and PA. Their hope was that R# contains PA as a subtheory and could replace PA as a stronger, more genuine arithmetic. The outcome of that project for our purposes is the development of inconsistent models of arithmetic. Following Dunn, Meyer, Mortensen, and Friedman, these models have now been extensively studied by Priest, who bases his work not on the relevant logic R but on the more flexible logic LP.

Priest has found inconsistent arithmetic to have an elegant general structure. Rather than describe the details, here is an intuitive example. We imagine the standard model of arithmetic, up to an inconsistent element

n = n + 1.

This n is suspected to be a very, very large number, “without physical reality or psychological meaning.” Depending on your tastes, it is the greatest finite number or the least inconsistent number. We further imagine that for j, k > n, we have j=k. If in the classical model jk, then this is true too; hence we have an inconsistency, j=k and jk. Any fact true of numbers greater than n are true of n, too, because after n, all numbers are identical to n. No facts from the consistent model are lost. This technique gives a collapsed model of arithmetic.

Let T be all the sentences in the language of arithmetic that are true of N; then let T(n) similarly be all the sentences true of the numbers up to n, an inconsistent number theory. Since T(n) does not contradict T about any numbers below n, if n > 0 then T(n) is non-trivial. (It does not prove 0 = 1, for instance.) The sentences of T(n) are representable in T(n), and its language contains a truth predicate for T(n). The theory can prove itself sound. The Gödel sentence for T(n) is provable in T(n), as is its negation, so the theory is inconsistent. Yet as Meyer proved, the non-triviality of T(n) can be established in T(n) by a finite procedure.

Most striking with respect to Hilbert’s program, there is a way, in principle, to figure out for any arithmetic sentence Φ whether or not Φ holds, just by checking all the numbers up to n. This means that T(n) is decidable, and that there must be axioms guaranteed to deliver every truth about the collapsed model. This means that an inconsistent arithmetic is coherent and complete.

6. Analysis

Newton and Leibniz independently developed the calculus in the 17th century. They presented ingenious solutions to outstanding problems (rates of change, areas under curves) using infinitesimally small quantities. Consider a curve and a tangent to the curve. Where the tangent line and the curve intersect can be though of as a point. If the curve is the trajectory of some object in motion, this point is an instant of change. But a bit of thought shows that it must be a little more than a point—otherwise, as a measure a rate of change, there would be no change at all, any more than a photograph is in motion. There must be some smudge. On the other hand, the instant must be less than any finite quantity, because there are infinitely many such instants. An infinitesimal would respect both these concerns, and with these provided, a circle could be construed as infinitely many infinitesimal tangent segments.

Infinitesimals were essential, not only for building up the conceptual steps to inventing calculus, but in getting the right answers. Yet it was pointed out, most famously by Bishop George Berkeley, that infinitesimals were poorly understood and were being used inconsistently in equations. Calculus in its original form was outright inconsistent. Here is an example. Suppose we are differentiating the polynomial f(x) =ax2+bx+c. Using the original definition of a derivative,

In the example, ε is an infinitesimal. It marks a small but non-trivial neighborhood around x, and can be divided by, so it is not zero. Nevertheless, by the end ε has simply disappeared. This example suggests that paraconsistent logic is more than a useful technical device. The example shows that Leibniz was reasoning with contradictory information, and yet did not infer everything. On the contrary, he got the right answer. Nor is this an isolated incident. Mathematicians seem able to sort through “noise” and derive interesting truths, even out of contradictory data sets. To capture this, Brown and Priest (2004) have developed a method they call “chunk and permeate” to model reasoning in the early calculus. The idea is to take all the information, including say ε = 0 and ε ≠ 0, and break it into smaller chunks. Each chunk is consistent, without conflicting information, and one can reason using classical logic inside of a chunk. Then a permeation relation is defined which controls the information flow between chunks. As long as the permeation relation is carefully defined, conclusions reached in one chunk can flow to another chunk and enter into reasoning chains there. Brown and Priest propose this as a model, or rational reconstruction, of what Newton and Leibniz were doing.

Another, more direct tack for inconsistent mathematics is to work with infinitesimal numbers themselves. There are classical theories of infinitesimals due to Abraham Robinson (the hyperreals), and J. H. Conway (the surreals). Mortensen has worked with differential equations using hyperreals. Another approach is from category theory. Tiny line segments (“linelets”) of length ϵ are considered, such that ϵ2 = 0 but it is not the case that ϵ = 0. In this theory, it is also not the case that ϵ ≠ 0, so the logical law of excluded middle fails. The category theory approach is the most like inconsistent mathematics, then, since it involves a change in the logic. However, the most obvious way to use linelets with paraconsistent logics, to say that both ϵ = 0 and ϵ ≠ 0 are true, means we are dividing by 0 and so is probably too coarse to work.

In general the concept of continuity is rich for inconsistent developments. Moments of change, the flow of time, and the very boundaries that separate objects have all been considered from the standpoint of inconsistent mathematics.

7. Computer Science

The questions posed by David Hilbert can be stated in very modern language:

Is there a computer program to decide, for any arithmetic statement, whether or not the statement can be proven? Is there a program to decide, for any arithmetic statement, whether or not the statement is true? We have already seen that Gödel’s theorems devastated Hilbert’s program, answering these questions in the negative. However, we also saw that inconsistent arithmetic overcomes Gödel’s results and can give a positive answer to these questions. It is natural to extend these ideas into computer science.

Hilbert’s program demands certain algorithms—a step-by-step procedure that can be carried out without insight or creativity. A Turing machine runs programs, some of which halt after a finite number of steps, and some of which keep running forever. Is there a program E that can tell us in advance whether a given program will halt or not? If there is, then consider the program E*, which exists if E does by defining it as follows. When considering some program x, E* halts if and only if x keeps running when given input x. Then

E* halts for E*
if and only if
E* does not halt for E*,

which implies a contradiction. Turing concluded that there is no E*, and so there is no E—that there cannot be a general decision procedure.

Any program that can decide in advance the behavior of all other programs will be inconsistent.

A paraconsistent system can occasionally produce contradictions as an output, while its procedure remains completely deterministic. (It is not that the machine occasionally does and does not produce an output.) There is, in principle, no reason a decision program cannot exist. Richard Sylvan identifies as a central idea of paraconsistent computability theory the development of machines “to compute diagonal functions that are classically regarded as uncomputable.” He discusses a number of rich possibilities for a non-classical approach to algorithms, including a fixed-point result on the set of all algorithmic functions, and a prototype for dialetheic machines.

Important results have been obtained by the paraconsistent school in Brazil—da Costa and Doria in 1994, and Agudelo and Carnielli in 2006. Like quantum computation, though, at present the theory of paraconsistent machines outstrips the hardware. Machines that can compute more than Turing machines await advances in physics.

8. References and Further Reading

a. Further Reading

Priest’s In Contradiction (2006) is the best place to start. The second edition contains material on set theory, continuity, and inconsistent arithmetic (summarizing material previously published in papers). A critique of inconsistent arithmetic is in Shapiro (2002). Franz Berto’s book, How to Sell a Contradiction (2007), is harder to find, but also an excellent and perhaps more gentle introduction.

Some of da Costa’s paraconsistent mathematics is summarized in the interesting collection Frontiers of Paraconsistency (2000)—the proceedings of a world congress on paraconsistency edited by Batens et al. More details are in Jacquette’s Philosophy of Logic (2007) handbook; Beall’s paper in that volume covers issues about truth and inconsistency.

Those wanting more advanced mathematical topics should consult Mortensen’s Inconsistent Mathematics (1995). For impossible geometry, his recent pair of papers with Leishman are a promising advance. His school’s website is well worth a visit. Brady’s Universal Logic (2006) is the most worked-out paraconsistent set theory to date, but not for the faint of heart.

If you can find it, read Routley’s seminal paper, “Ultralogic as Universal?”, reprinted as an appendix to his magnum opus, Exploring Meinong’s Jungle (1980). Before too much confusion arises, note that Richard Routley and Richard Sylvan, whose posthumous work is collected by Hyde and Priest in Sociative Logics and their Applications (2000), in a selfless feat of inconsistency, are the same person.

For the how-to of paraconsistent logics, consult both the entry on relevance and paraconsistency in Gabbay & Günthner’s Handbook of Philosophical Logic volume 6 (2002), or Priest’s textbook An Introduction to Non-Classical Logic (2008). For paraconsistent logic and its philosophy more generally see Routley, Priest and Norman’s 1989 edited collection. The collection The Law of Non-Contradiction (Priest et al. 2004) discusses the philosophy of paraconsistency, as does Priest’s Doubt Truth be a Liar (2006).

For the broader philosophical issues associated with inconsistent mathematics, especially in applications (for example, consequences for realism and antirealism debates), see Mortensen (2009a) and Colyvan (2009).

b. References

  • Arruda, A. I. & Batens, D. (1982). “Russell’s set versus the universal set in paraconsistent set theory.” Logique et Analyse, 25, pp. 121-133.
  • Batens, D., Mortensen, C. , Priest, G., & van Bendegem, J-P., eds. (2000). Frontiers of Paraconsistent Logic. Kluwer Academic Publishers.
  • Berto, Francesco (2007). How to Sell a Contradiction. Studies in Logic v. 6. College Publications.
  • Brady, Ross (2006). Universal Logic. CSLI Publications.
  • Brown, Bryson & Priest, G. (2004). “Chunk and permeate i: the infinitesimal calculus.” Journal of Philosophical Logic, 33, pp. 379–88.
  • Colyvan, Mark (2008). “The ontological commitments of inconsistent theories.” Philosophical Studies, 141(1):115 – 23, October.
  • Colyvan, Mark (2009). “Applying Inconsistent Mathematics,” in O. Bueno and Ø. Linnebo (eds.), New Waves in Philosophy of Mathematics, Palgrave MacMillan, pp. 160-72
  • da Costa, Newton C. A. (1974). “On the theory of inconsistent formal systems.” Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic, 15, pp. 497– 510.
  • da Costa, Newton C. A. (2000). Paraconsistent mathematics. In Batens et al. 2000, pp. 165–180.
  • da Costa, Newton C.A., Krause, D´ecio & Bueno, Ot´avio (2007). “Paraconsistent logics and paraconsistency.” In Jacquette 2007, pp. 791 – 912.
  • Gabbay, Dov M. & Günthner, F. eds. (2002). Handbook of Philosophical Logic, 2nd Edition, volume 6, Kluwer.
  • Hinnion,Roland & Libert, Thierry (2008). “Topological models for extensional partial set theory.” Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic, 49(1).
  • Hyde, Dominic & Priest, G., eds. (2000). Sociative Logics and their Applications: Essays by the Late Richard Sylvan. Ashgate.
  • Jacquette, Dale, ed. (2007). Philosophy of Logic. Elsevier: North Holland.
  • Libert, Thierry (2004). “Models for paraconsistent set theory.” Journal of Applied Logic, 3.
  • Mortensen, Chris (1995). Inconsistent Mathematics. Kluwer Academic Publishers.
  • Mortensen, Chris (2009a). “Inconsistent mathematics: Some philosophical implications.” In A.D. Irvine, ed., Handbook of the Philosophy of Science Volume 9: Philosophy of Mathematics. North Holland/Elsevier.
  • Mortensen, Chris (2009b). “Linear algebra representation of necker cubes II: The routley functor and necker chains.” Australasian Journal of Logic, 7.
  • Mortensen, Chris & Leishman, Steve (2009). “Linear algebra representation of necker cubes I: The crazy crate.” Australasian Journal of Logic, 7.
  • Priest, Graham, Beall, J.C. & Armour-Garb, B., eds. (2004). The Law of Non-Contradiction. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Priest, Graham (1994). “Is arithmetic consistent?” Mind, 103.
  • Priest, Graham (2000). “Inconsistent models of arithmetic, II: The general case.” Journal of Symbolic Logic, 65, pp. 1519–29.
  • Priest, Graham (2002). “Paraconsistent logic.” In Gabbay and Günthner, eds. 2002, pp. 287–394.
  • Priest, Graham (2006a). Doubt Truth Be A Liar. Oxford University Press.
  • Priest, Graham (2006b). In Contradiction: A Study of the Transconsistent. Oxford University Press. second edition.
  • Priest, Graham (2008). An Introduction to Non-Classical Logic. Cambridge University Press, second edition.
  • Priest, Graham, Routley, R. & Norman, J. eds. (1989). Paraconsistent Logic: Essays on the Inconsistent. Philosophia Verlag.
  • Routley, Richard (1977). “Ultralogic as universal?” Relevance Logic Newsletter, 2, pp. 51–89. Reprinted in Routley 1980.
  • Routley, Richard (1980). “Exploring Meinong’s Jungle and Beyond.” Philosophy Department, RSSS, Australian National University, 1980. Interim Edition, Departmental Monograph number 3.
  • Routley, Richard & Meyer, R. K. (1976). “Dialectical logic, classical logic and the consistency of the world.” Studies in Soviet Thought, 16, pp. 1–25.
  • Shapiro, Stewart (2002). “Incompleteness and inconsistency.” Mind, 111, pp. 817 – 832.

Author Information

Zach Weber
Email: zweber@unimelb.edu.au
University of Sydney, University of Melbourne
Australia

Philosophy of Language

Those who use the term “philosophy of language” typically use it to refer to work within the field of Anglo-American analytical philosophy and its roots in German and Austrian philosophy of the early twentieth century. Many philosophers outside this tradition have views on the nature and use of language, and the border between “analytical” and “continental” philosophy is becoming more porous with time, but most who speak of this field are appealing to a specific set of traditions, canonical authors and methods. The article takes this more narrow focus in order to describe a tradition’s history, but readers should bear in mind this restriction of scope.

The history of the philosophy of language in the analytical tradition begins with advances in logic and with tensions within traditional accounts of the mind and its contents at the end of the nineteenth century. A revolution of sorts resulted from these developments, often known as the “Linguistic Turn” in philosophy. However, its early programs ran into serious difficulties by mid-twentieth century, and significant changes in direction came about as a result. Section 1 below addresses the precursors and early stages of the “Linguistic Turn,” while Section 2 addresses its development by the Logical Positivists and others. Section 3 outlines the sudden shifts that resulted from the works of Quine and Wittgenstein, and Section 4 charts the major approaches and figures that have followed from mid-century to the present.

Table of Contents

  1. Frege, Russell and the Linguistic Turn
    1. Referential Theories of Meaning
    2. Frege on Sense and Reference
    3. Russell
  2. Early Analytical Philosophy of Language
    1. The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
    2. The Vienna Circle and the Logical Positivists
    3. Tarski’s Theory of Truth
  3. Mid-century Revolutions
    1. Quine and the Analytic/Synthetic Distinction
    2. The Later Wittgenstein
  4. Major Areas in the Contemporary Field
    1. Truth-Conditional Theories of Meaning
    2. Meaning and Use
    3. Speech Act Theory and Pragmatics
  5. Future Directions and Emerging Debates
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Frege, Russell and the Linguistic Turn

a. Referential Theories of Meaning

Much of the stage-setting for the so-called “Linguistic Turn” in Anglo-American philosophy took place in the mid nineteenth century. Attention turned to language as many came to see it as a focal point in understanding belief and representation of the world. Language came to be seen as the “medium of conceptualization,” as Wilfrid Sellars would later put it. Idealists working in Kant’s wake had developed more sophisticated “transcendental” accounts of the conditions for the possibility of experience, and this evoked strong reactions from more realist philosophers and those sympathetic to the natural sciences. Scientists also made advances in the 1860s and 70s in describing cognitive functions, like speech production and comprehension, as natural phenomena, including their discovery of Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area, which are two neural centers of linguistic activity.

John Stuart Mill‘s work around this time reinvigorated British empiricism and included an approach to language that traced the meanings of individual words to the objects to which they referred (see 1843, 1, 2, sec. 5). Mill’s empiricism led him to think that for meaning to have any significance for our thought and understanding, we must explain it in terms of our experience. Thus, meaning should ultimately be understood in terms of words standing for sets of sense impressions. Not all those concerned with language shared Mill’s empiricist leanings, though most shared his sense that denotation, rather than connotation, should be at the center of an account of meaning. A word denotes something by standing for it, as my name stands for me, or “Baltimore” stands for a particular city on America’s East Coast; a word connotes something when it “implies an attribute” in Mill’s terms, as “professor” generally implies an expert in an academic field and someone with certain sorts of institutional authority. For most expressions, philosophers thought that to grasp their meaning was to know what they stood for, as we often think of proper names serving simply as labels for the things they denote. (Mill also tended to use “meaning” in talking about connotation, and might have reservations with saying that proper names had “meanings,” though this is not to deny that they denote things.) Thus,

(1) The cat sat on the refrigerator.

should be understood as a complex arrangement of signs. “The cat” denotes or refers to a particular furry domesticated quadruped, “the refrigerator” denotes something, and so forth. Some further elaboration would be needed for verbs, logical vocabulary and other categories of terms, but most philosophers took the backbone of an account of meaning to be denotation, and language use to be a process of the management of signs. These signs might denote objects directly, or they might do so indirectly by standing for something within our minds, following Locke, who described words as “signs of ideas” (1690, III, 1).

Accounts that emphasized the reference of terms as constitutive of the meaning of most expressions faced two serious problems, however. First, they failed to explain the possibility of non-referring terms and negative existential sentences. On such a referential picture of meaning, the meaning of most expressions would simply be their bearers, so an existential sentence like

(2) John Coltrane plays saxophone.

was easy to analyze. Its subject term, “John Coltrane,” referred to a particular person and the sentence says of him that he does a particular sort of thing: he plays saxophone. But what of a sentence like

(3) Phlogiston was thought to be the cause of combustion.

Assuming that there is not and never was such a thing as phlogiston, how can we understand such a sentence? If the meaning of those expressions is their referent, then this sentence should strike us as meaningless. Meinong (1904) suggested that such expressions denote entities that “subsist,” but do not exist, by which he granted them a sort of reality, albeit one outside the actual universe. The majority of philosophers treated this with suspicion. Others suggested that the expression above denotes the concept or idea of “phlogiston.” The difficulty facing such responses comes into sharper relief with consideration of negative existentials.

(4) Atlantis does not exist.

If Atlantis does not exist, the expression “Atlantis” does not refer to anything and would have no meaning. One could say that “Atlantis” refers not to a sunken city, but to our concept of a sunken city. But this has the paradoxical result of making (4) false, since the concept is there for us to refer to, thus rendering it impossible to deny. This might even entail that we could not truthfully deny the existence of anything of which we could conceive, which seems implausible.

The second serious problem for referential theories of meaning, noted by Frege (1892), was the informativeness of some identity sentences. Sentences of self-identity are true purely in virtue of their logical form, and we may affirm them even when we do not know what the expression refers to. For instance, anyone could affirm

(5) Mt. Kilimanjaro is Mt. Kilimanjaro.

even if they do not know what Mt. Kilimanjaro is. Making this statement in such a case would not inform our understanding of the world in any significant way. However, a sentence like

(6) Mt. Kilimanjaro is the tallest mountain in Africa.

would certainly be informative to those who first heard it. But remember that according to referential theories of meaning, “Mt. Kilimanjaro” and “the tallest mountain in Africa” refer to the same thing and hence mean the same thing according to these theories; therefore, (5) and (6) say the same thing and one should be no more or less informative than the other. Where we grasp the meaning of an expression or a sentence, philosophers have traditionally taken it that this should make some sort of cognitive difference, for example, we should be able to perform an action, make an inference, recognize something, and so on. Thus differences in the meanings of expressions should be reflected by some difference in cognitive significance between the expressions. But if expressions refer to the same thing, and their meaning consists solely in their picking out a referent, then there should be no such cognitive difference even if there is apparently a difference in meaning. Simple referential theories do not offer us an obvious solution to this problem and therefore fail to capture important intuitions about meaning.

b. Frege on Sense and Reference

To address these problems, Frege proposed that we should think of expressions as having two semantic aspects: a sense and a reference. The sense of an expression would be its “mode of presentation,” as Frege put it, that conveyed information to us in its own distinct way. That information would in turn determine a referent for each expression. This led to a credo pervasive in analytical philosophy: sense determines reference. This solved problems of reference by shifting the emphasis to the sense of expressions first and to their reference later. Negative existential sentences were intelligible because the sense of an expression like “largest prime number” or “Atlantis” could be logically analyzed or made explicit in terms of other descriptions, even if the set of things specified by this information was, in fact, empty. Our belief that these sentences and expressions were meaningful was a consequence of grasping their senses, even when we realized this left them without a referent. As Frege put it:

It can perhaps be granted that an expression has a sense if it is formed in a grammatically correct manner and stands for a proper name. But as to whether there is a denotation corresponding to the connotation is hereby not decided… [T]he grasping of a sense does not with certainty warrant a corresponding nominatum. [that is, referent] (1892: p. 153 in Beaney (1997))

The informativeness of some identity claims also became clearer. In a sentence like (5), we are simply stating self-identity, but in a sentence like (6), we express something of real cognitive significance, containing extensions of our knowledge that cannot generally be shown a priori. This would not be a trivial matter of logical form like “A=A,” but a discovery that two very different senses determined the same referent, which would suggest important conceptual connections between different ideas, inform further inferences, and thus enlighten us in various ways. Even if “Mt. Kilimanjaro” and “the tallest mountain in Africa” refer to the same thing, it would be informative to learn that they do, and we would augment our understanding of the world by learning this.

Frege also noted that expressions which shared their referents could generally be substituted for one another without changing the truth value of a sentence. For instance, “Elvis Costello” and “Declan McManus” refer to the same object, and so if “Elvis Costello was born in Liverpool” is true, so is, “Declan McManus was born in Liverpool.” Anything that we might predicate of the one, we may predicate of the other, so long as the two expressions co-refer. However, Frege realized that there were certain contexts in which this substitutability failed, or at least could not be guaranteed. For instance,

(7) Liz knows that Elvis Costello was born in Liverpool.

may be true, even when

(8) Liz knows that Declan McManus was born in Liverpool.

is false, especially in cases where Liz does not know that Elvis Costello is Declan McManus, or never learns the latter name at all. What has happened here? Note that (7) and (8) both include strings of words that could be sentences in their own right (“Elvis Costello was born in Liverpool” and “Declan McManus was born in Liverpool”). “Liz knows that…” expresses something about those propositions (namely, Liz’s attitude towards them). Frege suggested that in these cases, the reference of those embedded sentences is not a truth value, as it would customarily be, but is rather the sense of the sentence itself. Someone might grasp the sense of one sentence but not another, and hence sentences like (7) and (8) could vary in their truth values. Frege called these “indirect” contexts, and Quine would later dub such cases “opaque” contexts.

Rudolf Carnap would later replace the term “sense” with “intension” and “reference” with “extension.” Carnap’s terminology became prevalent in formal analysis of semantics by the 1950s, though it was Frege’s original insights that drove the field. Significant worries remained for the Fregean notion of sense, however. Names and other expressions in natural languages rarely have fixed sets of descriptions that are universally acknowledged as Frege’s senses would have to be. Frege might reply that he had no intention of making sense a matter of public consensus or psychological regularity, but this makes the status of a sense all the more mysterious, as well as our capacity to grasp them. Analytical philosophers of language would struggle with this for decades to come.

Still, Frege had effectively redrawn the map for philosophy. By introducing senses as a focal point of analysis, he had carved out a distinct territory for philosophical inquiry. Senses were not simply psychological entities, since they were both commonly accessible by different speakers and had a normative dimension to them, prescribing correct usage rather than simply describing performance. (See Frege (1884) for a thorough attack on psychologistic accounts of meaning.) Nor were they the causal and mechanical objects of natural science, reducible to accounts of lawlike regularity. They were entities playing a logical and cognitive role, and would be both explanatory of conceptual content and universal across natural languages, unlike the empirical details of linguistics and anthropology. Thus, there was a project for philosophy to undertake, separate from the natural sciences, and it was the logical analysis of the underlying structure of meaning. Though naturalistic concerns would be reasserted in the development of analytical philosophy, Frege’s project would come to dominate Anglo-American philosophy for much of the next century.

c. Russell

An important bridge between Frege and the English-speaking world was Bertrand Russell’s “On Denoting” (1905). Both men were mathematicians by training and shared a concern with the foundations of arithmetic. However, Russell shared a sense with some earlier philosophers that at least some expressions were meaningful in virtue of direct reference, contra Frege. Still, Russell saw the potential in Frege’s work and undertook an analysis of singular definite descriptions. These are complex expressions that purport to single out a particular referent by providing a description, for example, “the President of the USA,” or “the tallest person in this room right now.” Russell wondered how

(9) The present King of France is bald.

could be meaningful, given the absence of a present King of France. Russell’s solution was to analyze the logical role of such descriptions. Although a select few expressions referred directly to objects, most were either descriptions that picked out a referent by offering a list of properties, or disguised abbreviations of such descriptions. Russell even suggested that most proper names were abbreviated descriptions. Strictly speaking, descriptions would not refer at all; they would be quantified phrases that had or lacked extensions. What was needed was an account that could explain the meaning of descriptions in terms of the propositions that they abbreviated. Russell (1905) analyzed sentence (9) as implying three things that jointly gave us a definition of propositions involving descriptions. (A more succinct presentation comes in Russell (1919).) A sentence like “The author of Waverley was Scott” involves three logical constituents:

(10) “x wrote Waverley” is not always false (i.e at least one person wrote Waverley)

(11) “if x and y wrote Waverley , x and y are identical” is always true (that is, at most one person wrote Waverley)

(12) “if x wrote Waverley, x was Scott” is always true (that is, whoever wrote Waverley was Scott)

The first two here effectively assert the existence and uniqueness of the referent of this expression, respectively. We may generalize them and express them as a single proposition of the form “There is a term c such that Fx is true when x is c, and Fx is false when x is not c.” (Thus, F is held uniquely by c.) This asserts that there is a unique satisfier of the description given or implied by an expression, and this may be true or false depending on the expression at hand. We can then tack on an additional condition expressing whatever property is attributed to the referent (being bald, Scott, and so on) in the form “c has the property Y.” If nothing has the property F thus analyzed, (such as “being the present King of France” in (9) above) then “c has the property Y” is false, and we have a means to analyze non-denoting expressions. Such expressions are actually to be understood as quantified phrases and we may understand them as having objects over which they quantify or lacking such objects; the grasp of the logical structure of those phrases is what constitutes our understanding of them. While we grasp each of the parts abbreviated by the expression, we also understand that one of them is false—there is no unique satisfier of “the present King of France”—and thus we can understand the sentence “The present king of France is bald” even though one of its terms does not refer. That expression can have a significant occurrence once we understand it as an “incomplete” or “complex” symbol whose meaning is derived from its constituents. Most proper names, and indeed almost all expressions in a natural language, would submit to such an analysis, and Russell’s work thus kick-started analytical philosophy in the English-speaking world. (Significant contributions were also made by G.E. Moore in the fields of epistemology and ethics and hence he is often mentioned along with Russell, but Moore’s achievements are largely outside the scope of our focus here.)

2. Early Analytical Philosophy of Language

The achievements of Russell and Frege, in setting an agenda for analytical philosophers that promised to both resolve longstanding philosophical difficulties and preserve a role for philosophy on an equal footing with the natural sciences, electrified European and American academic philosophers. The following section focuses on three points of interest in the early phases of this tradition: (1) the early work of Ludwig Wittgenstein; (2) the Logical Positivists; and (3) Tarski‘s theory of truth.

a. The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

Ludwig Wittgenstein came to read Frege and Russell out of an interest in the foundations of mathematics and went to Cambridge to study with Russell. He studied there, but left to serve in the Austro-Hungarian army in 1914. While being held as a prisoner of war, he wrote drafts of a text that many saw as the high-water mark of early analytical philosophy, the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. In it, he wrote seven propositions and made extensive comments on six of them, with extensive comments on the comments, and so forth. He laid out a parsimonious and ambitious plan to systematically realize Frege and Russell’s aspirations of analyzing the logical structure of language and thought.

Through logical analysis, Wittgenstein held that we could arrive at a conception of language as consisting of elementary propositions related by the now-familiar elements of first-order logic. Any sentence with a sense could have that sense perspicuously rendered in such a system, and any sentence that did not yield to such analysis would not have a sense at all. “Everything that can be thought at all can be thought clearly. Everything that can be said can be said clearly.” (1922, §4.116) Wittgenstein’s claim here is not that we cannot string together words in unclear ways; indeed, we do that all the time. Rather, in doing so, we do not express anything that has a sense. What we say may get nods of approval from fellow speakers, and we may even be grasping at something important, but what we say does not convey anything meaningful.

In part, this reflects Wittgenstein’s early view that propositions “pictured” the world. This is not to say that a written inscription or a verbal utterance of a sentence visually resembles that state of affairs it expresses. “Elvin Jones played drums for John Coltrane” looks like neither Elvin Jones, nor John Coltrane, nor a drum set. Rather, the form of a proposition resembled the form of some fact of the world. What was required to understand this as a picture of the world was just what was needed in the case of actual pictures—a coordination of the elements in the picture with objects outside itself. (Logical truths would be true in virtue of relations among their propositions.) Where we could do this, the language was stating something clearly; where we could not, despite our best efforts, the words were not saying anything at all. However, this was not to say that everything about meaning and our understanding of the world was a matter of explicit definition, that is, something we could say. Rather than being said with our language, many things can only be shown. For instance, think of a logical expression like “and.” Any attempt to explain its sense, like putting two things side by side, or using another term like “both,” only recapitulates the structure of “and,” thus adding nothing. The form of our propositions shows how it works and we cannot say anything more informative about it. Wittgenstein also espoused a number of views at the end of the Tractatus on solipsism, the will, and ethics, and what could be said about them; but these remain some of the most difficult and contested points of interpretation in his work. Wittgenstein took himself to have prescribed the limits of what philosophy could say, and he closed the Tractatus without further comment by saying, “Whereof we cannot speak, we must remain silent.” (1922, §7)

b. The Vienna Circle and the Logical Positivists

Beginning in 1907, a group of European professors originally known as the Ernst Mach Society began to meet regularly for discussions on matters of logic, philosophy and science under the guidance of Moritz Schlick. They later took to calling themselves the Vienna Circle and their ongoing conversations became the nascence of a movement known as Logical Positivism, which would include Carl Hempel, Rudolf Carnap, and Hans Reichenbach, among many others. They rejected the Hegelian idealism prevalent in European academic circles, espoused the austere precision of science, particularly physics, as a model for their methods, and took the phenomenalist strains of British empiricism as a more suitable epistemological foundation for such goals. Carnap adopted the insights of Frege’s work and brought tremendous sophistication to the analytical enterprise, particularly in his The Logical Structure of the World (1928). The Logical Positivists also took inspiration from Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, but their fidelity to his more abstruse aims is tenuous at best. They shared Wittgenstein’s view that logical proofs were true in virtue of internal relations among their propositions, not by virtue of any actual facts about the world, and parsed this as support for a renewed version of the analytic/synthetic distinction. Analytic sentences were those true solely in virtue of the meanings of their constituent expressions (“All bachelors are unmarried”) while synthetic sentences were true partly in virtue of empirical facts beyond the meanings of their constituent terms (“Flynn is a bachelor”). Analytic sentences would be confirmed by logical analysis, while synthetic sentences would be confirmed by appeal to observation sentences, or to sense-data in even more rigorous accounts.

This led the Positivists to the Verificationist Theory of Meaning. Analytic sentences would be true in virtue of the meanings of their terms, while all synthetic sentences would have to admit to some sort of empirical verification criteria. Any sentence that could not be verified by one or the other of these means was deemed meaningless. This excluded claims with mystical or occult import, but also large areas of ethics and metaphysics as practiced by many philosophers. Schlick (1933) put it boldly, saying:

[A] proposition has a statable meaning only if it makes a verifiable difference whether it is true or false. A proposition which is such that the world remains the same whether it is true or false simply says nothing about the world; it is empty and communicates nothing; I can give it no meaning. We have a verifiable difference, however, only when it is a difference in the given… (Ayer 1959, p. 88)

By “given” here, Schlick alluded to the stream of sense-data that come before us. Few if any sentences were understood in such ways by most speakers, so the work of philosophy was logical analysis and definition of the concepts of the natural sciences into verificationist terms. While one could imagine empirical verification of many things in the physical sciences (for example, laboratory results, predictions with observable consequences), it would be far more difficult in fields like psychology and ethics. In these cases, the Positivists favored a type of logical reductionism for the pertinent sentences in the discourse. All sentences and key concepts in psychology would be reduced to empirically verifiable sentences about the behavior of thinking subjects, for instance. A sentence about a mental state like anger would be reduced to sentences about observable behavior such as raising one’s voice, facial expressions, becoming violent, and so on. This would require “bridge laws” or sentences of theoretical identity to equate the entities of, say, psychology with the entities of the physical sciences and thus translate the terms of older theories into new ones. (Again, in some cases the preferred mode would be to equate them directly with sense-data.) Where this could not be done, the Positivists took it that the sentences in question were meaningless, and they advocated the elimination of many canonical concepts, sentences and theories, derisively lumped under the term “metaphysics.” A sentence like “God exists outside of space and time” was certainly not true in virtue of the meanings of its terms and did not admit to any sort of empirical test, so it would be dismissed as gibberish.

The Verificationist theory of meaning ran into great difficulty almost immediately, often due to objections among the Positivists. For one, any sentence stating the theory itself was neither analytical, nor subject to empirical verification, so it would seem to be either self-refuting or meaningless. Universal generalizations including scientific laws like “All electrons have a charge of 1.6×10-19 coulombs” were also problematic, since they were not deducible from finite sets of observation sentences. (See Hempel (1950), esp. §2.1) Counterfactual sentences, such as “If we dropped this sugar cube in water, it would dissolve,” present similar problems. Efforts at refinement continued, though dissatisfaction with the whole program was growing by mid-century.

c. Tarski’s Theory of Truth

In two seminal works (1933 and 1944), Alfred Tarski made a great leap forward for the rigorous analysis of meaning, showing that semantics could be treated just as systematically as syntax could. Syntax, the rules and structures governing the recombination of words and phrases into sentences, had been analyzed with some success by logicians, but semantic notions like “meaning” or “truth” defied such efforts for many years.

Tarski sought an analysis of the concept of truth that would contain no explicit or implicit appeals to inherently semantic notions, and offered a definition of it in terms of syntax and set theory. He began by distinguishing metalanguage and object language; an object language is the language (natural or formal) that is our target for analysis, while the metalanguage is the language in which we conduct our analysis. Metalanguage is the language that we use to study another language, and the object language is the language that we study. For instance, children learning a second language typically take classes conducted in their mother tongue that treat the second language as an object to be studied. Thus, copies of all the sentences of the object language should be included in the metalanguage and the metalanguage should include sufficient resources to describe the syntax of the object language, as well. In effect, an object language would not contain its own truth predicate—this could only occur in a metalanguage, since it requires speakers to talk about sentences themselves, rather than actually to use them. There is great controversy about the shape that a metalanguague would have to take to enable analysis of a natural language, and Tarski openly doubted that these methods would transfer easily from formal to natural languages, but we will not delve into these issues here.

Tarski argued that a definition of truth would have to be “formally correct” or as he put it:

(14) For all x, True(x) iff Fx.

or a sentence provably equivalent to this, where “true” was not part of F. This much was a largely formal condition, but Tarski added a more robust call for “material adequacy” or a sense that our definition had succeeded in capturing the sorts of correspondence between states of affairs and sentences classically associated with truth. So, for instance, our truth definition had to imply a sentence like:

(15) “Snow is white” is true iff snow is white.

Note that the quotes here make the first half of this metalanguage sentence about the object language sentence “Snow is white”; the second half of the metalanguage sentence is about snow itself. Tarski then offered a definition of truth

“A sentence is true if it is satisfied by all objects and false otherwise.” (1944, p. 353)

where satisfaction is a relation between arbitrary objects and sentential functions, and sentential functions are expressions with a formal structure much like ordinary sentences, but which contain free variables, for example, “x is blue” or “x is greater than y.” Tarski thought we might indicate which objects satisfied the simplest sentential functions and then offer a further set of conditions under which compound functions were satisfied in terms of those simple functions. (Further refinements were made to a 1956 edition of the paper to accommodate certain features of model theory that we will not discuss here.) Once Tarksi added an inductive definition of the other operators of first-order logic, a definition of truth had apparently been given without appeal to inherently semantic notions, though Field (1972) would argue that “designation” and “satisfaction” were semantic notions as well. Whether this should be read as a deflationary account of truth or an analysis of a robust correspondence theory was a point of great debate among analytical philosophers, but much like Frege’s earlier work, it played the far more momentous role of convincing further generations of logicians and philosophers that the analysis of traditionally intractable philosophical notions with the tools of modern logic was both within their grasp and immensely rewarding.

3. Mid-century Revolutions

By the middle of the 20th century, the approach spawned by Frege, Moore and Russell had taken root with the Logical Positivists. The Second World War did a great deal to scatter the most talented philosophers from the Continent, and many settled at universities in Great Britain and the United States, spreading their views and influencing generations of philosophers to come. However, the analytical tradition always had a robust streak of criticism from within, and some of the pillars of the early orthodoxy were already under some suspicion from members of the Vienna Circle like Otto Neurath (see his (1933)) and gadflies like Karl Popper. The next section addresses the work of two figures, Quine and the later Wittgenstein, who challenged received views in the philosophy of language and served as transitional figures for contemporary views.

a. Quine and the Analytic/Synthetic Distinction

W.V.O. Quine (1953) went after the very core of Logical Positivism, and in effect analytical philosophy, by attacking the analytic/synthetic distinction. The Positivists had been happy to admit a distinction between sentences that were true in virtue of the meanings of their terms and those that were true in virtue of the facts, but Quine brought a certain skepticism about the meanings of individual expressions to the table. Much like the Positivists, he was wary of anything that would not admit to empirical confirmation and saw meaning as one more such item.

Quine dismissed the idea of a meaning as a real item somehow present in our minds beyond the ways in which it manifests itself in our behavior. He later dubbed this “the myth of the museum”—a place “in which the exhibits are the meanings and the words are the labels.” (1969, p. 27) In a strongly empiricist spirit, he argued that we have no access to such things in our experience, thus they could not explain our linguistic behavior, and therefore they had no rightful place in our account. Quine wondered whether there was a principled distinction between analytic and synthetic statements at all. In reviewing the prevailing ideas of analyticity, he found each one inadequate or question-begging. Analyticity was a dogma, an article of faith among empiricists (especially Logical Positivists) and one that could not stand closer scrutiny. Moreover, the Positivists paired analyticity with a second dogma, empirical reductionism, the view that each sentence or expression could be assigned its own distinctive slice of empirical content from our experience. Quine’s claim was not that we should not be empiricists or worry about such empirical content, but rather that no individual sentence or expression could be allotted such content all on its own. The sentences of our language operate in conjunction with one another to “face the tribunal of experience” as a whole. This holism entailed a certain egalitarianism among the sentences to which we commit ourselves, as well. Any claim could be held true, come what may, if we were willing to revise other parts of our “web of belief” to accommodate it, and any claim—even one we took to be a claim about meaning before, like “all bachelors are unmarried”—could be revised if conditions demanded it. (1953, p.43) Some sentences would have a relatively strong immunity from revision, for example, the laws of logic, but they enjoy that status only because of their centrality in our present ways of thinking. Other, less central claims could be revised more easily, perhaps with only passing interest, for example, claims about the number of red brick houses on Elm St. This wide-open revisability came to set a tone for epistemology in analytical philosophy during the latter half of the 20th century.

Without tidy parcels of empirical content or analytic truths to anchor an account of meaning, Quine saw little use for meaning at all. Instead, his work focused on co-reference and assent among speakers. In Word and Object (1960), he suggested that our position as speakers is much like that of a field linguist attempting to translate a newly discovered language with no discernible connections to other local languages. He dubbed this approach “radical translation.” Faced with such a situation, we would search for recurring expressions and attempt to secure referents for them. In his classic example, we stand around with the locals, notice that rabbits occasionally run by and that the locals mutter “Gavagai” when the rabbits pass; we might be moved by this to translate their utterances as our own word “rabbit.” Thinking of the translatability of one utterance with another thus achieves the same sort of theory-building effect that talk of shared meaning did, but without appeal to abstract objects like meanings. However, this also led to Quine’s thesis of the “indeterminacy of translation.” When we form such hypotheses based on observations of speakers’ behavior, that evidence always underdetermines our hypothesis, and the evidence could be made to fit other translations, even if they start to sound a bit strange to us. Hence, “gavagai” might also be translated as “dinner” (if the locals eat rabbits) or “Lo, an undetached rabbit part!” We might narrow the plausible translations a bit with further observation, though not to the logical exclusion of all others. Direct queries of the local speakers might also winnow the set of plausible translations a bit, but this presumes a command of a great deal of abstract terminology that we share with those speakers, and this command would presumably rest upon a shared understanding of the simpler sorts of vocabulary with which we started. Hence, nothing that we can observe about those speakers will completely determine the correctness of one translation over all competitors and translation is always indeterminate. This is not to say that we should not prefer some translations over others, but our grounds for doing so are usually pragmatic concerns about simplicity and efficiency, We should also note that each speaker is in much the same position when it comes to understanding other speakers even in her mother tongue; we have only the observable behaviors of other speakers and familiarity with our own usage of such terms, and we must make ongoing assessments of other speakers in conversation in just these ways. Donald Davidson, Quine’s student, would continue to develop these ideas even further in Quine’s wake. Davidson emphasized that the interpretations we create of the expressions in our native language are no less radical than what Quine was suggesting of the field linguist’s attempted translations of radically new expressions (see his 1984).

Quine’s work inspired many, but also came under sharp attack. The behaviorism at the heart of his account has fallen out of favor with the majority of philosophers and cognitive scientists. Much of Noam Chomsky’s (1959) critique of B.F Skinner may be said to apply to Quine’s work. The emphasis on innateness and tacit knowledge in Chomsky’s work has been subject to intense criticism as well, but this criticism has not pointed philosophers and linguists back towards the sort of strongly behaviorist empiricism on which Quine’s account was founded. Still, most contemporary philosophers of language owe some debt to Quine for dismantling the dogmas of early analytical philosophy and opening new avenues of inquiry.

b. The Later Wittgenstein

Wittgenstein left Cambridge in the early 1920s and pursued projects outside academia for several years. He returned in 1929 and began doing very different sorts of work. It is a matter of great debate, even among Wittgenstein acolytes, how much affinity there is between these stages. Many philosophers of language will speak of “the later Wittgenstein” as though the earlier views were wholly different and incompatible, while others insist that there is strong continuity of themes and methods. Though his early work was widely misunderstood at the time, there can be little doubt that some important changes took place, and these are worth noting here.

In the posthumously published Philosophical Investigations (1953), Wittgenstein broke with some of the theoretical aspirations of analytical philosophy in the first half of the century. Where analytical philosophers of language had strived for elegant, parsimonious logical systems, the Investigations suggested that language was a diverse, mercurial collection of “language games”—goal-directed social activities for which words were just so many tools to get things done, rather than fixed and eternal components in a logical structure. Representation, denotation and picturing were some of the goals that we might have in playing a language game, but they were hardly the only ones. This turn in Wittgenstein’s philosophy ushered in a new concern for the “pragmatic” dimensions of language usage. To speak of the pragmatic significance of an expression in this sense is to consider how grasping it might be manifested in actions, or the guiding of actions, and thus to turn our attention to usage rather than abstract notions of logical form common to earlier forms of analytical philosophy. (Speech act theorists will also distinguish between pragmatics and semantics in a slightly more restrictive sense, as we shall see in §4.2.) The view that “meaning is use” (1953, p.43) was often attributed to him, though interpretations of this view have varied widely. Wright (1980 and 2001) read this as a call to social conventionalism about meaning, McDowell (1984) explicitly rejected such a conclusion and Brandom (1994) took it as an entry point into an account of meaning that is both normative and pragmatic (that is, articulated in terms of obligations and entitlements to do things in certain ways according to shared practices). But it can be safely said that Wittgenstein rejected a picture of language as a detached, logical sort of picturing of the facts and inserted a concern for its pragmatic dimensions. One cannot look at the representational dimension of language alone and expect to understand what meaning is.

A second major development in the later Wittgenstein’s work was his treatment of rules and rule-following. Meaning claims had a certain hold over our actions, but not the sort that something like a law of nature would. Claims about meaning reflect norms of usage and Wittgenstein argued that this made the very idea of a “private language” absurd. By this, he means it would not be possible to have a language whose meanings were accessible to only one person, the speaker of that language. Much of modern philosophy was built on Cartesian models that grounded public language on a foundation of private episodes, which implied that much (perhaps all) of our initial grasp of language would also be private. The problem here, said Wittgenstein, is that to follow a rule for the use of an expression, appeal to something private will not suffice. Thus, a language intelligible to only one person would be impossible because it would be impossible for that speaker to establish the meanings of its putative signs.

If a language were private, then the only way to establish meanings would be by some form of private ostension, for example, concentrating on one’s experiences and privately saying, “I shall call this sensation ‘pain’.” But to establish a sign’s meaning, something must impress upon the speaker a way of correctly using that sign in the future, or else the putative ostension is of no value. Assuming we began with such a private episode, what could be happening on subsequent uses of the term? We cannot simply say that it feels the same to us as it did before, or strikes us the same way, for those sorts of impressions are common even when we make errors and therefore cannot constitute correctness. One might say that one only has to remember how one used the sign in the past, but this still leaves us wondering. What is one remembering in that case? Until we say how a private episode could establish a pattern of correct usage, memory is beside the point. To alleviate this difficulty, Wittgenstein turned his attention to the realm of public phenomena, and suggested that those who make the same moves with the rules share a “lebensform” or “form of life,” which most have taken to be one’s culture or the sum total of the social practices in which one takes part. Kripke (1982) offered a notable interpretation of Wittgenstein’s private language argument, though opinions vary on its fidelity to Wittgenstein’s work. Subsequent generations of philosophers on both sides of the Atlantic would be profoundly influenced by this argument and struggle with its implications for decades to come.

4. Major Areas in the Contemporary Field

After the seminal works of Quine and Wittgenstein at mid-century, the majority of views expressed in the field may be broadly lumped into two groups: those emphasizing truth conditions for sentences in a theory of meaning and those emphasizing use. Truth-conditional theories continue the formal analysis of Frege, Carnap and Tarski, minus Positivism’s more radical assumptions, while use theories and speech act theory take Wittgenstein’s emphasis on the pragmatic to heart. A brief overview of major figures and issues in each of these follows.

a. Truth-Conditional Theories of Meaning

The majority of philosophers of language working in the analytical tradition share Frege’s intuition that we know the meaning of a word when we know the role it plays in a sentence and we know the meaning of a sentence when we know the conditions under which it would be true. Davidson (1967) and Lewis (1972) argued for such an approach and stand as watersheds in its development. Truth-conditional theories generally begin with the assumption that something is a language or a linguistic expression if and only if its significant parts can represent the facts of the world. Sentences represent facts or states of affairs in the world, names refer to objects, and so forth. The central focus of a theory of meaning remains sentences though, since it is sentences that apparently constitute the most basic units of information. For instance, an utterance of the name “John Coltrane” does not seem to say anything until we point to someone and say, “This is John Coltrane” or assert “John Coltrane was born in North Carolina” and so on. This view of the sentence as the most basic units of meaning is compatible with compositionality, the view that sentences are composed of a finite stock of simpler elements that may be reused and recombined in novel ways, so long as we understand the meanings of those subsentential expressions as contributions to the meanings of sentences. We might understand names and other referring expressions as “picking out” their referents, to which the rest of a sentence attributes something, very roughly speaking. Truth-conditional theories of meaning have also been attractive to those who would prefer a naturalistic and reductionist semantics, appealing to nothing outside the natural world as an explainer of meaning. Strongly naturalistic accounts are also given by Evans (1983), Devitt (1981), and Devitt and Sterelny (1999).

Much attention in this area in the last twenty-five years has been directed at theories of reference, given the importance of explicating their contribution to truth-theoretical accounts. The view, often attributed to Frege, that the sense of proper names was a function of a set of descriptions led many philosophers seeking a truth-conditional account to include such descriptions in the truth conditions for sentences in which they occurred as a means of explaining their reference. However, a new wave of interest in more direct forms of reference began in the 1970s. The enthusiasm for this approach grew out of Kripke’s Naming and Necessity (1980) and a series of articles by Hilary Putnam. (1973 and 1975) There, they attacked the notion that identity statements expressed synonymies, known a priori at the time of their introduction. If we (or whoever introduces the term) stipulate that Aristotle is the author of Nicomachean Ethics, tutor of Alexander, and so on, it would seem to be known a priori that this was true of the referent of that name. The referent is just that thing which satisfies all or most of the “cluster of descriptions” that express the sense of that name. But if we discovered that much or all of this was false of the person we had called “Aristotle,” would this imply that Aristotle did not exist, or that someone else was Aristotle? Much the same could be said of natural kind terms: we took whales to be fish, but those big cetaceans have lungs and mammary glands, so are there no whales after all?

Instead, Putnam and Kripke suggested that proper names and natural kind terms (and descriptions like “the square root of 289”) were rigid designators, or expressions that referred to the same objects or kinds in every possible world without that relation being mediated by some form of descriptive content. Other pieces of descriptive content are actually associated with those expressions—we do say that Aristotle wrote Nicomachean Ethics and that whales are mammals, and so on—but their reference is fixed at the time of their introduction and our use preserves that reference, not the descriptive content. The descriptions associated with a rigid designator (“the author of Nicomachean Ethics,” and so on) are thus always revisable. This has been seen as a form of externalism in semantics, whereby the meanings of words are not entirely determined by psychological states of the speakers who use them, or as Putnam famously quipped, “meanings just ain’t in the head” (1975, p. 227). Notable recent works in this field include Kitcher and Stanford (2000), Soames (2002) and Berger (2002). Several accounts have suggested that while rigid designation in itself has some plausibility, the reductionist elements of these theories leave us with an implausibly direct and unmediated account of reference that must be refined or replaced (Dummett (1974), MacBeth (1995) and Wolf (2006)).

b. Meaning and Use

Verificationist theories fell out of favor after Quine, but were reinvigorated by Michael Dummett’s work on meaning and logic as well as his extensive exegetical work on Frege. (See his 1963, 1974, 1975 and 1976.) Dummett shared the Positivists’ concern with the cognitive significance of a statement, which he interpreted as Frege’s real concern in talking about sense in the first place. Many read Frege as a Platonist about meaning, but Dummett challenged the need for such ontological extensions and their plausibility as explainers of semantic facts in general. Dummett’s position was less a product of a priori ontological stinginess than a continuation of Wittgensteinian themes. Dummett argued that a model of meaning is a model of our understanding when we know such meanings. We are sometimes able to express this understanding explicitly, but a model of meaning could not include such a criterion of explicitness on pain of an infinite regress. (Note Wittgenstein’s Private Language Argument on this point.) Thus, the knowledge that generally constitutes understanding must be implicit knowledge and we can only ascribe such implicit knowledge when we have some sort of observable criteria by which to do so. These observable criteria will be matters of the use of sentences and expressions. (See Dummett 1973, pp. 216ff.)

While such a mix of usage and verification may be straightforward for sentences and conditions that occasionally obtain, it is quite another matter in cases in which they do not. We can grasp the meaning of a sentence whose truth conditions never actually obtain or can never (practically speaking) be verified, for example, “every even number is the sum of two primes.” Knowing what it is for some condition to obtain and knowing that a particular case exemplifies this are separable conditions, so meaning cannot be the simple verification of placing someone in a certain condition and seeing what sentences they utter. Dummett expanded his account by the inclusion of conditions like providing correct inferential consequences of a sentence, correct novel use of a sentence and judgments about sufficient or probable evidence for the truth or falsity of a sentence. He maintains that some form of self-verifying presentations will support these demands and allow us to derive all the features of language use and meaning, though this remains a sticking point for many who are skeptical of such episodes and epistemic foundationalism in general.

Dummett’s reading of Wittgenstein’s emphasis on use has not been the only one, though. Following Sellars (1967), theorists like Harman (1982 and 1987), Block (1986 and 1987), and Brandom (1994) have all pursued an “inferential role” or “conceptual role” semantics that characterized a grasp of the meaning of sentences as a grasp of the inferences one would make to and from that sentence. Block and Harman have explicitly taken this as a basis of a functionalist account of mental content in psychology, as well. Brandom has not pursued such causal explanatory strategies, but instead has emphasized the rational dimension of linguistic competence and the importance of inference to such an account. We grasp the meaning of a sentence when we understand other sentences as relevant to it and infer to and from them in the course of giving and asking for reasons for the claims that we make. A substantial extension of this work, offering a robustly normative account of meaning in sharp contrast to the causal reductionism mentioned above, is offered in Lance and O’Leary-Hawthorne (1997).

c. Speech Act Theory and Pragmatics

Wittgenstein’s later work sparked interest in the pragmatic dimensions of language use among some British philosophers working not long after his death, but a number grew exasperated with the more deflationary and “ordinary language” approaches of Wittgenstein’s acolytes, who saw almost no role for theoretical accounts in describing language at all. Some opted instead to pursue what has come to be known as speech act theory, led initially by the work of John Austin. (See Grice (1975), Austin (1962) and Searle (1969).) These philosophers sought an account of language by which sentences were tools for doing things, including a taxonomy of uses to which pieces of the language could be put. While conventional meaning remained important, speech act theorists extended their focus to an examination of the different ways in which utterances and inscriptions of sentences might play a role in achieving various goals. For instance, the sentence

(16) It is sunny outside.

could be a report, an admonition not to take an umbrella, a lie (if it’s not sunny), practicing English, a taunt and many other things depending on the scenario in which it is put to use.

To see clearly how speech act theorists might address these issues, we should take note of one of its central doctrines, the pragmatics/semantics distinction. We may state this generally by saying that semantic information pertains to linguistic expressions (such as words and sentences), while pragmatic information pertains to utterances and the facts surrounding them.  The study of pragmatics thus includes no attention to features like truth or the reference of words and expressions, but it does include attention to information about the context in which a speaker made the utterance and how those conditions allow the speaker to express one proposition rather than another. This strongly contextual element of pragmatics often leads to special attention to the goals that a speaker might achieve by uttering a sentence in a particular way in that context and why she might have done so. Thus, what a speaker means in saying something is often explained by an emphasis on the speaker’s intentions: to reveal to the hearer that the speaker wants the hearer to respond in a certain way and thus to get the hearer to respond in this way. However, there may be cases in which these intentions have nothing to do with the meaning of the sentence. I might say, “It is raining outside,” with the intention of getting you to take your umbrella, but that’s not what the sentence means. Likewise, I might have said, “The Weather Channel is predicting rain this afternoon,” with those intentions, but this does not entail that those two sentences mean the same thing.

Those intentions whose success is entirely a matter of getting a hearer’s recognition of the actual intention itself are called illocutionary intentions; those intentions whose success is entirely a matter of getting the hearer to do something (above and beyond understanding the semantic content of what is said) are called perlocutionary intentions. Perlocutionary intentions must be achieved through illocutionary acts, for example, making you aware of my intentions to get you to realize something about the weather leads you to think of your umbrella and take it. Following Bach and Harnish (1979), speech act theorists typically characterize speech acts by four analytical subcomponents of speech acts: (1) utterance acts, that is, the very voicing or inscribing of words and sentences; (2) propositional acts, that is, referring to things and predicating properties and relations of them; (3) illocutionary acts, by which speakers interact with other speakers and the utterances constitute moves in that interaction, for example, promises and commands; and (4) perlocutionary acts, by which speakers bring about or achieve something in others by what they say, for example, convincing or persuading someone. Some theorists would also add “meaning intention” and “communicative intention” to this list to emphasize shared understanding of the conventional meanings attached with words and the intersubjectivity of speech acts. As these categories might imply, speech act theory has also incorporated far more consideration of conversational features of discourse and the social aspects of communications than other branches of the philosophy of language. For this reason, it offers promising points of connection between sophisticated semantic accounts and the empirical research of social scientists.

Grice (1975) also suggested that philosophy must consider the ways in which speakers go beyond what is strictly, overtly said by their utterances to consider what is contextually implicated by them. By “implicated,” here, we are considering the ways in which the things a speaker says may invite another speaker to some further set of conclusions, but not in the strict logical sense of entailment or a purely formal matter of conventional meanings. Grice divided these implicatures into two large categories: conventional implicatures and conversational implicatures. Conventional implicatures are those assigned to utterances based on the conventional meanings of the words used, though not in the ways familiar from ordinary logical entailments. For instance:

(17) Michael is an Orioles fan, but he doesn’t live in Baltimore.

(18) Michael is an Orioles fan, and he doesn’t live in Baltimore.

(19) Michael’s being an Orioles fan is unexpected, given that he doesn’t live in Baltimore.

Here, (19) is implied by (17), but not by (18). This failure is not a matter of differences in what makes (17) and (18) true, but in the way in which conventions and conversational principles allow speakers to convey such information. Roughly, the word “but” is used by English speakers to emphasize contrast and surprise, as a speaker would in saying (17).

Conversational implicatures are assigned based on a series of maxims and assumptions by which speakers in conversation cooperate with one another, according to Grice. He suggests maxims of quantity (make your contribution informative but not excessively so), quality (make your contribution true), relation (be relevant), and manner (be perspicuous). To get a sense of how to apply these, consider one of Grice’s (1975) examples:

(20) Smith doesn’t seem to have a girlfriend these days.

(21) He has been paying a lot of visits to New York lately.

Imagine two people having a conversation, with A saying (20) and B saying (21). B implicates that Smith might have a girlfriend in New York, assuming that B is following the maxims mentioned above. If not, say, because B is saying something false or irrelevant, then speakers cannot cooperate and communication collapses. Grice contends that these conversational implicatures are calculable given the right sorts of contextual and background information, along with the linguistic meaning of what is said and the speakers’ adherence to the cooperative maxims described earlier, and much of the literature on conversational implicature has attempted to make good on this notion. Many philosophers working on these aspects of pragmatics worry that these maxims will not suffice as an account of implicature however, and readers should consult Davis (1998) for the most current set of objections to classic Gricean accounts.

Attention to both forms of implicature has drawn philosophers’ attention to matters of presupposition, as well. As the name would suggest, the discussion of this subject focuses on the sorts of information required as background for various sorts of logical and conversational features to obtain. The well-worn example, “Have you stopped robbing liquor stores?” presupposes that you have been robbing liquor stores. Implicatures of both forms thus involve various sorts of presupposition, for example the conventional implicature of “but” in (17) presupposes a proposition about the demographics of Orioles fans, and much recent work in pragmatics has been devoted to developing typologies of presupposition at work in conversation. The two most serious questions for theorists are (1) how presuppositions are introduced into or “triggered” in the sentences in which they play a role and (2) how they are “projected” or carried from the clauses and parts of sentences in which they appear up into the higher-level sentences. The origin of much of the work on this is Langendoen and Savin (1971), and a vast literature has developed in light of it in linguistics and formal semantics.

5. Future Directions and Emerging Debates

While linguistic analysis does not dominate thinking in analytical philosophy as it did for much of the twentieth century, it remains a vibrant field that continues to develop. As in the early days of analytical philosophy, there is great interest in parallels between the content of utterances and the attribution of content to mental states, but many cognitive scientists have moved away from the classic analytical assumption that thoughts had a symbolic or sentence-like content. Following the directions mapped out in Rumelhart and McClelland (1986) some cognitive scientists have embraced connectionism, a view that emphasizes the dynamic interaction between large sets of interconnected nodules (much like neurons in the brain), as a model for cognition. Thought would thus not be symbol processing, akin to an internal monologue, and the scope of traditional accounts of language and meaning would be greatly diminished. Readers may consult Tomberlin (1995) for an overview of the field and Churchland (1995) for one of its most ardent proponents. A defense of more traditional symbol-processing approaches has also developed, notably in the work of Fodor and Lepore (1999), complemented by even more radical challenges to symbol processing in the form of dynamic systems theory (see van Gelder 1995 and Rockwell 2005).

Much recent work in the philosophy of language has also been concerned with the context sensitivity of expressions and sentences. This has been driven in no small part by an increasing emphasis on context sensitivity in epistemology (DeRose 1998; Lewis 1996) and meta-ethics (Dancy 1993). Of course, much more emphasis had been put on context over the last fifty years by use and speech act theories. Recently, some have come out in favor of context insensitivity as the predominant mode of natural languages. Cappelen and Lepore (2005) do not argue that there are no context sensitive words or sentences, but rather for semantic minimalism, the view that there are relatively few and they are familiar categories like pronouns and indexicals. They combine this with new work on speech act content to mount a substantial challenge to a great many contemporary philosophers. This debate between minimalists and contextualists promises to be a lively one in the philosophy of language over the next few years.

6. References and Further Reading

  • (Works are listed first by their original dates of publication, with more recent and widely available editions included in some entries.)
  • Austin, J. L. (1962) How To Do Things With Words. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Bach, K. and Harnish, R. (1979) Linguistic Communication and Speech Acts. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Berger, Alan. (2002) Terms and Truth: Reference Direct and Anaphoric. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Block, N. (1986) “Advertisement For a Semantics for Psychology.” In P. French, T. Uehling and H. Wettstein (Eds.). Midwest Studies in Philosophy, vol. 10, pp. 615-678. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
  • Block, N. (1987) “Functional Role and Truth Conditions,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 61, 157-181.
  • Brandom, R. (1994) Making It Explicit. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Cappelen, H. and Lepore, E. (2005) Insensitive Semantics. Oxford: Basil Blackwell Pub.
  • Carnap, R. (1928) The Logical Structure of the World (Die Logische Aufbau der Welt). George, E. (trans.) New York: Open Court Classics, 1999.
  • Chomsky, N. (1959) “A Review of B. F. Skinner’s Verbal Behavior.” In Language, 35(1), 26-58.
  • Churchland, P. (1995) Engine of Reason, Seat of the Soul: A Philosophical Journey Into the Brain. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Dancy, J. (1993) Moral Reasons. Oxford: Basil Blackwell Pub.
  • Davidson, D. (1967) “Truth and Meaning.” In Davidson (1984), pp. 17-36.
  • Davidson, D. (1984) Inquiries Into Truth and Interpretation. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Davis, W. (1998) Implicature: Intention, Convention and Principle in the Failure of Gricean Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • DeRose K. (1995) “Solving the Skeptical Problem.” The Philosophical Review 104(1), 1-7, 17-52.
  • Devitt, Michael. (1981) Designation. New York: Columbia University Press.
  • Devitt, M. and Sterelny, K. (1999) Language and Reality. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Dummett, M. (1963) “Realism.” In Dummett (1978), pp. 145-165.
  • Dummett, M. (1973) “The Philosophical Basis of Intuitionistic Logic.” In Dummett (1978), pp. 215-247.
  • Dummett, M. (1974) “The Social Character of Meaning.” In Dummett (1978), pp. 420-430.
  • Dummett, M. (1975) “Frege’s Distinction Between Sense and Reference.” In Dummett (1978), pp. 116-144.
  • Dummett, M. (1976) “What Is a Theory of Meaning? (II)” In Truth and Meaning: Essays in Semantics. G. Evans and J. McDowell. (Eds.) Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Dummett, M. (1978) Truth and Other Enigmas. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Evans, G. (1983) The Varieties of Reference. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Field, H. (1972) “Tarski’s Theory of Truth.” Journal of Philosophy 69, 347-75.
  • Field, H. (1977) “Logic, Meaning and Conceptual Role” Journal of Philosophy 74, 379-408.
  • Fodor, J and E. Lepore. (1999) “All at Sea in Semantic Space: Churchland on Meaning Similarity.” Journal of Philosophy 96, 381-403.
  • Frege, G. (1892) “On Sense and Reference.” In The Frege Reader. Beaney, M. (Ed.) London: Penguin Press, 1997.
  • Frege, G. (1884) The Foundations of Arithmetic: A Logico-Mathematical Enquiry into the Concept of Number. J. Austin (Trans.) Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1980.
  • Grice, P. (1975) “Logic and Conversation.” In Studies in the Way of Words, pp. 22-40. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989.
  • Harman, G. (1982) “Conceptual Role Semantics.” Notre Dame Journal of Formal Logic 23, 242-56.
  • Harman, G. (1987) “(Non-solipsistic) Conceptual Role Semantics.” In New Directions in Semantics. E. Lepore. (Ed.) London: Academic Press.
  • Hempel, C. (1950) “Problems and Changes in the Empiricist Criterion of Meaning.” Revenue Internationale de Philosophie 11, 41-63.
  • Kitcher, P. and M. Stanford. (2000) “Refining the Causal Theory of Reference for Natural Kind Terms.” Philosophical Studies 97, 99-129.
  • Kripke, S. (1972) Naming and Necessity, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Kripke, S. (1982) Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Lance, M. and O’Leary-Hawthorne, J. (1997) The Grammar of Meaning. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
  • Langendoen, D.T. and Savin, H.B. (1971) “The Projection Problem for Presuppositions.” In C.J. Fillmore and D.T. Langendoen (Eds.) Studies in Linguistic Semantics. New York: Holt, Reinhart and Winston.
  • Lewis, D. (1972) “General Semantics.” In G. Harman and D. Davidson (Eds.) Semantics of Natural Language. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Pub.
  • Lewis, D. (1996) “Elusive Knowledge.” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 74(4), 549-67.
  • Locke, J. (1690) An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. P. Nidditch. (Ed.) Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975.
  • MacBeth, D. (1995) “Names, Natural Kinds and Rigid Designation.” Philosophical Studies 79, 259-281.
  • McDowell, J. (1984) “Wittgenstein on Following a Rule.” Synthese 58(3), 325-364.
  • Meinong, A. (1904) “Über Gegenstandstheorie.” In A. Meinong (ed.), Untersuchungen zur Gegenstandstheorie und Psychologie, Leipzig: Barth.
  • Mill, J.S. (1843) System of Logic: Ratiocinative and Inductive. Stockton, CA: University Press of the Pacific, 2002.
  • Neurath, O. (1933) “Protocol Sentences.” G. Shick. (Trans.) In A. Ayer (Ed.) Logical Positivism, pp. 199-208. New York: The Free Press, 1959.
  • Putnam, H. (1973) “Meaning and Reference.” The Journal of Philosophy 70, 699-711.
  • Putnam, H. (1975) “The Meaning of Meaning.” In Mind, Language and Reality, pp. 215-271. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Rockwell, T. (2005) “Attractor Spaces as Modules: A Semi-Eliminative Reduction of Symbolic AI to Dynamic Systems Theory.” Minds and Machines 15(1), 23-95.
  • Rumelhart, D. and McClelland, J. and the PDP Research Group. (2006) Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition, Vol. 2: Psychological and Biological Models. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Russell, B. (1905) “On Denoting.” Mind 14, 479-493.
  • Russell, B. (1919) “Descriptions.” In Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy pp. 167-180. London: George Allen and Unqin Ltd.
  • Quine, W.V.O. (1953) “Two Dogmas of Empiricism.” In From a Logical Point of View, pp. 20-46. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Quine, W.V.O. (1960) Word and Object. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.
  • Quine, W.V.O. (1969) “Ontological Relativity.” In Ontological Relativity and Other Essays, pp 26-68. New York: Columbia University Press.
  • Schlick, M. (1933) “Positivism and Realism.” D. Rynin. (Trans.). In A. Ayer (Ed.) Logical Positivism, pp. 82-107. New York: The Free Press, 1959.
  • Searle, J. (1969) Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
  • Sellars, W. (1967) Science and Metaphysics. Atascasdero, CA: Ridgeview Press.
  • Soames, S. (2002) Beyond Rigidity: The Unfinished Semantic Agenda of Naming and Necessity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Tarski, A. (1933) “The concept of truth in the languages of the deductive sciences.” In A. Tarski. Logic, Semantics, Metamathematics, papers from 1923 to 1938, pp. 152-278. Corcoran, J. (Ed.). Indianapolis : Hackett Publishing Company, 1983.
  • Tarski, A. (1944) “The Semantic Conception of Truth and the Foundations of Semantics.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 4, 341-375
  • Tomberlin, J. (Ed.) (1995) Philosophical Perspectives 9: AI, Connectionism and Philosophical Psychology. Atascadero, CA: Ridgeview Press.
  • Van Gelder, T. (1995) “What Might Cognition Be If Not Computation?” Journal of Philosophy 92, 345-381.
  • Wittgenstein, L. (1922) Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. C. Ogden. (Trans.) New York: Dover Pub., 1999.
  • Wittgenstein, L. (1953) Philosophical Investigations: The German Text, With a Revised English Translation. Anscombe, G. and Anscombe, E. (Trans.). Oxford: Basil Blackwell Pub., 2002.
  • Wolf, M. (2006) “Rigid Designation and Anaphoric Theories of Reference.” Philosophical Studies 130(2), 351-375.
  • Wright, C. (1980). Wittgenstein on the Foundations of Mathematics. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Wright, C. (2001). Rails to Infinity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Author Information

Michael P. Wolf
Email: mwolf@washjeff.edu
Washington and Jefferson College
U. S. A.

Philosophy of Sexuality

Among the many topics explored by the philosophy of sexuality are procreation, contraception, celibacy, marriage, adultery, casual sex, flirting, prostitution, homosexuality, masturbation, seduction, rape, sexual harassment, sadomasochism, pornography, bestiality, and pedophilia. What do all these things have in common? All are related in various ways to the vast domain of human sexuality. That is, they are related, on the one hand, to the human desires and activities that involve the search for and attainment of sexual pleasure or satisfaction and, on the other hand, to the human desires and activities that involve the creation of new human beings. For it is a natural feature of human beings that certain sorts of behaviors and certain bodily organs are and can be employed either for pleasure or for reproduction, or for both.

The philosophy of sexuality explores these topics both conceptually and normatively. Conceptual analysis is carried out in the philosophy of sexuality in order to clarify the fundamental notions of sexual desire and sexual activity. Conceptual analysis is also carried out in attempting to arrive at satisfactory definitions of adultery, prostitution, rape, pornography, and so forth. Conceptual analysis (for example: what are the distinctive features of a desire that make it sexual desire instead of something else? In what ways does seduction differ from nonviolent rape?) is often difficult and seemingly picky, but proves rewarding in unanticipated and surprising ways.

Normative philosophy of sexuality inquires about the value of sexual activity and sexual pleasure and of the various forms they take. Thus the philosophy of sexuality is concerned with the perennial questions of sexual morality and constitutes a large branch of applied ethics. Normative philosophy of sexuality investigates what contribution is made to the good or virtuous life by sexuality, and tries to determine what moral obligations we have to refrain from performing certain sexual acts and what moral permissions we have to engage in others.

Some philosophers of sexuality carry out conceptual analysis and the study of sexual ethics separately. They believe that it is one thing to define a sexual phenomenon (such as rape or adultery) and quite another thing to evaluate it. Other philosophers of sexuality believe that a robust distinction between defining a sexual phenomenon and arriving at moral evaluations of it cannot be made, that analyses of sexual concepts and moral evaluations of sexual acts influence each other. Whether there actually is a tidy distinction between values and morals, on the one hand, and natural, social, or conceptual facts, on the other hand, is one of those fascinating, endlessly debated issues in philosophy, and is not limited to the philosophy of sexuality.

Table of Contents

  1. Metaphysics of Sexuality
  2. Metaphysical Sexual Pessimism
  3. Metaphysical Sexual Optimism
  4. Moral Evaluations
  5. Nonmoral Evaluations
  6. The Dangers of Sex
  7. Sexual Perversion
  8. Sexual Perversion and Morality
  9. Aquinas’s Natural Law
  10. Nagel’s Secular Philosophy
  11. Fetishism
  12. Female Sexuality and Natural Law
  13. Debates in Sexual Ethics
  14. Natural Law vs. Liberal Ethics
  15. Consent Is Not Sufficient
  16. Consent Is Sufficient
  17. What Is “Voluntary”?
  18. Conceptual Analysis
  19. Sexual Activity vs. “Having Sex”
  20. Sexual Activity and Sexual Pleasure
    1. Sexual Activity Without Pleasure
  21. References and Further Reading

1. Metaphysics of Sexuality

Our moral evaluations of sexual activity are bound to be affected by what we view the nature of the sexual impulse, or of sexual desire, to be in human beings. In this regard there is a deep divide between those philosophers that we might call the metaphysical sexual optimists and those we might call the metaphysical sexual pessimists.

The pessimists in the philosophy of sexuality, such as St. Augustine, Immanuel Kant, and, sometimes, Sigmund Freud, perceive the sexual impulse and acting on it to be something nearly always, if not necessarily, unbefitting the dignity of the human person; they see the essence and the results of the drive to be incompatible with more significant and lofty goals and aspirations of human existence; they fear that the power and demands of the sexual impulse make it a danger to harmonious civilized life; and they find in sexuality a severe threat not only to our proper relations with, and our moral treatment of, other persons, but also equally a threat to our own humanity.

On the other side of the divide are the metaphysical sexual optimists (Plato, in some of his works, sometimes Sigmund Freud, Bertrand Russell, and many contemporary philosophers) who perceive nothing especially obnoxious in the sexual impulse. They view human sexuality as just another and mostly innocuous dimension of our existence as embodied or animal-like creatures; they judge that sexuality, which in some measure has been given to us by evolution, cannot but be conducive to our well-being without detracting from our intellectual propensities; and they praise rather than fear the power of an impulse that can lift us to various high forms of happiness.

The particular sort of metaphysics of sex one believes will influence one’s subsequent judgments about the value and role of sexuality in the good or virtuous life and about what sexual activities are morally wrong and which ones are morally permissible. Let’s explore some of these implications.

2. Metaphysical Sexual Pessimism

An extended version of metaphysical pessimism might make the following claims: In virtue of the nature of sexual desire, a person who sexually desires another person objectifies that other person, both before and during sexual activity. Sex, says Kant, “makes of the loved person an Object of appetite. . . . Taken by itself it is a degradation of human nature” (Lectures on Ethics, p. 163). Certain types of manipulation and deception seem required prior to engaging in sex with another person, or are so common as to appear part of the nature of the sexual experience. As Bernard Baumrim makes the point, “sexual interaction is essentially manipulative—physically, psychologically, emotionally, and even intellectually” (“Sexual Immorality Delineated,” p. 300). We go out of our way, for example, to make ourselves look more attractive and desirable to the other person than we really are, and we go to great lengths to conceal our defects. And when one person sexually desires another, the other person’s body, his or her lips, thighs, toes, and buttocks are desired as the arousing parts they are, distinct from the person. The other’s genitals, too, are the object of our attention: “sexuality is not an inclination which one human being has for another as such, but is an inclination for the sex of another. . . . [O]nly her sex is the object of his desires” (Kant, Lectures, p. 164).

Further, the sexual act itself is peculiar, with its uncontrollable arousal, involuntary jerkings, and its yearning to master and consume the other person’s body. During the act, a person both loses control of himself and loses regard for the humanity of the other. Our sexuality is a threat to the other’s personhood; but the one who is in the grip of desire is also on the verge of losing his or her personhood. The one who desires depends on the whims of another person to gain satisfaction, and becomes as a result a jellyfish, susceptible to the demands and manipulations of the other: “In desire you are compromised in the eyes of the object of desire, since you have displayed that you have designs which are vulnerable to his intentions” (Roger Scruton, Sexual Desire, p. 82). A person who proposes an irresistible sexual offer to another person may be exploiting someone made weak by sexual desire (see Virginia Held, “Coercion and Coercive Offers,” p. 58).

Moreover, a person who gives in to another’s sexual desire makes a tool of himself or herself. “For the natural use that one sex makes of the other’s sexual organs is enjoyment, for which one gives oneself up to the other. In this act a human being makes himself into a thing, which conflicts with the right of humanity in his own person” (Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, p. 62). Those engaged in sexual activity make themselves willingly into objects for each other merely for the sake of sexual pleasure. Hence both persons are reduced to the animal level. “If . . . a man wishes to satisfy his desire, and a woman hers, they stimulate each other’s desire; their inclinations meet, but their object is not human nature but sex, and each of them dishonours the human nature of the other. They make of humanity an instrument for the satisfaction of their lusts and inclinations, and dishonour it by placing it on a level with animal nature” (Kant, Lectures, p. 164).

Finally, due to the insistent nature of the sexual impulse, once things get going it is often hard to stop them in their tracks, and as a result we often end up doing things sexually that we had never planned or wanted to do. Sexual desire is also powerfully inelastic, one of the passions most likely to challenge reason, compelling us to seek satisfaction even when doing so involves dark-alley gropings, microbiologically filthy acts, slinking around the White House, or getting married impetuously.

Given such a pessimistic metaphysics of human sexuality, one might well conclude that acting on the sexual impulse is always morally wrong. That might, indeed, be precisely the right conclusion to draw, even if it implies the end of Homo sapiens. (This doomsday result is also implied by St. Paul’s praising, in 1 Corinthians 7, sexual celibacy as the ideal spiritual state.) More frequently, however, the pessimistic metaphysicians of sexuality conclude that sexual activity is morally permissible only within marriage (of the lifelong, monogamous, heterosexual sort) and only for the purpose of procreation. Regarding the bodily activities that both lead to procreation and produce sexual pleasure, it is their procreative potential that is singularly significant and bestows value on these activities; seeking pleasure is an impediment to morally virtuous sexuality, and is something that should not be undertaken deliberately or for its own sake. Sexual pleasure at most has instrumental value, in inducing us to engage in an act that has procreation as its primary purpose. Such views are common among Christian thinkers, for example, St. Augustine: “A man turns to good use the evil of concupiscence, and is not overcome by it, when he bridles and restrains its rage . . . and never relaxes his hold upon it except when intent on offspring, and then controls and applies it to the carnal generation of children . . . , not to the subjection of the spirit to the flesh in a sordid servitude” (On Marriage and Concupiscence, bk. 1, ch. 9).

3. Metaphysical Sexual Optimism

Metaphysical sexual optimists suppose that sexuality is a bonding mechanism that naturally and happily joins people together both sexually and nonsexually. Sexual activity involves pleasing the self and the other at the same time, and these exchanges of pleasure generate both gratitude and affection, which in turn are bound to deepen human relationships and make them more emotionally substantial. Further, and this is the most important point, sexual pleasure is, for a metaphysical optimist, a valuable thing in its own right, something to be cherished and promoted because it has intrinsic and not merely instrumental value. Hence the pursuit of sexual pleasure does not require much intricate justification; sexual activity surely need not be confined to marriage or directed at procreation. The good and virtuous life, while including much else, can also include a wide variety and extent of sexual relations. (See Russell Vannoy’s spirited defense of the value of sexual activity for its own sake, in Sex Without Love.)

Irving Singer is a contemporary philosopher of sexuality who expresses well one form of metaphysical optimism: “For though sexual interest resembles an appetite in some respects, it differs from hunger or thirst in being an interpersonal sensitivity, one that enables us to delight in the mind and character of other persons as well as in their flesh. Though at times people may be used as sexual objects and cast aside once their utility has been exhausted, this is no[t] . . . definitive of sexual desire. . . . By awakening us to the living presence of someone else, sexuality can enable us to treat this other being as just the person he or she happens to be. . . . There is nothing in the nature of sexuality as such that necessarily . . . reduces persons to things. On the contrary, sex may be seen as an instinctual agency by which persons respond to one another through their bodies” (The Nature of Love, vol. 2, p. 382. See also Jean Hampton, “Defining Wrong and Defining Rape”).

Pausanias, in Plato’s Symposium (181a-3, 183e, 184d), asserts that sexuality in itself is neither good nor bad. He recognizes, as a result, that there can be morally bad and morally good sexual activity, and proposes a corresponding distinction between what he calls “vulgar” eros and “heavenly” eros. A person who has vulgar eros is one who experiences promiscuous sexual desire, has a lust that can be satisfied by any partner, and selfishly seeks only for himself or herself the pleasures of sexual activity. By contrast, a person who has heavenly eros experiences a sexual desire that attaches to a particular person; he or she is as much interested in the other person’s personality and well-being as he or she is concerned to have physical contact with and sexual satisfaction by means of the other person. A similar distinction between sexuality per se and eros is described by C. S. Lewis in his The Four Loves (chapter 5), and it is perhaps what Allan Bloom has in mind when he writes, “Animals have sex and human beings have eros, and no accurate science [or philosophy] is possible without making this distinction” (Love and Friendship, p. 19).

The divide between metaphysical optimists and metaphysical pessimists might, then, be put this way: metaphysical pessimists think that sexuality, unless it is rigorously constrained by social norms that have become internalized, will tend to be governed by vulgar eros, while metaphysical optimists think that sexuality, by itself, does not lead to or become vulgar, that by its nature it can easily be and often is heavenly. (See the entry, Philosophy of Love.)

4. Moral Evaluations

Of course, we can and often do evaluate sexual activity morally: we inquire whether a sexual act—either a particular occurrence of a sexual act (the act we are doing or want to do right now) or a type of sexual act (say, all instances of homosexual fellatio)—is morally good or morally bad. More specifically, we evaluate, or judge, sexual acts to be morally obligatory, morally permissible, morally supererogatory, or morally wrong. For example: a spouse might have a moral obligation to engage in sex with the other spouse; it might be morally permissible for married couples to employ contraception while engaging in coitus; one person’s agreeing to have sexual relations with another person when the former has no sexual desire of his or her own but does want to please the latter might be an act of supererogation; and rape and incest are commonly thought to be morally wrong.

Note that if a specific type of sexual act is morally wrong (say, homosexual fellatio), then every instance of that type of act will be morally wrong. However, from the fact that the particular sexual act we are now doing or contemplate doing is morally wrong, it does not follow that any specific type of act is morally wrong; the sexual act that we are contemplating might be wrong for lots of different reasons having nothing to do with the type of sexual act that it is. For example, suppose we are engaging in heterosexual coitus (or anything else), and that this particular act is wrong because it is adulterous. The wrongfulness of our sexual activity does not imply that heterosexual coitus in general (or anything else), as a type of sexual act, is morally wrong. In some cases, of course, a particular sexual act will be wrong for several reasons: not only is it wrong because it is of a specific type (say, it is an instance of homosexual fellatio), but it is also wrong because at least one of the participants is married to someone else (it is wrong also because it is adulterous).

5. Nonmoral Evaluations

We can also evaluate sexual activity (again, either a particular occurrence of a sexual act or a specific type of sexual activity) nonmorally: nonmorally “good” sex is sexual activity that provides pleasure to the participants or is physically or emotionally satisfying, while nonmorally “bad” sex is unexciting, tedious, boring, unenjoyable, or even unpleasant. An analogy will clarify the difference between morally evaluating something as good or bad and nonmorally evaluating it as good or bad. This radio on my desk is a good radio, in the nonmoral sense, because it does for me what I expect from a radio: it consistently provides clear tones. If, instead, the radio hissed and cackled most of the time, it would be a bad radio, nonmorally-speaking, and it would be senseless for me to blame the radio for its faults and threaten it with a trip to hell if it did not improve its behavior. Similarly, sexual activity can be nonmorally good if it provides for us what we expect sexual activity to provide, which is usually sexual pleasure, and this fact has no necessary moral implications..

It is not difficult to see that the fact that a sexual activity is perfectly nonmorally good, by abundantly satisfying both persons, does not mean by itself that the act is morally good: some adulterous sexual activity might well be very pleasing to the participants, yet be morally wrong. Further, the fact that a sexual activity is nonmorally bad, that is, does not produce pleasure for the persons engaged in it, does not by itself mean that the act is morally bad. Unpleasant sexual activity might occur between persons who have little experience engaging in sexual activity (they do not yet know how to do sexual things, or have not yet learned what their likes and dislikes are), but their failure to provide pleasure for each other does not mean by itself that they perform morally wrongful acts.

Thus the moral evaluation of sexual activity is a distinct enterprise from the nonmoral evaluation of sexual activity, even if there do remain important connections between them. For example, the fact that a sexual act provides pleasure to both participants, and is thereby nonmorally good, might be taken as a strong, but only prima facie good, reason for thinking that the act is morally good or at least has some degree of moral value. Indeed, utilitarians such as Jeremy Bentham and even John Stuart Mill might claim that, in general, the nonmoral goodness of sexual activity goes a long way toward justifying it. Another example: if one person never attempts to provide sexual pleasure to his or her partner, but selfishly insists on experiencing only his or her own pleasure, then that person’s contribution to their sexual activity is morally suspicious or objectionable. But that judgment rests not simply on the fact that he or she did not provide pleasure for the other person, that is, on the fact that the sexual activity was for the other person nonmorally bad. The moral judgment rests, more precisely, on his or her motives for not providing any pleasure, for not making the experience nonmorally good for the other person.

It is one thing to point out that as evaluative categories, moral goodness/badness is quite distinct from nonmoral goodness/badness. It is another thing to wonder, nonetheless, about the emotional or psychological connections between the moral quality of sexual activity and its nonmoral quality. Perhaps morally good sexual activity tends also to be the most satisfying sexual activity, in the nonmoral sense. Whether that is true likely depends on what we mean by “morally good” sexuality and on certain features of human moral psychology. What would our lives be like, if there were always a neat correspondence between the moral quality of a sexual act and its nonmoral quality? I am not sure what such a human sexual world would be like. But examples that violate such a neat correspondence are at the present time, in this world, easy to come by. A sexual act might be both morally and nonmorally good: consider the exciting and joyful sexual activity of a newly-married couple. But a sexual act might be morally good and nonmorally bad: consider the routine sexual acts of this couple after they have been married for ten years. A sexual act might be morally bad yet nonmorally good: one spouse in that couple, married for ten years, commits adultery with another married person and finds their sexual activity to be extraordinarily satisfying. And, finally, a sexual act might be both morally and nonmorally bad: the adulterous couple get tired of each other, eventually no longer experiencing the excitement they once knew. A world in which there was little or no discrepancy between the moral and the nonmoral quality of sexual activity might be a better world than ours, or it might be worse. I would refrain from making such a judgment unless I were pretty sure what the moral goodness and badness of sexual activity amounted to in the first place, and until I knew a lot more about human psychology. Sometimes that a sexual activity is acknowledged to be morally wrong contributes all by itself to its being nonmorally good.

6. The Dangers of Sex

Whether a particular sexual act or a specific type of sexual act provides sexual pleasure is not the only factor in judging its nonmoral quality: pragmatic and prudential considerations also figure into whether a sexual act, all things considered, has a preponderance of nonmoral goodness. Many sexual activities can be physically or psychologically risky, dangerous, or harmful. Anal coitus, for example, whether carried out by a heterosexual couple or by two gay males, can damage delicate tissues and is a mechanism for the potential transmission of various HIV viruses (as is heterosexual genital intercourse). Thus in evaluating whether a sexual act will be overall nonmorally good or bad, not only its anticipated pleasure or satisfaction must be counted, but also all sorts of negative (undesired) side effects: whether the sexual act is likely to damage the body, as in some sadomasochistic acts, or transmit any one of a number of venereal diseases, or result in an unwanted pregnancy, or even whether one might feel regret, anger, or guilt afterwards as a result of having engaged in a sexual act with this person, or in this location, or under these conditions, or of a specific type. Indeed, all these pragmatic and prudential factors also figure into the moral evaluation of sexual activity: intentionally causing unwanted pain or discomfort to one’s partner, or not taking adequate precautions against the possibility of pregnancy, or not informing one’s partner of a suspected case of genital infection (but see David Mayo’s provocative dissent, in “An Obligation to Warn of HIV Infection?”), can be morally wrong. Thus, depending on what particular moral principles about sexuality one embraces, the various ingredients that constitute the nonmoral quality of sexual acts can influence one’s moral judgments.

7. Sexual Perversion

In addition to inquiring about the moral and nonmoral quality of a given sexual act or a type of sexual activity, we can also ask whether the act or type is natural or unnatural (that is, perverted). Natural sexual acts, to provide merely a broad definition, are those acts that either flow naturally from human sexual nature, or at least do not frustrate or counteract sexual tendencies that flow naturally from human sexual desire. An account of what is natural in human sexual desire and activity is part of a philosophical account of human nature in general, what we might call philosophical anthropology, which is a rather large undertaking.

Note that evaluating a particular sexual act or a specific type of sexual activity as being natural or unnatural can very well be distinct from evaluating the act or type either as being morally good or bad or as being nonmorally good or bad. Suppose we assume, for the sake of discussion only, that heterosexual coitus is a natural human sexual activity and that homosexual fellatio is unnatural, or a sexual perversion. Even so, it would not follow from these judgments alone that all heterosexual coitus is morally good (some of it might be adulterous, or rape) or that all homosexual fellatio is morally wrong (some of it, engaged in by consenting adults in the privacy of their homes, might be morally permissible). Further, from the fact that heterosexual coitus is natural, it does not follow that acts of heterosexual coitus will be nonmorally good, that is, pleasurable; nor does it follow from the fact that homosexual fellatio is perverted that it does not or cannot produce sexual pleasure for those people who engage in it. Of course, both natural and unnatural sexual acts can be medically or psychologically risky or dangerous. There is no reason to assume that natural sexual acts are in general more safe than unnatural sexual acts; for example, unprotected heterosexual intercourse is likely more dangerous, in several ways, than mutual homosexual masturbation.

Since there are no necessary connections between, on the one hand, evaluating a particular sexual act or a specific type of sexual activity as being natural or unnatural and, on the other hand, evaluating its moral and nonmoral quality, why would we wonder whether a sexual act or a type of sex was natural or perverted? One reason is simply that understanding what is natural and unnatural in human sexuality helps complete our picture of human nature in general, and allows us to understand our species more fully. With such deliberations, the self-reflection about humanity and the human condition that is the heart of philosophy becomes more complete. A second reason is that an account of the difference between the natural and the perverted in human sexuality might be useful for psychology, especially if we assume that a desire or tendency to engage in perverted sexual activities is a sign or symptom of an underlying mental or psychological pathology.

8. Sexual Perversion and Morality

Finally (a third reason), even though natural sexual activity is not on that score alone morally good and unnatural sexual activity is not necessarily morally wrong, it is still possible to argue that whether a particular sexual act or a specific type of sexuality is natural or unnatural does influence, to a greater or lesser extent, whether the act is morally good or morally bad. Just as whether a sexual act is nonmorally good, that is, produces pleasure for the participants, may be a factor, sometimes an important one, in our evaluating the act morally, whether a sexual act or type of sexual expression is natural or unnatural may also play a role, sometimes a large one, in deciding whether the act is morally good or bad.

A comparison between the sexual philosophy of the medieval Catholic theologian St. Thomas Aquinas and that of the contemporary secular philosophy Thomas Nagel is in this regard instructive. Both Aquinas and Nagel can be understood as assuming that what is unnatural in human sexuality is perverted, and that what is unnatural or perverted in human sexuality is simply that which does not conform with or is inconsistent with natural human sexuality. But beyond these general areas of agreement, there are deep differences between Aquinas and Nagel.

9. Aquinas’s Natural Law

Based upon a comparison of the sexuality of humans and the sexuality of lower animals (mammals, in particular), Aquinas concludes that what is natural in human sexuality is the impulse to engage in heterosexual coitus. Heterosexual coitus is the mechanism designed by the Christian God to insure the preservation of animal species, including humans, and hence engaging in this activity is the primary natural expression of human sexual nature. Further, this God designed each of the parts of the human body to carry out specific functions, and on Aquinas’s view God designed the male penis to implant sperm into the female’s vagina for the purpose of effecting procreation. It follows, for Aquinas, that depositing the sperm elsewhere than inside a human female’s vagina is unnatural: it is a violation of God’s design, contrary to the nature of things as established by God. For this reason alone, on Aquinas’s view, such activities are immoral, a grave offense to the sagacious plan of the Almighty.

Sexual intercourse with lower animals (bestiality), sexual activity with members of one’s own sex (homosexuality), and masturbation, for Aquinas, are unnatural sexual acts and are immoral exactly for that reason. If they are committed intentionally, according to one’s will, they deliberately disrupt the natural order of the world as created by God and which God commanded to be respected. (See Summa Theologiae, vol. 43, 2a2ae, qq. 153-154.) In none of these activities is there any possibility of procreation, and the sexual and other organs are used, or misused, for purposes other than that for which they were designed. Although Aquinas does not say so explicitly, but only hints in this direction, it follows from his philosophy of sexuality that fellatio, even when engaged in by heterosexuals, is also perverted and morally wrong. At least in those cases in which orgasm occurs by means of this act, the sperm is not being placed where it should be placed and procreation is therefore not possible. If the penis entering the vagina is the paradigmatic natural act, then any other combination of anatomical connections will be unnatural and hence immoral; for example, the penis, mouth, or fingers entering the anus. Note that Aquinas’s criterion of the natural, that the sexual act must be procreative in form, and hence must involve a penis inserted into a vagina, makes no mention of human psychology. Aquinas’s line of thought yields an anatomical criterion of natural and perverted sex that refers only to bodily organs and what they might accomplish physiologically and to where they are, or are not, put in relation to each other.

10. Nagel’s Secular Philosophy

Thomas Nagel denies Aquinas’s central presupposition, that in order to discover what is natural in human sexuality we should emphasize what humans and lower animals have in common. Applying this formula, Aquinas concluded that the purpose of sexual activity and the sexual organs in humans was procreation, as it is in the lower animals. Everything else in Aquinas’s sexual philosophy follows more-or-less logically from this. Nagel, by contrast, argues that to discover what is distinctive about the natural human sexuality, and hence derivatively what is unnatural or perverted, we should focus, instead, on what humans and lower animals do not have in common. We should emphasize the ways in which humans are different from animals, the ways in which humans and their sexuality are special. Thus Nagel argues that sexual perversion in humans should be understood as a psychological phenomenon rather than, as in Aquinas’s treatment, in anatomical and physiological terms. For it is human psychology that makes us quite different from other animals, and hence an account of natural human sexuality must acknowledge the uniqueness of human psychology.

Nagel proposes that sexual interactions in which each person responds with sexual arousal to noticing the sexual arousal of the other person exhibit the psychology that is natural to human sexuality. In such an encounter, each person becomes aware of himself or herself and the other person as both the subject and the object of their joint sexual experiences. Perverted sexual encounters or events would be those in which this mutual recognition of arousal is absent, and in which a person remains fully a subject of the sexual experience or fully an object. Perversion, then, is a departure from or a truncation of a psychologically “complete” pattern of arousal and consciousness. (See Nagel’s “Sexual Perversion,” pp. 15-17.) Nothing in Nagel’s psychological account of the natural and the perverted refers to bodily organs or physiological processes. That is, for a sexual encounter to be natural, it need not be procreative in form, as long as the requisite psychology of mutual recognition is present. Whether a sexual activity is natural or perverted does not depend, on Nagel’s view, on what organs are used or where they are put, but only on the character of the psychology of the sexual encounter. Thus Nagel disagrees with Aquinas that homosexual activities, as a specific type of sexual act, are unnatural or perverted, for homosexual fellatio and anal intercourse may very well be accompanied by the mutual recognition of and response to the other’s sexual arousal.

11. Fetishism

It is illuminating to compare what the views of Aquinas and Nagel imply about fetishism, that is, the usually male practice of masturbating while fondling women’s shoes or undergarments. Aquinas and Nagel agree that such activities are unnatural and perverted, but they disagree about the grounds of that evaluation. For Aquinas, masturbating while fondling shoes or undergarments is unnatural because the sperm is not deposited where it should be, and the act thereby has no procreative potential. For Nagel, masturbatory fetishism is perverted for a quite different reason: in this activity, there is no possibility of one persons’ noticing and being aroused by the arousal of another person. The arousal of the fetishist is, from the perspective of natural human psychology, defective. Note, in this example, one more difference between Aquinas and Nagel: Aquinas would judge the sexual activity of the fetishist to be immoral precisely because it is perverted (it violates a natural pattern established by God), while Nagel would not conclude that it must be morally wrong—after all, a fetishistic sexual act might be carried out quite harmlessly—even if it does indicate that something is suspicious about the fetishist’s psychology. The move historically and socially away from a Thomistic moralistic account of sexual perversion toward an amoral psychological account such as Nagel’s is representative of a more widespread trend: the gradual replacement of moral or religious judgments, about all sorts of deviant behavior, by medical or psychiatric judgments and interventions. (See Alan Soble, Sexual Investigations, chapter 4.)

12. Female Sexuality and Natural Law

A different kind of disagreement with Aquinas is registered by Christine Gudorf, a Christian theologian who otherwise has a lot in common with Aquinas. Gudorf agrees that the study of human anatomy and physiology yields insights into God’s plan and design, and that human sexual behavior should conform with God’s creative intentions. That is, Gudorf’s philosophy is squarely within the Thomistic Natural Law tradition. But Gudorf argues that if we take a careful look at the anatomy and physiology of the female sexual organs, and especially the clitoris, instead of focusing exclusively on the male’s penis (which is what Aquinas did), quite different conclusions about God’s plan and design emerge and hence Christian sexual ethics turns out to be less restrictive. In particular, Gudorf claims that the female’s clitoris is an organ whose only purpose is the production of sexual pleasure and, unlike the mixed or dual functionality of the penis, has no connection with procreation. Gudorf concludes that the existence of the clitoris in the female body suggests that God intended that the purpose of sexual activity was as much for sexual pleasure for its own sake as it was for procreation. Therefore, according to Gudorf, pleasurable sexual activity apart from procreation does not violate God’s design, is not unnatural, and hence is not necessarily morally wrong, as long as it occurs in the context of a monogamous marriage (Sex, Body, and Pleasure, p. 65). Today we are not as confident as Aquinas was that God’s plan can be discovered by a straightforward examination of human and animal bodies; but such healthy skepticism about our ability to discern the intentions of God from facts of the natural world would seem to apply to Gudorf’s proposal as well.

13. Debates in Sexual Ethics

The ethics of sexual behavior, as a branch of applied ethics, is no more and no less contentious than the ethics of anything else that is usually included within the area of applied ethics. Think, for example, of the notorious debates over euthanasia, capital punishment, abortion, and our treatment of lower animals for food, clothing, entertainment, and in medical research. So it should come as no surprise than even though a discussion of sexual ethics might well result in the removal of some confusions and a clarification of the issues, no final answers to questions about the morality of sexual activity are likely to be forthcoming from the philosophy of sexuality. As far as I can tell by surveying the literature on sexual ethics, there are at least three major topics that have received much discussion by philosophers of sexuality and which provide arenas for continual debate.

14. Natural Law vs. Liberal Ethics

We have already encountered one debate: the dispute between a Thomistic Natural Law approach to sexual morality and a more liberal, secular outlook that denies that there is a tight connection between what is unnatural in human sexuality and what is immoral. The secular liberal philosopher emphasizes the values of autonomous choice, self-determination, and pleasure in arriving at moral judgments about sexual behavior, in contrast to the Thomistic tradition that justifies a more restrictive sexual ethics by invoking a divinely imposed scheme to which human action must conform. For a secular liberal philosopher of sexuality, the paradigmatically morally wrong sexual act is rape, in which one person forces himself or herself upon another or uses threats to coerce the other to engage in sexual activity. By contrast, for the liberal, anything done voluntarily between two or more people is generally morally permissible. For the secular liberal, then, a sexual act would be morally wrong if it were dishonest, coercive, or manipulative, and Natural Law theory would agree, except to add that the act’s merely being unnatural is another, independent reason for condemning it morally. Kant, for example, held that “Onanism . . . is abuse of the sexual faculty. . . . By it man sets aside his person and degrades himself below the level of animals. . . . Intercourse between sexus homogenii . . . too is contrary to the ends of humanity”(Lectures, p. 170). The sexual liberal, however, usually finds nothing morally wrong or nonmorally bad about either masturbation or homosexual sexual activity. These activities might be unnatural, and perhaps in some ways prudentially unwise, but in many if not most cases they can be carried out without harm being done either to the participants or to anyone else.

Natural Law is alive and well today among philosophers of sex, even if the details do not match Aquinas’s original version. For example, the contemporary philosopher John Finnis argues that there are morally worthless sexual acts in which “one’s body is treated as instrumental for the securing of the experiential satisfaction of the conscious self” (see “Is Homosexual Conduct Wrong?”). For example, in masturbating or in being anally sodomized, the body is just a tool of sexual satisfaction and, as a result, the person undergoes “disintegration.” “One’s choosing self [becomes] the quasi-slave of the experiencing self which is demanding gratification.” The worthlessness and disintegration attaching to masturbation and sodomy actually attach, for Finnis, to “all extramarital sexual gratification.” This is because only in married, heterosexual coitus do the persons’ “reproductive organs . . . make them a biological . . . unit.” Finnis begins his argument with the metaphysically pessimistic intuition that sexual activity involves treating human bodies and persons instrumentally, and he concludes with the thought that sexual activity in marriage—in particular, genital intercourse—avoids disintegrity because only in this case, as intended by God’s plan, does the couple attain a state of genuine unity: “the orgasmic union of the reproductive organs of husband and wife really unites them biologically.” (See also Finnis’s essay “Law, Morality, and ‘Sexual Orientation’.”)

15. Consent Is Not Sufficient

Another debate is about whether, when there is no harm done to third parties to be concerned about, the fact that two people engage in a sexual act voluntarily, with their own free and informed consent, is sufficient for satisfying the demands of sexual morality. Of course, those in the Natural Law tradition deny that consent is sufficient, since on their view willingly engaging in unnatural sexual acts is morally wrong, but they are not alone in reducing the moral significance of consent. Sexual activity between two persons might be harmful to one or both participants, and a moral paternalist or perfectionist would claim that it is wrong for one person to harm another person, or for the latter to allow the former to engage in this harmful behavior, even when both persons provide free and informed consent to their joint activity. Consent in this case is not sufficient, and as a result some forms of sadomasochistic sexuality turn out to be morally wrong. The denial of the sufficiency of consent is also frequently presupposed by those philosophers who claim that only in a committed relationship is sexual activity between two people morally permissible. The free and informed consent of both parties may be a necessary condition for the morality of their sexual activity, but without the presence of some other ingredient (love, marriage, devotion, and the like) their sexual activity remains mere mutual use or objectification and hence morally objectionable.

In casual sex, for example, two persons are merely using each other for their own sexual pleasure; even when genuinely consensual, these mutual sexual uses do not yield a virtuous sexual act. Kant and Karol Wojtyla (Pope John Paul II) take this position: willingly allowing oneself to be used sexually by another makes an object of oneself. For Kant, sexual activity avoids treating a person merely as a means only in marriage, since here both persons have surrendered their bodies and souls to each other and have achieved a subtle metaphysical unity (Lectures, p. 167). For Wojtyla, “only love can preclude the use of one person by another” (Love and Responsibility, p. 30), since love is a unification of persons resulting from a mutual gift of their selves. Note, however, that the thought that a unifying love is the ingredient that justifies sexual activity (beyond consent) has an interesting and ironic implication: gay and lesbian sexual relations would seem to be permissible if they occur within loving, monogamous homosexual marriages (a position defended by the theologians Patricia Jung and Ralph Smith, in Heterosexism). At this point in the argument, defenders of the view that sexual activity is justifiable only in marriage commonly appeal to Natural Law to rule out homosexual marriage.

16. Consent Is Sufficient

On another view of these matters, the fact that sexual activity is carried out voluntarily by all persons involved means, assuming that no harm to third parties exists, that the sexual activity is morally permissible. In defending such a view of the sufficiency of consent, Thomas Mappes writes that “respect for persons entails that each of us recognize the rightful authority of other persons (as rational beings) to conduct their individual lives as they see fit” (“Sexual Morality and the Concept of Using Another Person,” p. 204). Allowing the other person’s consent to control when the other may engage in sexual activity with me is to respect that person by taking his or her autonomy, his or her ability to reason and make choices, seriously, while not to allow the other to make the decision about when to engage in sexual activity with me is disrespectfully paternalistic. If the other person’s consent is taken as sufficient, that shows that I respect his or her choice of ends, or that even if I do not approve of his or her particular choice of ends, at least I show respect for his or her ends-making capability. According to such a view of the power of consent, there can be no moral objection in principle to casual sexual activity, to sexual activity with strangers, or to promiscuity, as long as the persons involved in the activity genuinely agree to engage in their chosen sexual activities.

If Mappes’s free and informed consent criterion of the morality of sexual activity is correct, we would still have to address several difficult questions. How specific must consent be? When one person agrees vaguely, and in the heat of the moment, with another person, “yes, let’s have sex,” the speaker has not necessarily consented to every type of sexual caress or coital position the second person might have in mind. And how explicit must consent be? Can consent be reliably implied by involuntarily behavior (moans, for example), and do nonverbal cues (erection, lubrication) decisively show that another person has consented to sex? Some philosophers insist that consent must be exceedingly specific as to the sexual acts to be carried out, and some would permit only explicit verbal consent, denying that body language by itself can do an adequate job of expressing the participant’s desires and intentions. (See Alan Soble, “Antioch’s ‘Sexual Offense Policy’.”)

Note also that not all philosophers agree with Mappes and others that fully voluntary consent is always necessary for sexual activity to be morally permissible. Jeffrie Murphy, for example, has raised some doubts (“Some Ruminations on Women, Violence, and the Criminal Law,” p. 218):

“Have sex with me or I will find another girlfriend” strikes me (assuming normal circumstances) as a morally permissible threat, and “Have sex with me and I will marry you” strikes me (assuming the offer is genuine) as a morally permissible offer. . . . We negotiate our way through most of life with schemes of threats and offers . . . and I see no reason why the realm of sexuality should be utterly insulated from this very normal way of being human.

Murphy implies that some threats are coercive and thereby undermine the voluntary nature of the participation in sexual activity of one of the persons, but, he adds, these types of threats are not always morally wrong. Alternatively, we might say that in the cases Murphy describes, the threats and offers do not constitute coercion at all and that they present no obstacle to fully voluntary participation. (See Alan Wertheimer, “Consent and Sexual Relations.”) If so, Murphy’s cases do not establish that voluntary consent is not always required for sexual activity to be morally right.

17. What Is “Voluntary”?

As suggested by Murphy’s examples, another debate concerns the meaning and application of the concept “voluntary.” Whether consent is only necessary for the morality of sexual activity, or also sufficient, any moral principle that relies on consent to make moral distinctions among sexual events presupposes a clear understanding of the “voluntary” aspect of consent. It is safe to say that participation in sexual activity ought not to be physically forced upon one person by another. But this obvious truth leaves matters wide open. Onora O’Neill, for example, thinks that casual sex is morally wrong because the consent it purportedly involves is not likely to be sufficiently voluntary, in light of subtle pressures people commonly put on each other to engage in sexual activity (see “Between Consenting Adults”).

One moral ideal is that genuinely consensual participation in sexual activity requires not a hint of coercion or pressure of any sort. Because engaging in sexual activity can be risky or dangerous in many ways, physically, psychologically, and metaphysically, we would like to be sure, according to this moral ideal, that anyone who engages in sexual activity does so perfectly voluntarily. Some philosophers have argued that this ideal can be realized only when there is substantial economic and social equality between the persons involved in a given sexual encounter. For example, a society that exhibits disparities in the incomes or wealth of its various members is one in which some people will be exposed to economic coercion. If some groups of people (women and members of ethnic minorities, in particular) have less economic and social power than others, members of these groups will be therefore exposed to sexual coercion in particular, among other kinds. One immediate application of this thought is that prostitution, which to many sexual liberals is a business bargain made by a provider of sexual services and a client and is largely characterized by adequately free and informed consent, may be morally wrong, if the economic situation of the prostitute acts as a kind of pressure that negates the voluntary nature of his or her participation. Further, women with children who are economically dependent on their husbands may find themselves in the position of having to engage in sexual activity whether they want to or not, for fear of being abandoned; these women, too, may not be engaging in sexual activity fully voluntarily. The woman who allows herself to be nagged into sex by her husband worries that if she says “no” too often, she will suffer economically, if not also physically and psychologically.

The view that the presence of any kind of pressure at all is coercive, negates the voluntary nature of participation in sexual activity, and hence is morally objectionable has been expressed by Charlene Muehlenhard and Jennifer Schrag (see their “Nonviolent Sexual Coercion”). They list, among other things, “status coercion” (when women are coerced into sexual activity or marriage by a man’s occupation) and “discrimination against lesbians” (which discrimination compels women into having sexual relationships only with men) as forms of coercion that undermine the voluntary nature of participation by women in sexual activity with men. But depending on the kind of case we have in mind, it might be more accurate to say either that some pressures are not coercive and do not appreciably undermine voluntariness, or that some pressures are coercive but are nevertheless not morally objectionable. Is it always true that the presence of any kind of pressure put on one person by another amounts to coercion that negates the voluntary nature of consent, so that subsequent sexual activity is morally wrong?

18. Conceptual Analysis

Conceptual philosophy of sexuality is concerned to analyze and to clarify concepts that are central in this area of philosophy: sexual activity, sexual desire, sexual sensation, sexual perversion, and others. It also attempts to define less abstract concepts, such as prostitution, pornography, and rape. I would like to illustrate the conceptual philosophy of sexuality by focusing on one particular concept, that of “sexual activity,” and explore in what ways it is related to another central concept, that of “sexual pleasure.” One lesson to be learned here is that conceptual philosophy of sexuality can be just as difficult and contentious as normative philosophy of sexuality, and that as a result firm conceptual conclusions are hard to come by.

19. Sexual Activity vs. “Having Sex”

According to a notorious study published in 1999 in the Journal of the American Medical Association (“Would You Say You ‘Had Sex’ If . . . ?” by Stephanie Sanders and June Reinisch), a large percent of undergraduate college students, about 60%, do not think that engaging in oral sex (fellatio and cunnilingus) is “having sex.” This finding is at first glance very surprising, but it is not difficult to comprehend sympathetically. To be sure, as philosophers we easily conclude that oral sex is a specific type of sexual activity. But “sexual activity” is a technical concept, while “having sex” is an ordinary language concept, which refers primarily to heterosexual intercourse. Thus when Monica Lewinsky told her confidant Linda Tripp that she did not “have sex” with William Jefferson Clinton, she was not necessarily self-deceived, lying, or pulling a fast one. She was merely relying on the ordinary language definition or criterion of “having sex,” which is not identical to the philosopher’s concept of “sexual activity,” does not always include oral sex, and usually requires genital intercourse.

Another conclusion might be drawn from the JAMA survey. If we assume that heterosexual coitus by and large, or in many cases, produces more pleasure for the participants than does oral sex, or at least that in heterosexual intercourse there is greater mutuality of sexual pleasure than in one-directional oral sex, and this is why ordinary thought tends to discount the ontological significance of oral sex, then perhaps we can use this to fashion a philosophical account of “sexual activity” that is at once consistent with ordinary thought.

20. Sexual Activity and Sexual Pleasure

In common thought, whether a sexual act is nonmorally good or bad is often associated with whether it is judged to be a sexual act at all. Sometimes we derive little or no pleasure from a sexual act (say, we are primarily giving pleasure to another person, or we are even selling it to the other person), and we think that even though the other person had a sexual experience, we didn’t. Or the other person did try to provide us with sexual pleasure but failed miserably, whether from ignorance of technique or sheer sexual crudity. In such a case it would not be implausible to say that we did not undergo a sexual experience and so did not engage in a sexual act. If Ms. Lewinsky’s performing oral sex on President Clinton was done only for his sake, for his sexual pleasure, and she did it out of consideration for his needs and not hers, then perhaps she did not herself, after all, engage in a sexual act.

Robert Gray is one philosopher who has taken up this line of ordinary thought and has argued that “sexual activity” should be analyzed in terms of the production of sexual pleasure. He asserts that “any activity might become a sexual activity” if sexual pleasure is derived from it, and “no activity is a sexual activity unless sexual pleasure is derived from it” (“Sex and Sexual Perversion,” p. 61). Perhaps Gray is right, since we tend to think that holding hands is a sexual activity when sexual pleasure is produced by doing so, but otherwise holding hands is not very sexual. A handshake is normally not a sexual act, and usually does not yield sexual pleasure; but two lovers caressing each other’s fingers is both a sexual act and produces sexual pleasure for them.

There is another reason for taking seriously the idea that sexual activities are exactly those that produce sexual pleasure. What is it about a sexually perverted activity that makes it sexual? The act is unnatural, we might say, because it has no connection with one common purpose of sexual activity, that is, procreation. But the only thing that would seem to make the act a sexual perversion is that it does, on a fairly reliable basis, nonetheless produce sexual pleasure. Undergarment fetishism is a sexual perversion, and not merely, say, a “fabric” perversion, because it involves sexual pleasure. Similarly, what is it about homosexual sexual activities that makes them sexual? All such acts are nonprocreative, yet they share something very important in common with procreative heterosexual activities: they produce sexual pleasure, and the same sort of sexual pleasure.

a. Sexual Activity Without Pleasure

Suppose I were to ask you, “How many sexual partners have you had during the last five years”? If you were on your toes, you would ask me, before answering, “What counts as a sexual partner?” (Maybe you are suspicious of my question because you had read Greta Christina’s essay on this topic, “Are We Having Sex Now or What?”) At this point I should give you an adequate analysis of “sexual activity,” and tell you to count anyone with whom you engaged in sexual activity according to this definition. What I should definitely not do is to tell you to count only those people with whom you had a pleasing or satisfactory sexual experience, forgetting about, and hence not counting, those partners with whom you had nonmorally bad sex. But if we accept Gray’s analysis of sexual activity, that sexual acts are exactly those and only those that produce sexual pleasure, I should of course urge you not to count, over those five years, anyone with whom you had a nonmorally bad sexual experience. You will end up reporting to me fewer sexual partners than you in fact had. Maybe that will make you feel better.

The general point is this. If “sexual activity” is logically dependent on “sexual pleasure,” if sexual pleasure is thereby the criterion of sexual activity itself, then sexual pleasure cannot be the gauge of the nonmoral quality of sexual activities. That is, this analysis of “sexual activity” in terms of “sexual pleasure” conflates what it is for an act to be a sexual activity with what it is for an act to be a nonmorally good sexual activity. On such an analysis, procreative sexual activities, when the penis is placed into the vagina, would be sexual activities only when they produce sexual pleasure, and not when they are as sensually boring as a handshake. Further, the victim of a rape, who has not experienced nonmorally good sex, cannot claim that he or she was forced to engage in sexual activity, even if the act compelled on him or her was intercourse or fellatio.

I would prefer to say that the couple who have lost sexual interest in each other, and who engage in routine sexual activities from which they derive no pleasure, are still performing a sexual act. But we are forbidden, by Gray’s proposed analysis, from saying that they engage in nonmorally bad sexual activity, for on his view they have not engaged in any sexual activity at all. Rather, we could say at most that they tried to engage in sexual activity but failed to do so. It may be a sad fact about our sexual world that we can engage in sexual activity and not derive any or much pleasure from it, but that fact should not give us reason for refusing to call these unsatisfactory events “sexual.”

21. References and Further Reading

  • Aquinas, St. Thomas. Summa Theologiae. Cambridge, Eng.: Blackfriars, 1964-76.
  • Augustine, St. (Aurelius). On Marriage and Concupiscence, in The Works of Aurelius Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, vol. 12, ed. Marcus Dods. Edinburgh, Scot.: T. & T. Clark, 1874.
  • Baker, Robert, Kathleen Wininger, and Frederick Elliston, eds. Philosophy and Sex, 3rd edition. Amherst, N.Y.: Prometheus, 1998.
  • Baumrin, Bernard. “Sexual Immorality Delineated,” in Robert Baker and Frederick Elliston, eds., Philosophy and Sex, 2nd edition. Buffalo, N.Y.: Prometheus, 1984, pp. 300-11.
  • Bloom, Allan. Love and Friendship. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993.
  • Christina, Greta. “Are We Having Sex Now or What?” in Alan Soble, ed., The Philosophy of Sex, 3rd edition. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997, pp. 3-8.
  • Finnis, John. “Law, Morality, and ‘Sexual Orientation’,” Notre Dame Law Review 69:5 (1994), pp. 1049-76.
  • Finnis, John and Martha Nussbaum. “Is Homosexual Conduct Wrong? A Philosophical Exchange,” in Alan Soble, ed., The Philosophy of Sex, 3rd edition. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997, pp. 89-94.
  • Gray, Robert. “Sex and Sexual Perversion,” in Alan Soble, ed., The Philosophy of Sex, 3rd edition. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997, pp. 57-66.
  • Grisez, Germain. The Way of the Lord Jesus. Quincy, Ill.: Franciscan Press, 1993.
  • Gudorf, Christine. Sex, Body, and Pleasure: Reconstructing Christian Sexual Ethics. Cleveland, Ohio: Pilgrim Press, 1994.
  • Hampton, Jean. “Defining Wrong and Defining Rape,” in Keith Burgess-Jackson, ed., A Most Detestable Crime: New Philosophical Essays on Rape. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999, pp. 118-56.
  • Held, Virginia. “Coercion and Coercive Offers,” in J. Roland Pennock and John W. Chapman, eds., Coercion: Nomos VIX. Chicago, Ill.: Aldine, 1972, pp. 49-62.
  • Jung, Patricia, and Ralph Smith. Heterosexism: An Ethical Challenge. Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 1993.
  • Kant, Immanuel. Lectures on Ethics. Translated by Louis Infield. New York: Harper and Row, 1963.
  • Kant, Immanuel. The Metaphysics of Morals . Translated by Mary Gregor. Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
  • Lewis, C. S. The Four Loves. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1960.
  • Mappes, Thomas. “Sexual Morality and the Concept of Using Another Person,” in Thomas Mappes and Jane Zembaty, eds., Social Ethics, 4th edition. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1992, pp. 203-26.
  • Mayo, David. “An Obligation to Warn of HIV Infection?” in Alan Soble, ed., Sex, Love and Friendship. Amsterdam. Hol.: Editions Rodopi, 1997, pp. 447-53.
  • Muehlenhard, Charlene, and Jennifer Schrag. “Nonviolent Sexual Coercion,” in A. Parrot and L. Bechhofer, eds, Acquaintance Rape. The Hidden Crime. New York: John Wiley, 1991, pp. 115-28.
  • Murphy, Jeffrie. “Some Ruminations on Women, Violence, and the Criminal Law,” in Jules Coleman and Allen Buchanan, eds., In Harm’s Way: Essays in Honor of Joel Feinberg. Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 209-30.
  • Nagel, Thomas. “Sexual Perversion,” in Alan Soble, ed., The Philosophy of Sex, 3st edition. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997, pp. 9-20.
  • O’Neill, Onora. “Between Consenting Adults,” Philosophy and Public Affairs 14:3 (1985), pp. 252-77.
  • Plato. Symposium. Translated by Michael Joyce, in E. Hamilton and H. Cairns, eds., The Collected Dialogues of Plato. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1961, pp. 526-74.
  • Posner, Richard. Sex and Reason. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992.
  • Sanders, Stephanie, and June Reinisch. “Would You Say You ‘Had Sex’ If . . . ?” Journal of the American Medical Association 281:3 (January 20, 1999), pp. 275-77.
  • Scruton, Roger. Sexual Desire: A Moral Philosophy of the Erotic. New York: Free Press, 1986.
  • Singer, Irving. The Nature of Love, vol. 2: Courtly and Romantic. Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1984.
  • Soble, Alan. “Antioch’s ‘Sexual Offense Policy’: A Philosophical Exploration,” Journal of Social Philosophy 28:1 (1997), pp. 22-36.
  • Soble, Alan. The Philosophy of Sex and Love: An Introduction. St. Paul, Minn.: Paragon House, 1998.
  • Soble, Alan. Sexual Investigations. New York: New York University Press,1996.
  • Soble, Alan. ed. Eros, Agape and Philia. New York: Paragon House, 1989.
  • Soble, Alan. ed. The Philosophy of Sex, 3rd edition. Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997.
  • Soble, Alan. ed. Sex, Love and Friendship. Amsterdam, Hol.: Editions Rodopi, 1996.
  • Solomon, Robert, and Kathleen Higgins, eds. The Philosophy of (Erotic) Love. Lawrence. Kan.: University Press of Kansas, 1991.
  • Stewart, Robert M., ed. Philosophical Perspectives on Sex and Love. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995.
  • Vannoy, Russell. Sex Without Love: A Philosophical Exploration. Buffalo, N.Y.: Prometheus, 1980.
  • Verene, Donald, ed. Sexual Love and Western Morality, 2nd edition. Boston, Mass.: Jones and Bartlett, 1995.
  • Wertheimer, Alan. “Consent and Sexual Relations,” Legal Theory 2:2 (1996), pp. 89-112.
  • Wojtyla, Karol [Pope John Paul II]. Love and Responsibility. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1981.

Author Information

Alan Soble
Email: ags38@drexel.edu
Drexel University
U. S. A.

Plato (427—347 B.C.E.)

platoPlato is one of the world’s best known and most widely read and studied philosophers. He was the student of Socrates and the teacher of Aristotle, and he wrote in the middle of the fourth century B.C.E. in ancient Greece. Though influenced primarily by Socrates, to the extent that Socrates is usually the main character in many of Plato’s writings, he was also influenced by Heraclitus, Parmenides, and the Pythagoreans.

There are varying degrees of controversy over which of Plato’s works are authentic, and in what order they were written, due to their antiquity and the manner of their preservation through time. Nonetheless, his earliest works are generally regarded as the most reliable of the ancient sources on Socrates, and the character Socrates that we know through these writings is considered to be one of the greatest of the ancient philosophers.

Plato’s middle to later works, including his most famous work, the Republic, are generally regarded as providing Plato’s own philosophy, where the main character in effect speaks for Plato himself. These works blend ethics, political philosophy, moral psychology, epistemology, and metaphysics into an interconnected and systematic philosophy. It is most of all from Plato that we get the theory of Forms, according to which the world we know through the senses is only an imitation of the pure, eternal, and unchanging world of the Forms. Plato’s works also contain the origins of the familiar complaint that the arts work by inflaming the passions, and are mere illusions. We also are introduced to the ideal of “Platonic love:” Plato saw love as motivated by a longing for the highest Form of beauty—The Beautiful Itself, and love as the motivational power through which the highest of achievements are possible. Because they tended to distract us into accepting less than our highest potentials, however, Plato mistrusted and generally advised against physical expressions of love.

Table of Contents

  1. Biography
    1. Birth
    2. Family
    3. Early Travels and the Founding of the Academy
    4. Later Trips to Sicily and Death
  2. Influences on Plato
    1. Heraclitus
    2. Parmenides and Zeno
    3. The Pythagoreans
    4. Socrates
  3. Plato’s Writings
    1. Plato’s Dialogues and the Historical Socrates
    2. Dating Plato’s Dialogues
    3. Transmission of Plato’s Works
  4. Other Works Attributed to Plato
    1. Spuria
    2. Epigrams
    3. Dubia
  5. The Early Dialogues
    1. Historical Accuracy
    2. Plato’s Characterization of Socrates
    3. Ethical Positions in the Early Dialogues
    4. Psychological Positions in the Early Dialogues
    5. Religious Positions in the Early Dialogues
    6. Methodological and Epistemological Positions in the Early Dialogues
  6. The Middle Dialogues
    1. Differences between the Early and Middle Dialogues
    2. The Theory of Forms
    3. Immortality and Reincarnation
    4. Moral Psychology
    5. Critique of the Arts
    6. Platonic Love
  7. Late Transitional and Late Dialogues
    1. Philosophical Methodology
    2. Critique of the Earlier Theory of Forms
    3. The Myth of Atlantis
    4. The Creation of the Universe
    5. The Laws
  8. References and Further Reading
    1. Greek Texts
    2. Translations Into English
    3. Plato’s Socrates and the Historical Socrates
    4. Socrates and Plato’s Early Period Dialogues
    5. General Books on Plato

1. Biography

a. Birth

It is widely accepted that Plato, the Athenian philosopher, was born in 428-7 B.C.E and died at the age of eighty or eighty-one at 348-7 B.C.E. These dates, however, are not entirely certain, for according to Diogenes Laertius (D.L.), following Apollodorus’ chronology, Plato was born the year Pericles died, was six years younger than Isocrates, and died at the age of eighty-four (D.L. 3.2-3.3). If Plato’s date of death is correct in Apollodorus’ version, Plato would have been born in 430 or 431. Diogenes’ claim that Plato was born the year Pericles died would put his birth in 429. Later (at 3.6), Diogenes says that Plato was twenty-eight when Socrates was put to death (in 399), which would, again, put his year of birth at 427. In spite of the confusion, the dates of Plato’s life we gave above, which are based upon Eratosthenes’ calculations, have traditionally been accepted as accurate.

b. Family

Little can be known about Plato’s early life. According to Diogenes, whose testimony is notoriously unreliable, Plato’s parents were Ariston and Perictione (or Potone—see D. L. 3.1). Both sides of the family claimed to trace their ancestry back to Poseidon (D.L. 3.1). Diogenes’ report that Plato’s birth was the result of Ariston’s rape of Perictione (D.L. 3.1) is a good example of the unconfirmed gossip in which Diogenes so often indulges. We can be confident that Plato also had two older brothers, Glaucon and Adeimantus, and a sister, Potone, by the same parents (see D.L. 3.4). (W. K. C. Guthrie, A History of Greek Philosophy, vol. 4, 10 n. 4 argues plausibly that Glaucon and Adeimantus were Plato’s older siblings.) After Ariston’s death, Plato’s mother married her uncle, Pyrilampes (in Plato’s Charmides, we are told that Pyrilampes was Charmides’ uncle, and Charmides was Plato’s mother’s brother), with whom she had another son, Antiphon, Plato’s half-brother (see Plato, Parmenides 126a-b).

Plato came from one of the wealthiest and most politically active families in Athens. Their political activities, however, are not seen as laudable ones by historians. One of Plato’s uncles (Charmides) was a member of the notorious “Thirty Tyrants,” who overthrew the Athenian democracy in 404 B.C.E. Charmides’ own uncle, Critias, was the leader of the Thirty. Plato’s relatives were not exclusively associated with the oligarchic faction in Athens, however. His stepfather Pyrilampes was said to have been a close associate of Pericles, when he was the leader of the democratic faction.

Plato’s actual given name was apparently Aristocles, after his grandfather. “Plato” seems to have started as a nickname (for platos, or “broad”), perhaps first given to him by his wrestling teacher for his physique, or for the breadth of his style, or even the breadth of his forehead (all given in D.L. 3.4). Although the name Aristocles was still given as Plato’s name on one of the two epitaphs on his tomb (see D.L. 3.43), history knows him as Plato.

c. Early Travels and the Founding of the Academy

When Socrates died, Plato left Athens, staying first in Megara, but then going on to several other places, including perhaps Cyrene, Italy, Sicily, and even Egypt. Strabo (17.29) claims that he was shown where Plato lived when he visited Heliopolis in Egypt. Plato occasionally mentions Egypt in his works, but not in ways that reveal much of any consequence (see, for examples, Phaedrus 274c-275b; Philebus 19b).

Better evidence may be found for his visits to Italy and Sicily, especially in the Seventh Letter. According to the account given there, Plato first went to Italy and Sicily when he was “about forty” (324a). While he stayed in Syracuse, he became the instructor to Dion, brother-in-law of the tyrant Dionysius I. According to doubtful stories from later antiquity, Dionysius became annoyed with Plato at some point during this visit, and arranged to have the philosopher sold into slavery (Diod. 15.7; Plut. Dion 5; D.L. 3.19-21).

In any event, Plato returned to Athens and founded a school, known as the Academy. (This is where we get our word, “academic.” The Academy got its name from its location, a grove of trees sacred to the hero Academus—or Hecademus [see D.L. 3.7]—a mile or so outside the Athenian walls; the site can still be visited in modern Athens, but visitors will find it depressingly void of interesting monuments or features.) Except for two more trips to Sicily, the Academy seems to have been Plato’s home base for the remainder of his life.

d. Later Trips to Sicily and Death

The first of Plato’s remaining two Sicilian adventures came after Dionysius I died and his young son, Dionysius II, ascended to the throne. His uncle/brother-in-law Dion persuaded the young tyrant to invite Plato to come to help him become a philosopher-ruler of the sort described in the Republic. Although the philosopher (now in his sixties) was not entirely persuaded of this possibility (Seventh Letter 328b-c), he agreed to go. This trip, like the last one, however, did not go well at all. Within months, the younger Dionysius had Dion sent into exile for sedition (Seventh Letter 329c, Third Letter 316c-d), and Plato became effectively under house arrest as the “personal guest” of the dictator (Seventh Letter 329c-330b).

Plato eventually managed to gain the tyrant’s permission to return to Athens (Seventh Letter 338a), and he and Dion were reunited at the Academy (Plut. Dion 17). Dionysius agreed that “after the war” (Seventh Letter 338a; perhaps the Lucanian War in 365 B.C.E.), he would invite Plato and Dion back to Syracuse (Third Letter 316e-317a, Seventh Letter 338a-b). Dion and Plato stayed in Athens for the next four years (c. 365-361 B.C.E.). Dionysius then summoned Plato, but wished for Dion to wait a while longer. Dion accepted the condition and encouraged Plato to go immediately anyway (Third Letter 317a-b, Seventh Letter 338b-c), but Plato refused the invitation, much to the consternation of both Syracusans (Third Letter 317a, Seventh Letter 338c). Hardly a year had passed, however, before Dionysius sent a ship, with one of Plato’s Pythagorean friends (Archedemus, an associate of Archytas—see Seventh Letter 339a-b and next section) on board begging Plato to return to Syracuse. Partly because of his friend Dion’s enthusiasm for the plan, Plato departed one more time to Syracuse. Once again, however, things in Syracuse were not at all to Plato’s liking. Dionysius once again effectively imprisoned Plato in Syracuse, and the latter was only able to escape again with help from his Tarentine friends ( Seventh Letter 350a-b).

Dion subsequently gathered an army of mercenaries and invaded his own homeland. But his success was short-lived: he was assassinated and Sicily was reduced to chaos. Plato, perhaps now completely disgusted with politics, returned to his beloved Academy, where he lived out the last thirteen years of his life. According to Diogenes, Plato was buried at the school he founded (D.L. 3.41). His grave, however, has not yet been discovered by archeological investigations.

2. Influences on Plato

a. Heraclitus

Aristotle and Diogenes agree that Plato had some early association with either the philosophy of Heraclitus of Ephesus, or with one or more of that philosopher’s followers (see Aristotle Metaph. 987a32, D.L. 3.4-3.5). The effects of this influence can perhaps be seen in the mature Plato’s conception of the sensible world as ceaselessly changing.

b. Parmenides and Zeno

There can be no doubt that Plato was also strongly influenced by Parmenides and Zeno (both of Elea), in Plato’s theory of the Forms, which are plainly intended to satisfy the Parmenidean requirement of metaphysical unity and stability in knowable reality. Parmenides and Zeno also appear as characters in his dialogue, the Parmenides. Diogenes Laertius also notes other important influences:

He mixed together in his works the arguments of Heracleitus, the Pythagoreans, and Socrates. Regarding the sensibles, he borrows from Heraclitus; regarding the intelligibles, from Pythagoras; and regarding politics, from Socrates. (D.L. 3.8)

A little later, Diogenes makes a series of comparisons intended to show how much Plato owed to the comic poet, Epicharmus (3.9-3.17).

c. The Pythagoreans

Diogenes Laertius (3.6) claims that Plato visited several Pythagoreans in Southern Italy (one of whom, Theodorus, is also mentioned as a friend to Socrates in Plato’s Theaetetus). In the Seventh Letter, we learn that Plato was a friend of Archytas of Tarentum, a well-known Pythagorean statesman and thinker (see 339d-e), and in the Phaedo, Plato has Echecrates, another Pythagorean, in the group around Socrates on his final day in prison. Plato’s Pythagorean influences seem especially evident in his fascination with mathematics, and in some of his political ideals (see Plato’s political philosophy), expressed in various ways in several dialogues.

d. Socrates

Nonetheless, it is plain that no influence on Plato was greater than that of Socrates. This is evident not only in many of the doctrines and arguments we find in Plato’s dialogues, but perhaps most obviously in Plato’s choice of Socrates as the main character in most of his works. According to the Seventh Letter, Plato counted Socrates “the justest man alive” (324e). According to Diogenes Laertius, the respect was mutual (3.5).

3. Plato’s Writings

a. Plato’s Dialogues and the Historical Socrates

Supposedly possessed of outstanding intellectual and artistic ability even from his youth, according to Diogenes, Plato began his career as a writer of tragedies, but hearing Socrates talk, he wholly abandoned that path, and even burned a tragedy he had hoped to enter in a dramatic competition (D.L. 3.5). Whether or not any of these stories is true, there can be no question of Plato’s mastery of dialogue, characterization, and dramatic context. He may, indeed, have written some epigrams; of the surviving epigrams attributed to him in antiquity, some may be genuine.

Plato was not the only writer of dialogues in which Socrates appears as a principal character and speaker. Others, including Alexamenos of Teos (Aristotle Poetics 1447b11; De Poetis fr. 3 Ross [=Rose2 72]), Aeschines (D.L. 2.60-63, 3.36, Plato Apology 33e), Antisthenes (D.L. 3.35, 6; Plato, Phaedo 59b; Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.4.5, 3.2.17), Aristippus (D.L. 2.65-104, 3.36, Plato Phaedo 59c), Eucleides (D.L. 2.106-112), Phaedo (D.L. 2.105; Plato, Phaedo passim), Simon (D.L. 122-124), and especially Xenophon (see D.L. 2.48-59, 3.34), were also well-known “Socratics” who composed such works. A recent study of these, by Charles H. Kahn (1996, 1-35), concludes that the very existence of the genre—and all of the conflicting images of Socrates we find given by the various authors—shows that we cannot trust as historically reliable any of the accounts of Socrates given in antiquity, including those given by Plato.

But it is one thing to claim that Plato was not the only one to write Socratic dialogues, and quite another to hold that Plato was only following the rules of some genre of writings in his own work. Such a claim, at any rate, is hardly established simply by the existence of these other writers and their writings. We may still wish to ask whether Plato’s own use of Socrates as his main character has anything at all to do with the historical Socrates. The question has led to a number of seemingly irresolvable scholarly disputes. At least one important ancient source, Aristotle, suggests that at least some of the doctrines Plato puts into the mouth of the “Socrates” of the “early” or “Socrates” dialogues are the very ones espoused by the historical Socrates. Because Aristotle has no reason not to be truthful about this issue, many scholars believe that his testimony provides a solid basis for distinguishing the “Socrates” of the “early” dialogues from the character by that name in Plato’s supposedly later works, whose views and arguments Aristotle suggests are Plato’s own.

b. Dating Plato’s Dialogues

One way to approach this issue has been to find some way to arrange the dialogues into at least relative dates. It has frequently been assumed that if we can establish a relative chronology for when Plato wrote each of the dialogues, we can provide some objective test for the claim that Plato represented Socrates more accurately in the earlier dialogues, and less accurately in the later dialogues.

In antiquity, the ordering of Plato’s dialogues was given entirely along thematic lines. The best reports of these orderings (see Diogenes Laertius’ discussion at 3.56-62) included many works whose authenticity is now either disputed or unanimously rejected. The uncontroversial internal and external historical evidence for a chronological ordering is relatively slight. Aristotle (Politics 2.6.1264b24-27), Diogenes Laertius (3.37), and Olympiodorus (Prol. 6.24) state that Plato wrote the Laws after the Republic. Internal references in the Sophist (217a) and the Statesman (also known as the Politicus; 257a, 258b) show the Statesman to come after the Sophist. The Timaeus (17b-19b) may refer to Republic as coming before it, and more clearly mentions the Critias as following it (27a). Similarly, internal references in the Sophist (216a, 217c) and the Theaetetus (183e) may be thought to show the intended order of three dialogues: Parmenides, Theaetetus, and Sophist. Even so, it does not follow that these dialogues were actually written in that order. At Theaetetus 143c, Plato announces through his characters that he will abandon the somewhat cumbersome dialogue form that is employed in his other writings. Since the form does not appear in a number of other writings, it is reasonable to infer that those in which it does not appear were written after the Theaetetus.

Scholars have sought to augment this fairly scant evidence by employing different methods of ordering the remaining dialogues. One such method is that of stylometry, by which various aspects of Plato’s diction in each dialogue are measured against their uses and frequencies in other dialogues. Originally done by laborious study by individuals, stylometry can now be done more efficiently with assistance by computers. Another, even more popular, way to sort and group the dialogues is what is called “content analysis,” which works by finding and enumerating apparent commonalities or differences in the philosophical style and content of the various dialogues. Neither of these general approaches has commanded unanimous assent among scholars, and it is unlikely that debates about this topic can ever be put entirely to rest. Nonetheless, most recent scholarship seems to assume that Plato’s dialogues can be sorted into different groups, and it is not unusual for books and articles on the philosophy of Socrates to state that by “Socrates” they mean to refer to the character in Plato’s “early” or Socratic dialogues, as if this Socrates was as close to the historical Socrates as we are likely to get. (We have more to say on this subject in the next section.) Perhaps the most thorough examination of this sort can be found in Gregory Vlastos’s, Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher (Cambridge and Cornell, 1991, chapters 2-4), where ten significant differences between the “Socrates” of Plato’s “early” dialogues and the character by that name in the later dialogues are noted. Our own view of the probable dates and groups of dialogues, which to some extent combine the results of stylometry and content analysis, is as follows (all lists but the last in alphabetical order):

Early
(All after the death of Socrates, but before Plato’s first trip to Sicily in 387 B.C.E.):

Apology, Charmides, Crito, Euthydemus, Euthyphro, Gorgias, Hippias Major, Hippias Minor, Ion, Laches, Lysis, Protagoras, Republic Bk. I.

Early-Transitional
(Either at the end of the early group or at the beginning of the middle group, c. 387-380 B.C.E.):

Cratylus, Menexenus, Meno

Middle
(c. 380-360 B.C.E.)

Phaedo, Republic Bks. II-X, Symposium

Late-Transitional
(Either at the end of the middle group, or the beginning of the late group, c. 360-355 B.C.E.)

Parmenides, Theaetetus, Phaedrus

Late
(c. 355-347 B.C.E.; possibly in chronological order)

Sophist, Statesman, Philebus, Timaeus, Critias, Laws

c. Transmission of Plato’s Works

Except for the Timaeus, all of Plato’s works were lost to the Western world until medieval times, preserved only by Moslem scholars in the Middle East. In 1578 Henri Estienne (whose Latinized name was Stephanus) published an edition of the dialogues in which each page of the text is separated into five sections (labeled a, b, c, d, and e). The standard style of citation for Platonic texts includes the name of the text, followed by Stephanus page and section numbers (e.g. Republic 511d). Scholars sometimes also add numbers after the Stephanus section letters, which refer to line numbers within the Stephanus sections in the standard Greek edition of the dialogues, the Oxford Classical texts.

4. Other Works Attributed to Plato

a. Spuria

Several other works, including thirteen letters and eighteen epigrams, have been attributed to Plato. These other works are generally called the spuria and the dubia. The spuria were collected among the works of Plato but suspected as frauds even in antiquity. The dubia are those presumed authentic in later antiquity, but which have more recently been doubted.

Ten of the spuria are mentioned by Diogenes Laertius at 3.62. Five of these are no longer extant: the Midon or Horse-breeder, Phaeacians, Chelidon, Seventh Day, and Epimenides. Five others do exist: the Halcyon, Axiochus, Demodocus, Eryxias, and Sisyphus. To the ten Diogenes Laertius lists, we may uncontroversially add On Justice, On Virtue, and the Definitions, which was included in the medieval manuscripts of Plato’s work, but not mentioned in antiquity.

Works whose authenticity was also doubted in antiquity include the Second Alcibiades (or Alcibiades II), Epinomis, Hipparchus, and Rival Lovers (also known as either Rivals or Lovers), and these are sometimes defended as authentic today. If any are of these are authentic, the Epinomis would be in the late group, and the others would go with the early or early transitional groups.

b. Epigrams

Seventeen or eighteen epigrams (poems appropriate to funerary monuments or other dedications) are also attributed to Plato by various ancient authors. Most of these are almost certainly not by Plato, but some few may be authentic. Of the ones that could be authentic (Cooper 1997, 1742 names 1, 2, 7, and especially 3 as possibly authentic), one (1) is a love poem dedicated to a student of astronomy, perhaps at the Academy, another (2) appears to be a funerary inscription for that same student, another (3) is a funerary inscription for Plato’s Syracusan friend, Dion (in which the author confesses that Dion “maddened my heart with erôs“), and the last (7) is a love poem to a young woman or girl. None appear to provide anything of great philosophical interest.

c. Dubia

The dubia present special risks to scholars: On the one hand, any decision not to include them among the authentic dialogues creates the risk of losing valuable evidence for Plato’s (or perhaps Socrates’) philosophy; on the other hand, any decision to include them creates the risk of obfuscating the correct view of Plato’s (or Socrates’) philosophy, by including non-Platonic (or non-Socratic) elements within that philosophy. The dubia include the First Alcibiades (or Alcibiades I), Minos, and Theages, all of which, if authentic, would probably go with the early or early transitional groups, the Cleitophon, which might be early, early transitional, or middle, and the letters, of which the Seventh seems the best candidate for authenticity. Some scholars have also suggested the possibility that the Third may also be genuine. If any are authentic, the letters would appear to be works of the late period, with the possible exception of the Thirteenth Letter, which could be from the middle period.

Nearly all of the dialogues now accepted as genuine have been challenged as inauthentic by some scholar or another. In the 19th Century in particular, scholars often considered arguments for and against the authenticity of dialogues whose authenticity is now only rarely doubted. Of those we listed as authentic, above (in the early group), only the Hippias Major continues occasionally to be listed as inauthentic. The strongest evidence against the authenticity of the Hippias Major is the fact that it is never mentioned in any of the ancient sources. However, relative to how much was actually written in antiquity, so little now remains that our lack of ancient references to this dialogue does not seem to be an adequate reason to doubt its authenticity. In style and content, it seems to most contemporary scholars to fit well with the other Platonic dialogues.

5. The Early Dialogues

a. Historical Accuracy

Although no one thinks that Plato simply recorded the actual words or speeches of Socrates verbatim, the argument has been made that there is nothing in the speeches Socrates makes in the Apology that he could have not uttered at the historical trial. At any rate, it is fairly common for scholars to treat Plato’s Apology as the most reliable of the ancient sources on the historical Socrates. The other early dialogues are certainly Plato’s own creations. But as we have said, most scholars treat these as representing more or less accurately the philosophy and behavior of the historical Socrates—even if they do not provide literal historical records of actual Socratic conversations. Some of the early dialogues include anachronisms that prove their historical inaccuracy.

It is possible, of course, that the dialogues are all wholly Plato’s inventions and have nothing at all to do with the historical Socrates. Contemporary scholars generally endorse one of the following four views about the dialogues and their representation of Socrates:

  1. The Unitarian View:
    This view, more popular early in the 20th Century than it is now, holds that there is but a single philosophy to be found in all of Plato’s works (of any period, if such periods can even be identified reliably). There is no reason, according to the Unitarian scholar, ever to talk about “Socratic philosophy” (at least from anything to be found in Plato—everything in Plato’s dialogues is Platonic philosophy, according to the Unitarian). One recent version of this view has been argued by Charles H. Kahn (1996). Most later, but still ancient, interpretations of Plato were essentially Unitarian in their approach. Aristotle, however, was a notable exception.
  2. The Literary Atomist View:
    We call this approach the “literary atomist view,” because those who propose this view treat each dialogue as a complete literary whole, whose proper interpretation must be achieved without reference to any of Plato’s other works. Those who endorse this view reject completely any relevance or validity of sorting or grouping the dialogues into groups, on the ground that any such sorting is of no value to the proper interpretation of any given dialogue. In this view, too, there is no reason to make any distinction between “Socratic philosophy” and “Platonic philosophy.” According to the literary atomist, all philosophy to be found in the works of Plato should be attributed only to Plato.
  3. The Developmentalist View:
    According to this view, the most widely held of all of the interpretative approaches, the differences between the early and later dialogues represent developments in Plato’s own philosophical and literary career. These may or may not be related to his attempting in any of the dialogues to preserve the memory of the historical Socrates (see approach 4); such differences may only represent changes in Plato’s own philosophical views. Developmentalists may generally identify the earlier positions or works as “Socratic” and the later ones “Platonic,” but may be agnostic about the relationship of the “Socratic” views and works to the actual historical Socrates.
  4. The Historicist View:
    Perhaps the most common of the Developmentalist positions is the view that the “development” noticeable between the early and later dialogues may be attributed to Plato’s attempt, in the early dialogues, to represent the historical Socrates more or less accurately. Later on, however (perhaps because of the development of the genre of “Socratic writings,” within which other authors were making no attempt at historical fidelity), Plato began more freely to put his own views into the mouth of the character, “Socrates,” in his works. Plato’s own student, Aristotle, seems to have understood the dialogues in this way.

Now, some scholars who are skeptical about the entire program of dating the dialogues into chronological groups, and who are thus strictly speaking not historicists (see, for example, Cooper 1997, xii-xvii) nonetheless accept the view that the “early” works are “Socratic” in tone and content. With few exceptions, however, scholars agreed that if we are unable to distinguish any group of dialogues as early or “Socratic,” or even if we can distinguish a separate set of “Socratic” works but cannot identify a coherent philosophy within those works, it makes little sense to talk about “the philosophy of historical Socrates” at all. There is just too little (and too little that is at all interesting) to be found that could reliably be attributed to Socrates from any other ancient authors. Any serious philosophical interest in Socrates, then, must be pursued through study of Plato’s early or “Socratic” dialogues.

b. Plato’s Characterization of Socrates

In the dialogues generally accepted as early (or “Socratic”), the main character is always Socrates. Socrates is represented as extremely agile in question-and-answer, which has come to be known as “the Socratic method of teaching,” or “the elenchus” (or elenchos, from the Greek term for refutation), with Socrates nearly always playing the role as questioner, for he claimed to have no wisdom of his own to share with others. Plato’s Socrates, in this period, was adept at reducing even the most difficult and recalcitrant interlocutors to confusion and self-contradiction. In the Apology, Socrates explains that the embarrassment he has thus caused to so many of his contemporaries is the result of a Delphic oracle given to Socrates’ friend Chaerephon (Apology 21a-23b), according to which no one was wiser than Socrates. As a result of his attempt to discern the true meaning of this oracle, Socrates gained a divinely ordained mission in Athens to expose the false conceit of wisdom. The embarrassment his “investigations” have caused to so many of his contemporaries—which Socrates claims was the root cause of his being brought up on charges (Apology 23c-24b)—is thus no one’s fault but his “victims,” for having chosen to live “the unexamined life” (see 38a).

The way that Plato’s represents Socrates going about his “mission” in Athens provides a plausible explanation both of why the Athenians would have brought him to trial and convicted him in the troubled years after the end of the Peloponnesian War, and also of why Socrates was not really guilty of the charges he faced. Even more importantly, however, Plato’s early dialogues provide intriguing arguments and refutations of proposed philosophical positions that interest and challenge philosophical readers. Platonic dialogues continue to be included among the required readings in introductory and advanced philosophy classes, not only for their ready accessibility, but also because they raise many of the most basic problems of philosophy. Unlike most other philosophical works, moreover, Plato frames the discussions he represents in dramatic settings that make the content of these discussions especially compelling. So, for example, in the Crito, we find Socrates discussing the citizen’s duty to obey the laws of the state as he awaits his own legally mandated execution in jail, condemned by what he and Crito both agree was a terribly wrong verdict, the result of the most egregious misapplication of the very laws they are discussing. The dramatic features of Plato’s works have earned attention even from literary scholars relatively uninterested in philosophy as such. Whatever their value for specifically historical research, therefore, Plato’s dialogues will continue to be read and debated by students and scholars, and the Socrates we find in the early or “Socratic” dialogues will continue to be counted among the greatest Western philosophers.

c. Ethical Positions in the Early Dialogues

The philosophical positions most scholars agree can be found directly endorsed or at least suggested in the early or “Socratic” dialogues include the following moral or ethical views:

  • A rejection of retaliation, or the return of harm for harm or evil for evil (Crito 48b-c, 49c-d; Republic I.335a-e);
  • The claim that doing injustice harms one’s soul, the thing that is most precious to one, and, hence, that it is better to suffer injustice than to do it (Crito 47d-48a; Gorgias 478c-e, 511c-512b; Republic I.353d-354a);
  • Some form of what is called “eudaimonism,” that is, that goodness is to be understood in terms of conduciveness to human happiness, well-being, or flourishing, which may also be understood as “living well,” or “doing well” (Crito 48b; Euthydemus 278e, 282a; Republic I. 354a);
  • The view that only virtue is good just by itself; anything else that is good is good only insofar as it serves or is used for or by virtue (Apology 30b; Euthydemus 281d-e);
  • The view that there is some kind of unity among the virtues: In some sense, all of the virtues are the same (Protagoras 329b-333b, 361a-b);
  • The view that the citizen who has agreed to live in a state must always obey the laws of that state, or else persuade the state to change its laws, or leave the state (Crito 51b-c, 52a-d).

d. Psychological Positions in the Early Dialogues

Socrates also appears to argue for, or directly makes a number of related psychological views:

  • All wrongdoing is done in ignorance, for everyone desires only what is good (Protagoras 352a-c; Gorgias 468b; Meno 77e-78b);
  • In some sense, everyone actually believes certain moral principles, even though some may think they do not have such beliefs, and may disavow them in argument (Gorgias 472b, 475e-476a).

e. Religious Positions in the Early Dialogues

In these dialogues, we also find Socrates represented as holding certain religious beliefs, such as:

  • The gods are completely wise and good (Apology 28a; Euthyphro 6a, 15a; Meno 99b-100b);
  • Ever since his childhood (see Apology 31d) Socrates has experienced a certain “divine something” (Apology 31c-d; 40a; Euthyphro 3b; see also Phaedrus 242b), which consists in a “voice” (Apology 31d; see also Phaedrus 242c), or “sign” (Apology 40c, 41d; Euthydemus 272e; see also Republic VI.496c; Phaedrus 242b) that opposes him when he is about to do something wrong (Apology 40a, 40c);
  • Various forms of divination can allow human beings to come to recognize the will of the gods (Apology 21a-23b, 33c);
  • Poets and rhapsodes are able to write and do the wonderful things they write and do, not from knowledge or expertise, but from some kind of divine inspiration. The same canbe said of diviners and seers, although they do seem to have some kind of expertise—perhaps only some technique by which to put them in a state of appropriate receptivity to the divine (Apology 22b-c; Laches 198e-199a; Ion 533d-536a, 538d-e; Meno 99c);
  • No one really knows what happens after death, but it is reasonable to think that death is not an evil; there may be an afterlife, in which the souls of the good are rewarded, and the souls of the wicked are punished (Apology 40c-41c; Crito 54b-c; Gorgias 523a-527a).

f. Methodological and Epistemological Positions in the Early Dialogues

In addition, Plato’s Socrates in the early dialogues may plausibly be regarded as having certain methodological or epistemological convictions, including:

  • Definitional knowledge of ethical terms is at least a necessary condition of reliable judging of specific instances of the values they name (Euthyphro 4e-5d, 6e; Laches 189e-190b; Lysis 223b; Greater Hippias 304d-e; Meno 71a-b, 100b; Republic I.354b-c);
  • A mere list of examples of some ethical value—even if all are authentic cases of that value—would never provide an adequate analysis of what the value is, nor would it provide an adequate definition of the value term that refers to the value. Proper definitions must state what is common to all examples of the value (Euthyphro 6d-e; Meno 72c-d);
  • Those with expert knowledge or wisdom on a given subject do not err in their judgments on that subject (Euthyphro 4e-5a; Euthydemus 279d-280b), go about their business in their area of expertise in a rational and regular way (Gorgias 503e-504b), and can teach and explain their subject (Gorgias 465a, 500e-501b, 514a-b; Laches 185b, 185e, 1889e-190b); Protagoras 319b-c).

6. The Middle Dialogues

a. Differences between the Early and Middle Dialogues

Scholarly attempts to provide relative chronological orderings of the early transitional and middle dialogues are problematical because all agree that the main dialogue of the middle period, the Republic, has several features that make dating it precisely especially difficult. As we have already said, many scholars count the first book of the Republic as among the early group of dialogues. But those who read the entire Republic will also see that the first book also provides a natural and effective introduction to the remaining books of the work. A recent study by Debra Nails (“The Dramatic Date of Plato’s Republic,” The Classical Journal 93.4, 1998, 383-396) notes several anachronisms that suggest that the process of writing (and perhaps re-editing) the work may have continued over a very long period. If this central work of the period is difficult to place into a specific context, there can be no great assurance in positioning any other works relative to this one.

Nonetheless, it does not take especially careful study of the transitional and middle period dialogues to notice clear differences in style and philosophical content from the early dialogues. The most obvious change is the way in which Plato seems to characterize Socrates: In the early dialogues, we find Socrates simply asking questions, exposing his interlocutors’ confusions, all the while professing his own inability to shed any positive light on the subject, whereas in the middle period dialogues, Socrates suddenly emerges as a kind of positive expert, willing to affirm and defend his own theories about many important subjects. In the early dialogues, moreover, Socrates discusses mainly ethical subjects with his interlocutors—with some related religious, methodological, and epistemological views scattered within the primarily ethical discussions. In the middle period, Plato’s Socrates’ interests expand outward into nearly every area of inquiry known to humankind. The philosophical positions Socrates advances in these dialogues are vastly more systematical, including broad theoretical inquiries into the connections between language and reality (in the Cratylus), knowledge and explanation (in the Phaedo and Republic, Books V-VII). Unlike the Socrates of the early period, who was the “wisest of men” only because he recognized the full extent of his own ignorance, the Socrates of the middle period acknowledges the possibility of infallible human knowledge (especially in the famous similes of light, the simile of the sun and good and the simile of the divided line in Book VI and the parable of the cave in Book VII of the Republic), and this becomes possible in virtue of a special sort of cognitive contact with the Forms or Ideas (eidê ), which exist in a supra-sensible realm available only to thought. This theory of Forms, introduced and explained in various contexts in each of the middle period dialogues, is perhaps the single best-known and most definitive aspect of what has come to be known as Platonism.

b. The Theory of Forms

In many of his dialogues, Plato mentions supra-sensible entities he calls “Forms” (or “Ideas”). So, for example, in the Phaedo, we are told that particular sensible equal things—for example, equal sticks or stones (see Phaedo 74a-75d)—are equal because of their “participation” or “sharing” in the character of the Form of Equality, which is absolutely, changelessly, perfectly, and essentially equal. Plato sometimes characterizes this participation in the Form as a kind of imaging, or approximation of the Form. The same may be said of the many things that are greater or smaller and the Forms of Great and Small (Phaedo 75c-d), or the many tall things and the Form of Tall (Phaedo 100e), or the many beautiful things and the Form of Beauty (Phaedo 75c-d, Symposium 211e, Republic V.476c). When Plato writes about instances of Forms “approximating” Forms, it is easy to infer that, for Plato, Forms are exemplars. If so, Plato believes that The Form of Beauty is perfect beauty, the Form of Justice is perfect justice, and so forth. Conceiving of Forms in this way was important to Plato because it enabled the philosopher who grasps the entities to be best able to judge to what extent sensible instances of the Forms are good examples of the Forms they approximate.

Scholars disagree about the scope of what is often called “the theory of Forms,” and question whether Plato began holding that there are only Forms for a small range of properties, such as tallness, equality, justice, beauty, and so on, and then widened the scope to include Forms corresponding to every term that can be applied to a multiplicity of instances. In the Republic, he writes as if there may be a great multiplicity of Forms—for example, in Book X of that work, we find him writing about the Form of Bed (see Republic X.596b). He may have come to believe that for any set of things that shares some property, there is a Form that gives unity to the set of things (and univocity to the term by which we refer to members of that set of things). Knowledge involves the recognition of the Forms (Republic V.475e-480a), and any reliable application of this knowledge will involve the ability to compare the particular sensible instantiations of a property to the Form.

c. Immortality and Reincarnation

In the early transitional dialogue, the Meno, Plato has Socrates introduce the Orphic and Pythagorean idea that souls are immortal and existed before our births. All knowledge, he explains, is actually recollected from this prior existence. In perhaps the most famous passage in this dialogue, Socrates elicits recollection about geometry from one of Meno’s slaves (Meno 81a-86b). Socrates’ apparent interest in, and fairly sophisticated knowledge of, mathematics appears wholly new in this dialogue. It is an interest, however, that shows up plainly in the middle period dialogues, especially in the middle books of the Republic.

Several arguments for the immortality of the soul, and the idea that souls are reincarnated into different life forms, are also featured in Plato’s Phaedo (which also includes the famous scene in which Socrates drinks the hemlock and utters his last words). Stylometry has tended to count the Phaedo among the early dialogues, whereas analysis of philosophical content has tended to place it at the beginning of the middle period. Similar accounts of the transmigration of souls may be found, with somewhat different details, in Book X of the Republic and in the Phaedrus, as well as in several dialogues of the late period, including the Timaeus and the Laws. No traces of the doctrine of recollection, or the theory of reincarnation or transmigration of souls, are to be found in the dialogues we listed above as those of the early period.

d. Moral Psychology

The moral psychology of the middle period dialogues also seems to be quite different from what we find in the early period. In the early dialogues, Plato’s Socrates is an intellectualist—that is, he claims that people always act in the way they believe is best for them (at the time of action, at any rate). Hence, all wrongdoing reflects some cognitive error. But in the middle period, Plato conceives of the soul as having (at least) three parts:

  1. a rational part (the part that loves truth, which should rule over the other parts of the soul through the use of reason),
  2. a spirited part (which loves honor and victory), and
  3. an appetitive part (which desires food, drink, and sex),

and justice will be that condition of the soul in which each of these three parts “does its own work,” and does not interfere in the workings of the other parts (see esp. Republic IV.435b-445b). It seems clear from the way Plato describes what can go wrong in a soul, however, that in this new picture of moral psychology, the appetitive part of the soul can simply overrule reason’s judgments. One may suffer, in this account of psychology, from what is called akrasia or “moral weakness”—in which one finds oneself doing something that one actually believes is not the right thing to do (see especially Republic IV.439e-440b). In the early period, Socrates denied that akrasia was possible: One might change one’s mind at the last minute about what one ought to do—and could perhaps change one’s mind again later to regret doing what one has done—but one could never do what one actually believed was wrong, at the time of acting.

e. Critique of the Arts

The Republic also introduces Plato’s notorious critique of the visual and imitative arts. In the early period works, Socrates contends that the poets lack wisdom, but he also grants that they “say many fine things.” In the Republic, on the contrary, it seems that there is little that is fine in poetry or any of the other fine arts. Most of poetry and the other fine arts are to be censored out of existence in the “noble state” (kallipolis) Plato sketches in the Republic, as merely imitating appearances (rather than realities), and as arousing excessive and unnatural emotions and appetites (see esp. Republic X.595b-608b).

f. Platonic Love

In the Symposium, which is normally dated at the beginning of the middle period, and in the Phaedrus, which is dated at the end of the middle period or later yet, Plato introduces his theory of erôs (usually translated as “love”). Several passages and images from these dialogues continued to show up in Western culture—for example, the image of two lovers as being each other’s “other half,” which Plato assigns to Aristophanes in the Symposium. Also in that dialogue, we are told of the “ladder of love,” by which the lover can ascend to direct cognitive contact with (usually compared to a kind of vision of) Beauty Itself. In the Phaedrus, love is revealed to be the great “divine madness” through which the wings of the lover’s soul may sprout, allowing the lover to take flight to all of the highest aspirations and achievements possible for humankind. In both of these dialogues, Plato clearly regards actual physical or sexual contact between lovers as degraded and wasteful forms of erotic expression. Because the true goal of erôs is real beauty and real beauty is the Form of Beauty, what Plato calls Beauty Itself, erôs finds its fulfillment only in Platonic philosophy. Unless it channels its power of love into “higher pursuits,” which culminate in the knowledge of the Form of Beauty, erôs is doomed to frustration. For this reason, Plato thinks that most people sadly squander the real power of love by limiting themselves to the mere pleasures of physical beauty.

7. Late Transitional and Late Dialogues

a. Philosophical Methodology

One of the novelties of the dialogues after those of the middle period is the introduction of a new philosophical method. This method was introduced probably either late in the middle period or in the transition to the late period, but was increasingly important in the late period. In the early period dialogues, as we have said, the mode of philosophizing was refutative question-and-answer (called elenchos or the “Socratic method”). Although the middle period dialogues continue to show Socrates asking questions, the questioning in these dialogues becomes much more overtly leading and didactic. The highest method of philosophizing discussed in the middle period dialogues, called “dialectic,” is never very well explained (at best, it is just barely sketched in the divided line image at the end of Book VI of the Republic). The correct method for doing philosophy, we are now told in the later works, is what Plato identifies as “collection and division,” which is perhaps first referred to at Phaedrus 265e. In this method, the philosopher collects all of the instances of some generic category that seem to have common characteristics, and then divides them into specific kinds until they cannot be further subdivided. This method is explicitly and extensively on display in the Sophist, Statesman, and Philebus.

b. Critique of the Earlier Theory of Forms

One of the most puzzling features of the late dialogues is the strong suggestion in them that Plato has reconsidered his theory of Forms in some way. Although there seems still in the late dialogues to be a theory of Forms (although the theory is, quite strikingly, wholly unmentioned in the Theaetetus, a later dialogue on the nature of knowledge), where it does appear in the later dialogues, it seems in several ways to have been modified from its conception in the middle period works. Perhaps the most dramatic signal of such a change in the theory appears first in the Parmenides, which appears to subject the middle period version of the theory to a kind of “Socratic” refutation, only this time, the main refuter is the older Eleatic philosopher Parmenides, and the hapless victim of the refutation is a youthful Socrates. The most famous (and apparently fatal) of the arguments provided by Parmenides in this dialogue has come to be known as the “Third Man Argument,” which suggests that the conception of participation (by which individual objects take on the characters of the Forms) falls prey to an infinite regress: If individual male things are male in virtue of participation in the Form of Man, and the Form of Man is itself male, then what is common to both The Form of Man and the particular male things must be that they all participate in some (other) Form, say, Man 2. But then, if Man 2 is male, then what it has in common with the other male things is participation in some further Form, Man 3, and so on. That Plato’s theory is open to this problem gains support from the notion, mentioned above, that Forms are exemplars. If the Form of Man is itself a (perfect) male, then the Form shares a property in common with the males that participate in it. But since the Theory requires that for any group of entities with a common property, there is a Form to explain the commonality, it appears that the theory does indeed give rise to the vicious regress.

There has been considerable controversy for many years over whether Plato believed that the Theory of Forms was vulnerable to the “Third Man” argument, as Aristotle believed it was, and so uses the Parmenides to announce his rejection of the Theory of Forms, or instead believed that the Third Man argument can be avoided by making adjustments to the Theory of Forms. Of relevance to this discussion is the relative dating of the Timaeus and the Parmenides, since the Theory of Forms very much as it appears in the middle period works plays a prominent role in the Timaeus. Thus, the assignment of a later date to the Timaeus shows that Plato did not regard the objection to the Theory of Forms raised in the Parmenides as in any way decisive. In any event, it is agreed on all sides that Plato’s interest in the Theory shifted in the Sophist and Stateman to the exploration of the logical relations that hold between abstract entities. In the Laws, Plato’s last (and unfinished) work, the Theory of Forms appears to have dropped out altogether. Whatever value Plato believed that knowledge of abstract entities has for the proper conduct of philosophy, he no longer seems to have believed that such knowledge is necessary for the proper running of a political community.

c. The “Eclipse” of Socrates

In several of the late dialogues, Socrates is even further marginalized. He is either represented as a mostly mute bystander (in the Sophist and Statesman), or else absent altogether from the cast of characters (in the Laws and Critias). In the Theaetetus and Philebus, however, we find Socrates in the familiar leading role. The so-called “eclipse” of Socrates in several of the later dialogues has been a subject of much scholarly discussion.

d. The Myth of Atlantis

Plato’s famous myth of Atlantis is first given in the Timaeus, which scholars now generally agree is quite late, despite being dramatically placed on the day after the discussion recounted in the Republic. The myth of Atlantis is continued in the unfinished dialogue intended to be the sequel to the Timaeus, the Critias.

e. The Creation of the Universe

The Timaeus is also famous for its account of the creation of the universe by the Demiurge. Unlike the creation by the God of medieval theologians, Plato’s Demiurge does not create ex nihilo, but rather orders the cosmos out of chaotic elemental matter, imitating the eternal Forms. Plato takes the four elements, fire, air, water, and earth (which Plato proclaims to be composed of various aggregates of triangles), making various compounds of these into what he calls the Body of the Universe. Of all of Plato’s works, the Timaeus provides the most detailed conjectures in the areas we now regard as the natural sciences: physics, astronomy, chemistry, and biology.

f. The Laws

In the Laws, Plato’s last work, the philosopher returns once again to the question of how a society ought best to be organized. Unlike his earlier treatment in the Republic, however, the Laws appears to concern itself less with what a best possible state might be like, and much more squarely with the project of designing a genuinely practicable, if admittedly not ideal, form of government. The founders of the community sketched in the Laws concern themselves with the empirical details of statecraft, fashioning rules to meet the multitude of contingencies that are apt to arise in the “real world” of human affairs. A work of enormous length and complexity, running some 345 Stephanus pages, the Laws was unfinished at the time of Plato’s death. According to Diogenes Laertius (3.37), it was left written on wax tablets.

8. References and Further Reading

a. Greek Texts

  • Platonis Opera (in 5 volumes) – The Oxford Classical Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press):
  • Volume I (E. A. Duke et al., eds., 1995): Euthyphro, Apologia Socratis, Crito, Phaedo, Cratylus, Theaetetus, Sophista, Politicus.
  • Volume II (John Burnet, ed., 1901): Parmenides, Philebus, Symposium, Phaedrus, Alcibiades I, Alcibiades II, Hipparchus, Amatores.
  • Volume III (John Burnet, ed., 1903): Theages, Charmides, Laches, Lysis, Euthydemus, Protagoras, Gorgias, Meno, Hippias Maior, Hippias Minor, Io, Menexenus.
  • Volume IV (John Burnet, ed., 1978): Clitopho, Respublica, Timaeus, Critias.
  • Volume V (John Burnet, ed. 1907): Minos, Leges, Epinomis, Epistulae, Definitiones, De Iusto, De Virtute, Demodocus, Sisyphus, Eryxias, Axiochus.
    • The Oxford Classical Texts are the standard Greek texts of Plato’s works, including all of the spuria and dubia except for the epigrams, the Greek texts of which may be found in Hermann Beckby (ed.), Anthologia Graeca (Munich: Heimeran, 1957).

b. Translations into English

  • Cooper, J. M. (ed.), Plato: Complete Works (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997).
    • Contains very recent translations of all of the Platonic works, dubia, spuria, and epigrams. Now generally regarded as the standard for English translations.

c. Plato’s Socrates and the Historical Socrates

  • Kahn, Charles H., Plato and the Socratic Dialogue (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).
    • Kahn’s own version of the “unitarian” reading of Plato’s dialogues. Although scholars have not widely accepted Kahn’s positions, Kahn offers several arguments for rejecting the more established held “developmentalist” position.
  • Vlastos, Gregory, Socrates, Ironist and Moral Philosopher (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press and Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1991).
    • Chapters 2 and 3 of this book are invariably cited as providing the most influential recent arguments for the “historicist” version of the “developmentalist” position.

d. Socrates and Plato’s Early Period Dialogues

  • Benson, Hugh H. (ed.), Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992).
    • A collection of previously published articles by various authors on Socrates and Plato’s early dialogues.
  • Brickhouse, Thomas C. and Nicholas D. Smith, Plato’s Socrates (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994).
    • Six chapters, each on different topics in the study of Plato’s early or Socratic dialogues.
  • Brickhouse, Thomas C. and Nicholas D. Smith, The Philosophy of Socrates (Boulder: Westview, 2000).
    • Seven chapters, each on different topics in the study of Plato’s early or Socratic dialogues. Some changes in views from those offered in their 1994 book.
  • Prior, William (ed.), Socrates: Critical Assessments (London and New York, 1996) in four volumes: I: The Socratic Problem and Socratic Ignorance; II: Issues Arising from the Trial of Socrates; III: Socratic Method; IV: Happiness and Virtue.
    • A collection of previously published articles by various authors on Socrates and Plato’s early dialogues.
  • Santas, Gerasimos Xenophon, Socrates: Philosophy in Plato’s Early Dialogues (Boston and London: Routledge, 1979).
    • Eight chapters, each on different topics in the study of Plato’s early or Socratic dialogues.
  • Taylor, C. C. W. Socrates: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).
    • Very short, indeed, but nicely written and generally very reliable.
  • Vlastos, Gregory, Socrates, Ironist and Moral Philosopher (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press and Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1991). (Also cited in VIII.3, above.)
    • Eight chapters, each on different topics in the study of Plato’s early or Socratic dialogues.
  • Vlastos, Gregory, Socratic Studies (ed. Myles Burnyeat; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
    • Edited and published after Vlastos’s death. A collection of Vlastos’s papers on Socrates not published in Vlastos’s 1991 book.
  • Vlastos, Gregory (ed.) The Philosophy of Socrates (South Bend: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980).
    • A collection of papers by various authors on Socrates and Plato’s early dialogues. Although now somewhat dated, several articles in this collection continue to be widely cited and studied.

e. General Books on Plato

  • Cherniss, Harold, The Riddle of the Early Academy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1945).
    • A study of reports in the Early Academy, following Plato’s death, of the so-called “unwritten doctrines” of Plato.
  • Fine, Gail (ed.), Plato I: Metaphysics and Epistemology and Plato II: Ethics, Politics, Religion and the Soul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
    • A collection of previously published papers by various authors, mostly on Plato’s middle and later periods.
  • Grote, George, Plato and the Other Companions of Sokrates 2nd ed. 3 vols. (London: J. Murray, 1867).
    • 3-volume collection with general discussion of “the Socratics” other than Plato, as well as specific discussions of each of Plato’s works.
  • Guthrie, W. K. C., A History of Greek Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) vols. 3 (1969), 4 (1975) and 5 (1978).
    • Volume 3 is on the Sophists and Socrates; volume 4 is on Plato’s early dialogues and continues with chapters on Phaedo, Symposium, and Phaedrus, and then a final chapter on the Republic.
  • Irwin, Terence, Plato’s Ethics (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995).
    • Systematic discussion of the ethical thought in Plato’s works.
  • Kraut, Richard (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Plato (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).
    • A collection of original discussions of various general topics about Plato and the dialogues.
  • Smith, Nicholas D. (ed.), Plato: Critical Assessments (London and New York: Routledge, 1998) in four volumes: I: General Issues of Interpretation; II: Plato’s Middle Period: Metaphysics and Epistemology; III: Plato’s Middle Period: Psychology and Value Theory; IV: Plato’s Later Works.
    • A collection of previously published articles by various authors on interpretive problems and on Plato’s middle and later periods. Plato’s early period dialogues are covered in this series by Prior 1996 (see VIII.4).
  • Vlastos, Gregory, Platonic Studies 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981).
    • A collection of Vlastos’s papers on Plato, including some important earlier work on the early dialogues.
  • Vlastos, Gregory, Plato I: Metaphysics and Epistemology and Plato II: Ethics, Politics, and Philosophy of Art and Religion (South Bend: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987).
    • A collection of papers by various authors on Plato’s middle period and later dialogues. Although now somewhat dated, several articles in this collection continue to be widely cited and studied.

Author Information

Thomas Brickhouse
Email: brickhouse@lynchburg.edu
Lynchburg College
U. S. A.

and

Nicholas D. Smith
Email: ndsmith@lclark.edu
Lewis & Clark College
U. S. A.

Christian Philosophy: The 1930s French Debates

Between 1931 and 1935, important debates regarding the nature, possibility and history of Christian philosophy took place between major authors in French-speaking philosophical and theological circles. These authors include Etienne Gilson, Jacques Maritain, Maurice Blondel, Gabriel Marcel, Fernand Van Steenberghen and Antonin Sertillanges. The debates provided occasion for participants to clarify their positions on the relationships between philosophy, Christianity, theology and history, and they involved issues such as the relationship between faith and reason, the nature of reason, reason’s grounding in the concrete human subject, the problem of the supernatural, and the nature and ends of philosophy itself. The debates led participants to self-consciously re-evaluate their own philosophical commitments and address the problem of philosophy’s nature in a novel and rigorous manner.

Although these debates originally took place between Roman Catholics and secular Rationalists, fundamental differences between different Roman Catholic positions rapidly became apparent and assumed central importance. The debates also drew attention from Reformed Protestant thinkers. Eventually the debates sparked smaller discussions among scholars in English, German, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian-speaking circles, and these continue to the present day. This article provides a brief overview of the most important contributors, the central issues and the main positions of these debates.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. The Historical Background and Development of the Debates
  3. Positions Against Christian Philosophy
    1. Gilson’s Overview
    2. Theologist (Fideist) Positions
    3. Rationalist Positions
    4. Neo-Scholastic Positions
  4. Positions For Christian Philosophy
    1. Etienne Gilson’s Position
    2. Jacques Maritain’s Position
    3. Maurice Blondel’s Position
    4. Gabriel Marcel’s Position
    5. Other Positions Reconciling the Gilson-Maritain and Blondel Positions
  5. References and Further Reading
    1. Literature from the 1930s Christian Philosophy Debates
    2. Selected Literature from 1940s and 50s Reformed Protestant Discussions about Christian Philosophy
    3. Selected Literature about the 1930s Christian Philosophy Debates and Positions on the Issue of Christian Philosophy

1. Introduction

The use of the term “Christian philosophy” and other similar expressions dates back to the early Christian era. However, considerable ambiguity surrounding the term pervades philosophical reflection regarding Christian philosophy’s possibility, historical reality and nature, and therefore affects efforts to generate and evaluate particular Christian philosophies. The 1930s French Debates represent a period of the most sustained and systematic examination of the problems concerning Christian philosophy, and are thus of philosophical significance for various reasons.

First, they involve perennial issues raised in philosophy, including the relationships between faith and reason, philosophy and theology, the nature of human reason and its limits in the face of religion, the nature of religion, historical relationships between Christian thought, practice and the development of particular philosophical systems and the nature of philosophy itself. The debates led participants to self-consciously re-evaluate their own philosophical commitments and address the problem of philosophy’s nature in a novel and rigorous manner.

Second, the debates are momentous due to the renown of their participants, most of whom had earned significant places in Francophone philosophical establishments, both secular or Christian. Practically all of the major interlocutors approached the issues armed with years of previous study, reflection and in some cases polemical engagements. Each of them was thus able to develop further insights and to more systematically elaborate their positions during the ensuing debates on the basis of their previous philosophical work.

Third, the debates and their participants’ personal positions on Christian philosophy have generated an ever-growing philosophical literature. Given that issues germane to Christian philosophy had never before nor since been examined so thoroughly, contemporary discussions regarding Christian philosophy greatly benefit from the 1930s Debates.

2. The Historical Background and Development of the Debates

Without providing a comprehensive historic overview for the 1930s Debates, several historical developments allowing context are to be considered at this juncture.

The onset of modernity produced radically new schools of philosophical thought, increasingly secularized culture, institutions, disciplines and discourses, and in some cases suspicion or outright repudiation of previous philosophical and theological traditions, religious authority and of Christianity itself. While issues raised by the contact between Christianity and philosophy were addressed in late antiquity, the “problem of Christian philosophy” was not explicitly framed until these developments came about. Thus Christian philosophy became a central problem for 17th and 18th century thinkers such as Pascal, Malebranche, Descartes, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Catholic Traditionalists (such as de Maistre and Lammenais), neo-Scholastics and other Thomists, and Maurice Blondel.

Another major development stemmed from the impetus given to Catholic philosophical work by several papal encyclicals. Leo XIII’s Aeterni Patris dealt explicitly with the relationship between philosophy and Christianity, and exhorted the return to study of Thomas Aquinas. While it never made Thomism the official philosophy of the Roman Catholic Church, it gave pride of place to Aquinas’ work, and within a generation Thomist philosophy became established as the dominant and representative form of Catholic philosophical thought. Aeterni Patris also had the side-effect of encouraging renewed attention to other mediaeval Christian thinkers, including Augustine, Anselm, Bonaventure, Scotus and Ockham. During the Modernism crisis, Pius X’s Pascendi exerted a different effect. The document diagnosed philosophical bases of the heresy of “modernism” and reinforced the centrality to be accorded to Thomism. With respect to Christian philosophy, the two documents might be summarized thus: the first suggested where Christian philosophy should be found and further developed; the second indicated where Christian philosophy could not be found and further developed.

Furthermore, in France a revitalization had taken place in metaphysics, moral philosophy and philosophical anthropology (all areas, as Etienne Gilson pointed out, central to Christian philosophy), due in part to renewed interest in Thomist and Augustinian studies and also to the influence of Henri Bergson and Maurice Blondel. In addition, the term “Christian philosophy” began to enjoy greater currency in the early part of the 20th century, particularly by the 1920s. This engendered two main lines of thought. First, the Debates provoked counter-responses by both secular, rationalist philosophers and by Catholic, neo-Scholastic philosophers who agreed for different reasons that the notion of Christian philosophy was a false one. Second, they produced reflection and dialogue on the part of Catholic and Reformed Protestant philosophers who considered the term to designate a distinctively Christian manner of philosophizing. By the time the debates officially began at the March 1931 meeting of the Société Française de Philosophie, the issue was primed for sustained discussion by the Francophone philosophical and theological communities.

Several participants had articulated their views on Christian philosophy prior to the debates. Emile Bréher dismissed the idea of Christian philosophy in relevant portions of his History of Philosophy, and in 1928 presented his argument at a set of conferences in Belgium. Etienne Gilson published books on Augustine, Bonaventure and Aquinas, making use of the term “Christian philosophy.” Along with Blondel and Jacques Maritain, she contributed discussions of Christian philosophy to various works commemorating the 1,500 year anniversary of the death of Augustine.

The specific catalyst for the debates was Xavier Leon’s proposal to Gilson that he and Léon Brunscvicg should debate the status of Thomist philosophy as a philosophy. Gilson in return proposed the broader topic “Christian philosophy”, asking that Brehier be included. Maritain also participated, taking Gilson’s side. Blondel contributed a letter highly critical of Gilson’s position at the meeting, and published a response to Bréhier’s criticisms.

The Debates expanded in numerous forums over the next four years. Articles and conference contributions by around fifty different authors appeared in journals, at first mainly in French, then later in German, Italian, Spanish, English and even Latin. Gilson, Maritain, Blondel and Regis Jolivet each published books focused on Christian philosophy in 1931-33. The Société Thomiste devoted their 1933 conference to the topic of Christian philosophy, and the Société d’Etudes Philosophiques devoted theirs that same year to discussion of Blondel’s Le problème de la philosophie chrétienne. By around 1936, the Debates came to a close. Although they did not end in conclusive or universally acknowledged success for any of the participants, the positions of dominant schools of thought regarding Christian philosophy had been firmly established.

The issue of Christian philosophy has continued to spur philosophical reflection, taking literary form in conference presentations, articles, books and papal documents (e.g. John Paul II’s Fides et Ratio and Benedict XVI’s recent Regensburg address on Faith, Reason and the University) and motivating a number of conferences and special journal volumes devoted to the topic. One smaller and later set of debates worth noting took place in the late 1940s and early 50s among Francophone Reformed Protestant philosophers and theologians, inspired by Roger Mehl’s The Condition of the Christian Philosopher, and included several Reformed thinkers who had played minor roles in the 1930s debates – Jacques Bois, Pierre Guérin and Arnold Reymond.

3. Positions Against Christian Philosophy

a. Gilson’s Overview

Etienne Gilson provides a useful overview and typology of the positions opposed to the possibility of Christian philosophy, distinguishing three main stances: “theologism” (now more generally called “fideism”), “rationalism” and certain types of Neo-Scholasticism.

Gilson had originally singled out “certain doctors of the Middle Ages” as representatives of theologism, for whom

the Christian religion excludes philosophy, because Christianity is a doctrine of salvation, because one can be saved without philosophy, and even because it is more difficult to be saved with philosophy than without it. . . . Medieval philosophy was the negation of this obscurantism, but still it did exist. For men of that type, the very notion of Christian philosophy could only rest on an equivocation. It signifies that where Christianity is, it is useless or dangerous that philosophy be. (Bulletin de la Société française de Philosophie, p. 41)

Gilson’s later works (The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy and Christianity and Philosophy ) expand this position, engaging the thought of Luther, Calvin and their later interpreters.

Gilson also criticizes another position regarding “theologism” (The Unity of Philosophical Experience, p.31-60): this is one where the term “Christian philosophy” signifies Christian revelation or Christian theology, disregarding the distinct role, discipline and methods of philosophy. In certain respects the rationalist position mirrors the theologist one:

[W]here philosophy is, it is dangerous that Christianity should be. This is the position of pure rationalism, i.e., of those who do not accept a limited role for rationalism. Whatever the content may be of the diverse philosophies reason elaborates, it is insofar as rational that they are philosophies. To want to subordinate them to a dogma or to a faith is to destroy philosophy’s essence….[T]heology bases itself on faith, which is something irrational. To make philosophy the servant of theology is therefore to make the rational depend on the irrational, i.e, to suppress its very rationality. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 41)

At their root, rationalist positions on Christian philosophy, on one ground or another, eliminate or exclude from the field of philosophy any philosophical system, doctrine or author who brings reason, the instrument of philosophy, into contaminating contact with religious faith, practice, or thought, which would vitiate the philosophy’s rational and autonomous development. Numerous philosophical positions, schools, or even environments of basic cultural and philosophical presuppositions developed during or in the wake of the European Enlightenment fit rationalism’s profile. Arguably, even philosophies critical of the Enlightenment but devotedly committed to a necessarily secularist view of philosophy can, on the issue of Christian philosophy, be regarded as analogues of rationalism.

From rationalist perspectives, Patristic and Medieval thought, as well as those of their modern interpreters, would not legitimately deserve the title of philosophy. Gilson notes, however, holding that “everything that either directly or indirectly undergoes the influence of a religious faith ceases, ipso facto, to retain any philosophical value,” really stems from and represents “a mere ‘rationalist’ postulate, directly opposed to reason.” (The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, p. 406)

Despite their differences, Neo-Thomist or neo-Scholastic opponents of Christian philosophy also shared several key similarities with rationalists. As Gilson points out, neo-Scholastics retain some role for Christian faith, but one extrinsic to their philosophical activity:

[A]ll of them agree with Saint Thomas that truth cannot contradict truth and that, consequently, what faith finds agrees substantially with what reason proves. They would even go further, for if faith agrees with reason, if not in its method, at least in its content, all factual disagreement between the two is an indication of an error in the philosophical order and a warning that one has to reexamine the problem. Still, all of the neo-Scholastic philosophers add that, insofar as philosophy, philosophy is the exclusive work of reason. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 42)

The philosophy of the Christian, in their view, ought not to incorporate anything deriving from Christianity into itself, for then it passes over into theology. The neo-Scholastic position in effect adopts wholesale rationalist assumptions about human reason, philosophy and Christian faith, with the consequence that

[a]ccording to these neo-Scholastic philosophers, there cannot be Christian philosophy any more than there can be for a pure rationalist, because within the philosophical order, grasped with precision and insofar as philosophical, their rationalism is a pure one. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 42)

b. Theologist (Fideist) Positions

No thinker ascribing to Gilson’s description of theologism participated in the debates, with the possible exception of Lev Shestov, whose 1937 Athens and Jerusalem (a portion of which was published in 1935) may be described as advancing theologism. Still, fideism exercised a role in the debates by providing a counter-position to argue against. Gilson himself cited a number of past examples, including Tertullian, Peter Damian, the Franciscan spirituals, the Imitation of Christ’s anonymous author, Martin Luther and briefly discussed Karl Barth (Christianity and Philosophy, p. 44-48), remarking: “All the Barthian Calvinist asks of philosophy is that it recognize itself as damned and remain in that condition” (Christianity and Philosophy, p. 47).

Barth exercised considerable influence in Francophone Reformed Christian circles, and his thought would figure heavily in later 1940s-50s Reformed Protestant discussions about Christian philosophy, but he was not particularly well-known or engaged in French Catholic circles at the time of the debates. His perspective on philosophy and Christianity is clearly and rigorously fideist, holding that Christian philosophy is an impossibility since philosophy and Christian Revelation have essentially nothing in common. Philosophy, like human reason, remains fundamentally incapable of addressing an absolutely transcendent Christian revelation of Christ, which alone provides knowledge of and relation to God:

There never actually has been a philosophia christiana, for if it was philosophia it was not christiana, and if it was christiana it was not philosophia. (Church Dogmatics, v. 1 , p. 6)

The existentialist Jewish philosopher Lev Shestov provides an example of the theologist position, in which his central metaphor is the opposition (stemming from the Genesis narrative) between the Tree of Life, representing faith and human thought working by the guidance of faith, and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, identified with the temptations of human reason and philosophy. According to Shestov, important and basic dimensions of human existence are left behind, reductively misconstrued, or overlooked by reason and philosophy. By aiming at and striving for knowledge, philosophy attempts to draw everything into a rationalist universal system of necessity and restraint. Even when making autonomy a goal, philosophy turns out to be unable to maintain itself and its drive to dominate all it encounters within limits, so that it corrupts and distorts human freedom and renders the human being unable to adequately understand itself, God and faith.

Shestov criticizes Gilson specifically, summarizing the latter’s position as proposing

the revealed truth is founded on nothing, proves nothing, is justified before nothing, and – despite this – is transformed in our mind into a justified, demonstrated, self-evident truth. Metaphysics wishes to possess the revealed truth and it succeeds in doing so. (Athens and Jerusalem, p.271)

Shestov regards Gilson’s position on Christian philosophy, and those of the Medieval thinkers from whom Gilson takes inspiration, as more sophisticated, and therefore more dangerous, versions of the same rationalist movement involved in ancient and modern philosophy. As an alternative, he proposes a “Biblical” or “Judeo-Christian philosophy,” departing from norms of Western philosophy, accepting “neither the fundamental problems nor the principles nor the technique of thought of rational philosophy,” open to and taking its direction from the dimension of faith.

c. Rationalist Positions

Two major representatives of the rationalist position, the historian of philosophy Emile Bréhier, and the idealist Léon Brunschvicg, became directly involved in the Debates. Interestingly, while both argued against the possibility of Christian philosophy, their positions differed on basic assumptions about rationality. After presenting his position prior to and early on in the debates, Bréhier never provided responses to the arguments of his critics. In his later Raison et Religion, Brunchscvicg revisited the issues, but made no new contribution. By the middle stages of the Debates, the rationalists dropped out of the discussion, which had turned to intra-Christian (primarily intra-Catholic) issues.

Bréhier’s concluded that “one can no more speak of a Christian philosophy than of a Christian mathematics or a Christian physics,” (“Y-a-t’il une philosophie chrétienne?”, p. 162) arriving at this via two main argumentative strategies. Before examining these, two points bearing on Bréhier’s contribution to the debate require mention. First, Bréhier suggests that “the difficulty here is more normative than factual,” and then writes decisively “[t]he question of the existence of Christian philosophy can not be a pure question of fact.” (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 133-4). Judgment and resolution requires the historian’s active work of interpreting and discerning the philosophical value and content of candidates for the legitimate title of Christian philosophy. Second, he identifies reason, and rationality as such, with an idealization of Greek philosophy:

For the Hellene, the true object of philosophy was to discover order, or the cosmos: each being (and principally the directive forces of nature, souls, and God) must be defined by the exact, and ne varietur, place that it occupies in this eternal order. (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 134)

[T]he goal of Greek philosophy was to investigate the rational, consequently immovable and fixed, order which is in things. The universal Logos or Intelligence is only the metaphysical realization, the projection of this need. It is, set up within the ideal, the very order that the sensible world realizes more or less imperfectly. (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 139-40)

Bréhier’s first argumentative strategy took the form of a dilemma: there are two possible ways of understanding Christian philosophy, and adopting either one of these will lead to a rejection of Christian philosophy as philosophy:

The word “Christian philosophy” seems to me to have two extremely distinct senses….In a first sense, it exists, but it is of no interest to philosophers; in a second sense, it would have interest for philosophers if it did exist, but it does not exist. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 49)

In the first sense, Christianity is determined by some dogmatic authority, termed by Bréhier a “magisterium.”

[T]he only way to know what is Christian and what is not Christian is to consult those who say – and who have the right to say – what Christian doctrine is….In this sense, I will call “Christian philosophy” that which is in agreement with dogma, what the magisterium accepts. I will call “non-Christian philosophy” that which it rejects, and I will say that this question has not a bit of importance or interest for the philosopher as philosopher. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 50)

He provides two main and related reasons why the philosopher may set this question aside. Besides the fact of the existence of numerous Christian communities disagreeing on fundamental issues, the history of the Catholic magisterium reveals

an absence of precise limit in the philosophical domain this magisterium oversees, and a lack of consistency in its censure, and these make Christian philosophy in the first sense seem to be something completely arbitrary. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 50)

In addition, the mere condition of reason and philosophy being forced in its exercise to submit to any authority sets

in place of the autonomy of reason that takes the initiative of philosophical thought, the heteronomy of a reason completely incapable of directing itself and knowing the scope of its own conclusions. (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 150)

This irredeemably vitiates any Christian philosophy understood in the first sense.

In the second sense, Christian philosophy would be a historically observable case where Christianity has provided to philosophy a new concept, method or direction. Arguing against this, Bréhier examined the thought of the Church Fathers, Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, 17th Century Rationalists, 19th Century Traditionalists, Hegel and his successors, and Maurice Blondel, to show that none of them are both Christian and philosophical. The Church Fathers do not create a new philosophy, but rather “annex everything they can from pagan philosophy to Christianity” (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 135). What is philosophical in Augustine really comes from Plato and Plotinus, and likewise Aquinas’ philosophy is simply Aristotelianism, though marred by an additional problem:

Saint Thomas’ goal is to show the convergence of the two great movements that dominate the spiritual history of our West, Greek rationalism represented by Aristotle and Christian faith. One can only speak of convergence if each of these two movements has its own initiative, its own internal development: but, reason no longer possesses its own initiative once the results of its own activity are judged by a criterion that is foreign to it, by faith (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 144).

The 17th Century Rationalists develop a natural theology, but in the process dispense with any distinctive dependence on Christianity, while the Traditionalists render reason so entirely dependent on Christianity that

If ‘reason’ still retains some value, it is under the condition of not wanting to be anything more than a form of tradition, and its oldest aspect. This Christian philosophy, the better to dominate reason, annexes it thus into revelation (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 156)

Hegelianism rationalizes religion by absorbing it into philosophy, and eventually culminates in Feuerbach’s philosophical but atheist humanism. Bréhier then brings his review to a close in criticizing Blondel on two counts. First, the problem of action central to Blondel’s work has no intrinsic connection with Christianity. Second, Blondel’s work is really just an example of Christian apologetics rather than philosophy.

In contrast to Bréhier’s wholesale and unconvincing dismissal of any historical influence of Christianity on philosophy, Brunschvicg provides a more nuanced, though still largely negative, perspective on Christian philosophy. While acknowledging from the start that “I would not recognize myself in what I think and what I feel if the entire movement of Christianity had not existed,” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 73) he would sharpen the debates’ question into that of “a specifically Christian philosophy” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 73). His answer takes form within the general assumptions of Brunschvicg’s evolutionary and idealist philosophy of rationality’s development.

In his view, rationality and philosophy emerge from originally religious backgrounds, but become progressively freed from religion and immature forms of rationality. True spirituality is to be discovered in philosophy, since religion and religious thought provide only its symbols.

[W]e come back to the position that I have called, granted very naively, that of the Western consciousness, which is prior by five centuries to the blossoming of Christianity. From that point of view, faith, insofar as faith, is only the prefiguration, the sensible symbol, the approximation of what properly human effort will be able to set in full light. We understand then how one can recognize that philosophy exists, and Christianity exists, without having the right to conclude that a Christian philosophy would exist (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 74-5).

Brunschvicg’s rationalist perspective eliminates one key aspect of the problem Christian philosophy poses for his Christian interlocutors. He holds that revelation is not really revelation, since what philosophy’s gradually ascending progress has revealed is that there is in reality no supernatural: Christian or otherwise. He also eliminates from consideration all pre-17th century philosophies as candidates for Christian philosophy, arguing that from the vantage of the present, the types of rationality developed prior to the 17th century were immature, and thus not adequately philosophical. Significantly, while this would disqualify Augustine’s or Aquinas’ thought (though not Hegel’s or Blondel’s) from being Christian philosophies, it would likewise disqualify the ancient conception of reason upon which Bréhier’s critique entirely relies.

There are three possible relations between a thinker’s philosophy and Christianity in Brunschvicg’s view. If one is primarily a philosopher and secondarily a Christian, it is not really Christian philosophy, just philosophy. Likewise if one is primarily a Christian and secondarily a philosopher, it is not really Christian philosophy. Pascal provides an example of this, where “his Christianity has truly taken possession of the entire man… by uncovering for him a way of philosophizing that is not that of philosophers” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., 76). There is a third possibility

where we would have to recognize that there is something it would be appropriate to call, without equivocation and without compromise, a Christian philosophy. This is the case where a metaphysician, reflecting in a manner deep and “naive” at the same time, would arrive at that conviction that philosophy ends up only posing problems, entangling itself in difficulties. The clearer a consciousness it will have of these problems, the deeper it will sound the abyss into which these difficulties throw philosophy, the more it will be persuaded that only Christianity’s own solutions will satisfy philosophical problems. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., 76).

Brunschvicg identifies this possibility with Malebranche (arguably, Blondel would also fit this description), and concedes to him

the privilege and the honor of being the representative, naturally not the sole representative, but the typical and essential representative of a Christian philosophy (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., 76).

d. Neo-Scholastic Positions

Certain neo-Scholastic philosophers and theologians (in particular those representing the Louvain school), while regarding Thomism as the truest and most adequate philosophy available, argued against the possibility or desirability of an explicitly Christian philosophy. Several concerns marked their position, not least of which was maintaining strict distinction between the disciplines of philosophy and theology, whose formulation in their eyes was a central accomplishment of Thomas Aquinas’ thought. Philosophy was to be, indeed could only be, an activity deriving from and employing only purely natural reason, evidence and principles, distinct from theology in which Christian revelation and faith play a role. Neo-Scholastics worried over any implication that human reason might not be essentially the same in the non-believer as in the believer, especially since this would seem to render discussion and comparison with non-Christian philosophies problematic. Their rallying point was the view that Thomism was a genuine philosophy precisely because it was a purely rational philosophy, independently arriving at coincidence with the truths of Christian faith and doctrine.

Pierre Mandonnet adopted the most extreme position, arguing at the 1933 Société Thomiste meeting for a historical interpretation reminiscent of Bréhier’s:

Certainly Christianity has transformed the world, but it has not transformed philosophy….Certainly Christianity has been a considerable factor of progress in humanity, but not progress of a philosophical order. Progress in the philosophical order does not take place by Scripture but by reason….Progress in philosophy therefore does not take place by the paths of religion. Even if there had been neither Revelation nor Incarnation, there would have been development of science and of thought. (La philosophie chrétienne: Juvisy, 11 Septembre 1933, p. 67-8)

He granted that one might speak of Christian philosophy as “a Christian philosophical product,” i.e., the product of the philosophical activity of philosophers who happen to be Christian.

But, this will be a purely personal matter. They have their reasons when they philosophize; they have their reasons for being Christian. The unity is in the subject, who finds himself being a believer and a philosopher; it is not in the work that they produce. (p. 63)

At any rate, Mandonnet avers, the purported Christian philosopher will not be engaging in philosophy, but rather a theology, which can neither be unified with philosophy, nor be made comprehensible to non-believers.

Léon Noël’s position, articulated through recourse both to Aquinas’ thought and to Husserlian phenomenology, demonstrates more flexibility than Mandonnet’s, and distinguishes between two points of view: that of the systematic philosopher, and that of the genesis of a philosophical system. From the former, in its exposition, a philosophy must be entirely rational, free from faith, so that it “rest[s] only on evidence” and remains “purely philosophical, communicable to any other mind, even if it be an unbelieving one, and able to be discussed on the common ground of certainties which all grant.” (“La notion de philosophie chrétienne”, p. 340). From the latter, Christianity can orient or aid the process of study, the development of a philosophical position or doctrine, and does so in and for the individual philosopher:

Christian doctrines do not enter as such into the objective exposition of a philosophy, or then that philosophy would cease to be a philosophy. They cannot serve as such for the basis of a reasoning. But their presence in the mind of the believer can orient the research with a new meaning. (“La notion”, p. 339-40)

In this limited sense, regarding a philosophy whose historical development took place through the influence of Christianity, Noël grants, we can speak of a Christian philosophy, but this is a less rigorous way of speaking and thinking. He maintains that the Christian philosopher who has been aided by Christianity in his or her philosophical research must then strive to remove any dependence on Christian faith or doctrine in their philosophical system, so that it is purely rational, as accessible to the non-believer as it is to his religious counterpart. A “transcendent aspect” will remain in Christian faith, life, and experience, and adequate study of this will require “subordinating one’s judgment to faith,” but this will then cross over the boundary from philosophy into theology. All the philosopher can do, as a philosopher, is note this aspect’s “irreducibility to rational explanation” (“La notion de philosophie chrétienne”, p. 342).

Fernand Van Steenberghen makes points analogous to those made by Noël and Mandonnet (though mildly criticizing the latter), agreeing with them in regarding the term “Christian philosophy” as either the product of, or liable to produce, misunderstandings.

There are Christian philosophers, because some Christians can give themselves over to philosophical research, and because their Christianity disposes them to give themselves over with perspicuity, with prudence, with serenity; it helps them with working out a true philosophy. To the degree that it is true, a philosophy is necessarily compatible with Christianity, open to Christianity, utilizable by Christianity and by theology; its content will be able to partially coincide with that of revelation. But a philosophy will never be “Christian” in the formal and rigorous sense. One can, doubtless, speak of Christian philosophers in a purely material sense, to designate philosophies that have been worked out by Christian thinkers. But since the facts demonstrate the latent danger of this usage, it would be better to avoid using an expression that, far from illuminating anything, is a source of confusions and equivocations. (“La IIe journée d’études de la Société Thomiste et la notion de ‘philosophie chrétienne’”, p. 554)

Van Steenberghen made several additional points. Agreeing with Blondel and Sertillanges in that philosophy’s task is to extend itself as far as it can to all of reality, he proposed the Philosophy of Religion in place of Christian philosophy, which should include the sub-discipline ‘Philosophy of Christianity’. He criticized Thomist proponents of Christian philosophy, in particular Gilson, Maritain and Sertillanges, for having “mix[ed] up things important to carefully distinguish” philosophy and theology, and “the personal attitude of the Christian philosopher and the method of philosophy…the psychological coming-to-being of a science and its logical coming-to-being.” (“La IIe journée”, p. 550-1)

4. Positions For Christian Philosophy

a. Etienne Gilson’s Position

Etienne Gilson argued for Christian philosophy’s legitimacy and observable historical reality, and explored particular achievements of Medieval Christian philosophies in depth. Contrary to Henri Gouhier’s critique in his work that “the dossier of the notion of ‘Christian philosophy’ does not appear to present any change, any evolution” (p. 66), Gilson continued to revise his assessment of significant authors during the Debates. Early on in the Debates, bringing up “Saint Augustine’s credo ut intelligam and Saint Anselm’s fides quaerens intellectum,” he considered “these two formulas…the true definition of Christian philosophy” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 48). He would later revise his assessment, narrowing the scope of Christian philosophy primarily to Thomism, construing Augustinianism as reflecting a primacy of faith over reason (Reason and Revelation in the Middle Ages, p. 17-33) and explicitly rejecting the Anselmian fides quaerens intellectum, now seeing “in that formula, an exclusive ambition and limitation, which forbids us from seeing in the definition of the attitude of a Christian philosopher” (“Sens et nature de l’argument de Saint Anselme,” p. 49, note 2).

Gilson grabbed Bréhier’s dilemma by its horns: “I will say that in my view the Christian philosophy he thinks is not interesting at all but does exist, does not exist, whereas the one he deems that it would be interesting but does not exist, does exist” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 52). Historical examination indicates that the Catholic magisterium (in Christianity and Philosophy, Gilson extends his purview to Reformed and Lutheran positions) addresses philosophy in a more complex manner than Bréhier’s simplistic interpretation, so that there never has been a philosophy simply dictated by a religious magisterium. Whether Christianity has in fact made any positive contributions to philosophy remains an open question requiring thorough historical study, which directed Gilson to the existence of Christian philosophies, particularly in the Middle Ages. “What I seek in the notion of Christian philosophy is therefore a conceptual translation of what I believe to be a historically observable object: philosophy in its Christian state” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 73).

He also criticized Neo-Scholastic opponents of Christian philosophy for unnecessarily “adopt[ing] the position of their opponents,” but also for assuming that

[i]n Thomism alone we have a system in which philosophic conclusions are deduced from purely rational premises….Philosophy, doubtless, is subordinate to theology, but, as philosophy, it depends on nothing but its own proper method; based on human reason, owing all of its truth to the self-evidence of its principles and the accuracy of its deduction, it reaches an accord spontaneously and without having to deviate in any way from its own proper path. (The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, p. 6)

Any relation between philosophy and Christianity, however, becomes merely fortuitous and extrinsic. “Once reason, as regards its exercise, has been divorced from faith, all intrinsic relation between Christianity and philosophy becomes a contradiction” (The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, p. 7). What the Neo-Thomists had forgotten was that “faith and reason are rooted in the unity of the concrete subject.” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 45-6)

Gilson also criticized another position, “philosophy of the concrete,” rightly identifying this with Bergson and wrongly with Blondel. In his view (and Maritain’s, who would make similar criticisms) these philosophies bore strong affinities with Augustinian positions and were favorable to Christian philosophy, but as they were hostile to conceptual articulation, they were liable to stray into theology or apologetics. He also argues against a plausibly Blondelian position: “[a] philosophy open to the supernatural would certainly be compatible with Christianity, but it would not necessarily be a Christian philosophy.”

In order to defend the notion of Christian philosophy, simply noting the existence of philosophies in which Christianity had made some contribution was not sufficient, and Gilson was particularly concerned to clarify Christian philosophy’s nature, providing several definitions of Christian philosophy:

I call Christian every philosophy which, although keeping the two orders formally distinct, nevertheless considers the Christian revelation as an indispensable auxiliary to reason….[T]he concept does not correspond to any simple essence susceptible of abstract definition; but corresponds much rather to a concrete historical reality as something calling for description….[It] includes in its extension all those philosophical systems which were in fact what they were because a Christian religion existed and because they were ready to submit to its influence. (The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, p. 37)

If philosophical systems exist, purely rational in their principles and in their methods, whose existence is not explained without the existence of the Christian religion, the philosophies that they define merit the name of Christian philosophies. This notion does not correspond to a concept of a pure essence, that of the philosopher or that of the Christian, but to the possibility of a complex historical reality: that of a revelation generative of reason. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 39)

If there have been philosophies, i.e., systems of rational truths, whose existence cannot be explained historically without taking account of Christianity’s existence, these philosophies should bear the name of Christian philosophies…. For the relation between both concepts to be intrinsic, it is not enough that a philosophy be compatible with Christianity; it is necessary that Christianity have played an active role in the very establishment of that philosophy. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 46)

He also characterized the range, objects, and condition of Christian philosophy:

[T]he content of Christian philosophy is that body of rational truths discovered, explored, or simply safeguarded, thanks to the help that reason receives from revelation (The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, p. 35)

[T]he essential domain of Christian philosophy corresponds exactly to the limits of natural theology, but accidentally, it exerts an influence on almost the whole of philosophy (Christianity and Philosophy, p. 131)

[E]very Christian philosophy will be traversed, impregnated, nourished by Christianity as by a blood that circulates in it, or rather, like a life that animates it. One will never be able to say that here the philosophical ends and the Christian begins; it will be integrally Christian and integrally philosophical or it will not be. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 46)

Gilson’s position made three additional contributions to understanding the nature and the problem of Christian philosophy. First, he repeatedly stresses that an aspect central to the problem of Christian philosophy was the problem of the relations between faith and reason. Second, he specifies that in the use of their reason and in the course of their philosophical activity, past Christian philosophers drew upon resources offered them by the Christian faith and revelation. One way this took place was by ideas, e.g. those of creation ex nihilo, of God as being, of personality, derived originally from the non-rational religious source, then appropriated by Christian (as well as Jewish and Muslim) thinkers, who fruitfully brought them into their philosophical activity and systems. Christian philosophy represents the philosophical activity of reason working on, and bringing rationality to data derived originally from non-rational religious sources.

[O]nce this philosopher is also a Christian, his reason’s exercise will be that of a Christian’s reason, i.e., not a reason of a different type than that of non-Christian philosophers, but a reason that labors under different conditions….[I]t is true that his reason is that of a subject in which there is something non-rational, his religious faith….I ask especially whether the philosophical life is not precisely a constant effort to bring what is irrational in us to the state of rationality….What is peculiar to the Christian is being convinced of the rational fertility of his faith and being sure that this fertility is inexhaustible. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 47)

Third, he redirects focus from abstract ways of framing this problem towards concrete philosophizing human subjects, in whom faith and reason coexist, and who both engage in and are formed by philosophy and Christianity. Gilson guardedly accepts the Augustinian position:

He knows that faith is faith and reason is reason, but he adds that a man’s faith and a man’s reason are not two uncoordinated accidents of the same substance. In his view, the real is the man himself, a profound unity, not dissociable into juxtaposed elements as fragments of a mosaic would be, a unity in which nature and grace, reason and faith, cannot function each one on its own, like in a mechanism whose pieces would have been purchased at the store as separate parts. If therefore a Christian man philosophizes, and if he expresses himself truly in his philosophy, this cannot fail to be a Christian philosophy. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 45)

Gilson argues that this correctly reflects “the real unity of the elements of the concrete in the subject where they are realized….If there were a faith and a reason in us, whose being was radically distinct from that of a thinking substance to which they belong, we could not say of any of us that he was a man” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 45-6).

b. Jacques Maritain’s Position

Maritain regarded his own position as a “doctrinal’ (that is, strictly philosophical) complement to Gilson’s historically derived position. Like Gilson, he criticized rationalist and neo-Scholastic opponents of Christian philosophy, but also articulated fuller criticisms of Blondel (An Essay on Christian Philosophy, p. 7-11, 55-61, Science and Wisdom, p. 82-86). He agreed with Blondel on the mistake of Christian thinkers calling for and generating a “separated philosophy,” which he regarded as “completely contrary to the spirit of Thomism” (Essay, p. 8), but saw three main flaws in Blondel’s position. First, he rightly notes the errors in Blondel’s own critique based on reductive misinterpretations of Gilson’s position. Second, he charges Blondel with a lack of clarity, blurring lines between philosophy and theology, thus

transfer[ring] to the heart of a philosophy what holds true of an apologetics…apologetics, by its own nature and essence presupposes the solicitations of grace and the operations of the heart and will on the part of the one who hears, and the light of faith already possessed on the part of the one who speaks; philosophy by its nature and essence exacts…only reason in the one who searches. (Essay, p. 9)

Third, admitting the “insufficiency of philosophy,” Maritain rejects Blondel’s call for and project of “philosophy of insufficiency,” making charges similar to Gilson’s, that by critiquing conceptualism, Blondel rejects concepts and objective knowledge.

Maritain’s most important contribution was to frame the useful distinction between the nature and the state of philosophy:

[W]e must distinguish between the nature of philosophy, or what it is in itself, and the state in which it exists in real fact, historically, in the human subject, and which pertains to its concrete conditions of existence and exercise. (Essay, p. 11-2)

In its nature or essence, philosophy is “intrinsically a natural and rational form of knowledge” (Essay, p. 14), entirely independent from faith. As a form of knowledge, philosophy is specified by its object(s): “within the realm of the real, created and uncreated…a whole class of objects which are of their nature attainable through the natural faculties of the human mind” (Essay, p. 14). In its nature, however, philosophy is

a pure abstract essence. It is all too easy a matter to endow such an abstraction with reality, to clothe it as such with a concrete existence. An ideological monster results; such, in my opinion, occurred in the case both of the rationalists and the neo-Thomists whom Mr. Gilson has called to task (Essay, p. 14).

In its essence, philosophy is neither Christian nor non-Christian. Turning to concrete states in which philosophy actually exists, it becomes possible for a philosopher to be a Christian and for his or her philosophy to be a Christian philosophy. On this basis, Maritain supplies several characterizations of Christian philosophy. From the start, he frames it as not “a simple essence, but a complex: an essence grasped in a certain state” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 67), later adding: “under conditions of performance, of existence and of life, for or against which one is in fact obliged to make a choice” (Science and Wisdom, p. 81). He clarifies:

Christian philosophy is not a determinate body of truths, although, in my opinion, the doctrine of St. Thomas exemplifies its amplest and purest form. Christian philosophy is philosophy itself in so far as it is situated in those utterly distinctive conditions of existence and exercise into which Christianity has ushered the thinking subject, and as a result of which philosophy perceives certain objects and validly demonstrates certain propositions, which in any other circumstances would to a greater or lesser extent elude it. (Essay, p. 30)

Maritain distinguishes two main ways in which Christianity aids the activity of philosophy in concrete states: objective contributions and subjective reinforcements. Christianity makes objective contributions by supplying philosophy with data and ideas. Some of these “belong within the field of philosophy, but….philosophers failed to recognize [them] explicitly” (Essay, p. 18), e.g. the ideas of creation or of sin. Others are “objective data which philosophy knew well but which it approached with much hesitancy and which…was corroborated by revelation” (Essay, p. 21). Even in cases of mysteries of the Christian faith, philosophy develops further, as an instrument of theology it “learn[s] many things whole being thus led along paths which are not its own” (Essay, p. 22). It also has its field of inquiry, its possible objects of study, expanded, as happened with “speculation on the dogmas of the Trinity and the Incarnation,” productive of “an awareness of the metaphysical problem of the person” (Essay, p. 23).

Subjective reinforcements are the ways in which Christian faith and practice concretely aid the philosophical activity of the human person by putting them in a better condition to do philosophy. Though strictly speaking these are numberless, Maritain identifies several subjective reinforcements bearing on philosophy as a habitus, which attains a better use when set in “synergy and vital solidarity, this dynamic continuity of habitus” with theology (Essay, p. 27). Divine grace also removes or ameliorates impediments to philosophizing well, so that “the more the philosopher remains faithful to grace, the more easily will he free himself of manifold futilities and opacities.” (Essay, p. 28)

c. Maurice Blondel’s Position

Blondel, universally acknowledged by French commentators as the third main proponent of Christian philosophy, developed a complex position intimately connected with previous and later works, and resisting brief summarization. Accordingly, only four main components of his position are addressed here: his critique of rationalists and Neo-Scholastics, his critique of Gilson, the philosophy of insufficiency, history and the problem of the supernatural, and the stages of Christian philosophy.

Since his early works (cf. the Letter on Apologetics), Blondel had criticized the “separated philosophy” of certain Neo-Scholastics for ignoring the problematic imposed on philosophy by the “religious problem” (a meta-philosophical requirement for philosophy to fully take Christianity into account without thereby rationalizing it). By their care to exclude anything explicitly Christian from their philosophizing while still desiring to generate philosophy substantially in agreement with Christian theology, Neo-Scholastic philosophy lapsed into a philosophically sterile “concordism” in which philosophy and Christianity are only extrinsically related to each other, but philosophical doctrines are nevertheless judged correct or incorrect by their agreement with dogma. Blondel also took on Bréhier directly, charging him with relying on his own “dogmatism imposing itself by authority” (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 601), characterized by a reductive and rigid conception of reason and straw-man caricatures of Christian thinkers Bréhier claimed to rationally critique. In this way, “dogmatic rationalism becomes irrational and seems to mutilate history just as much as philosophical speculation itself” (“Y-a-t’il”, p. 600). In particular, Bréhier’s two criticisms of Blondel turn out not only to be untrue, but also mutually inconsistent.

At much greater length and with greater severity, Blondel consistently criticized Gilson’s (and by implication, Maritain’s) position. Though incorrect (and uncharitable) in ascribing these to Gilson, Blondel’s identification and criticism of several errors in handling the problem of Christian philosophy nevertheless retain their philosophical merit. He diagnosed two main (meta-)philosophical mistakes: conceptualism and historicism. Conceptualism maintains

philosophical doctrines, as different as they may be, ultimately aim at sealing themselves off in closed, sufficient, and exclusive systems; these systems organize themselves with and terminate in concepts, and all that does not succeed in being raised into concepts repulses philosophy. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p.87-8)

This reduces philosophy to an abstract, static construction of concepts, hampering philosophy from engaging its full range of objects, obscuring that

this is precisely what is in question: can it not be philosophical, is it not “conceivable”, is it not even normal, that philosophy opens ulterior perspectives…orients and stimulates spiritual life’s dynamism by posing inevitable problems whose complete solution it does not provide, even though it serves to not allow them to be misunderstood nor falsely resolved? (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 88)

What Blondel terms “historicism” reflects attempts to resolve the problem of Christian philosophy through direct appeal to the discipline of history (or history of philosophy). This introduces a dilemma, however, “doubly compromising both to Philosophy and to the Christian Revelation”:

[I]f history as an intermediary, provides data taken from Christianity in a mixture of public facts or of private experiences to the laboratory of philosophical reflection, it is by forcibly stripping the data of their supernatural originality; it accepts them, puts them into its mill, experiments on them in its own natural and rational activity. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 89)

Inversely, by wanting to integrate dogmas, ideas, ascetic practices, mystical experiences coming to it from outside within itself, philosophy that would not have preliminarily opened in itself this empty space of which we spoke, by its very care not to alter the supernatural character of Christian data, introduces a foreign body into its flesh, a packet of incurably wounding spines. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 89)

His reference to the “empty space” leads into Blondel’s positive conception of Christian philosophy, which will be in part “an open philosophy…recogniz[ing] its limits by being ready to accept ulterior data” (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 90). This will be a philosophy of insufficiency, i.e., philosophy that thematizes philosophy’s own insufficiency to fully comprehend, rationally articulate, and systematize its own objects, the ranges of realities to which it extends, and the human subject engaged in philosophizing. It will also acknowledge that philosophy’s own intrinsic requirement of autonomy culminates in philosophy freely allowing itself to be further determined, guided and shaped by something transcending philosophy. Against conceptualism, Blondel proposes another possibility:

must philosophy end up, whatever the level of its development may be, in recognizing how it is normally incomplete, how it opens in itself and before itself an empty space prepared not only for its own ulterior discoveries and on its own ground, but for illuminations and contributions whose real origin it is not and cannot become?…[I]t is this second thesis, philosophically definable and supportable, i.e. without proceeding from a revelation, that is alone in spontaneous and deep agreement with Christianity. Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 90)

He expands the metaphor, employing similar terminology, e.g.:

[a] gap coming from above (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 91)

[the] interior open space or the silence of the soul (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 91)

infinitesimal and real fissures, ‘holes’ that require being filled and which admit consequently the presence or even the need of another reality, of a heterogeneous and complementary datum. (“Le problème de la philosophie catholique,” p. 43)

These spaces occur throughout the fabric of philosophical thought. There are “relations of emptiness and fullness where two incommensurable orders unfold themselves,” (Le problème de la philosophie chrétienne, p. 147) within the same concrete human subject. These spaces are not simply philosophical voids:

[W]e do not remain in the presence of a black hole, of an ocean for which neither ship nor sail would seem possible. The empty space that we spoke of earlier is not a chimerical fiction, projection of restlessness, sickness of the soul. It has…contours to discern, a reason for being to meditate on and to render rationally admissible, an attractive and imperious character. (Bul. Soc fr. Phil., p. 90)

Blondel’s attitude towards history and Christian philosophy is considerably more complex than a simple rejection. From within the perspective generated and secured by a philosophy of insufficiency, appeal to history and reinterpretation of historical examples of Christian philosophy becomes legitimate. History in fact displays a “chronic condition” in which philosophy and Christianity generate “incessant antagonisms or the renewed efforts of compenetration…throughout the ages.” This condition “possesses an intelligible signification”, and it is “philosophy’s role to seek out its causes and to discern its enduring reasons.” (“Le problème,” p. 14) In modernity and through modern thought, the most fundamental aspect of the problem of Christian philosophy come to light. Previous, ultimately unsuccessful, attempts at Christian philosophies have made “the very conception of philosophy evolve….preparing discernment of what remains incommensurable between the rational order and the supernatural order.” (“Le problème,” p. 17) in the end

bringing the always looming crisis between rational autonomy and Christian demands to a vital point that historical, exegetical, and apologetic considerations do not reach, insofar as they appear in isolation without the preliminary question being raised, the question whose precise meaning, normal character, and essential scope we have just tried to exhibit. (“Le problème ,” p. 18-9)

This central question is the “problem of the supernatural” and Christian philosophy has to self-consciously grapple with, conceptualize, and bring about a condition involving:

[n]either dependence nor independence nor simple juxtaposition of the rational order and the Christian order; but a type of heterogeneity in compenetration and of symbiosis in the very incommensurability. (Le problème, p. 145)

In Le problème de la philosophie chrétienne (cf. also “Pour une philosophie intégrale”, p. 57-62), Blondel explicitly construed Christian philosophy as a three-stage set of projects correlated to several states or conditions of human being. Among these is a “a state of nature that actually could subsist, but which also actually has never existed for humanity in the historical and concrete order,” (Le problème, p. 25) i.e. actually an abstraction. The others include those of “original justice,” and of “decay,” the “transnatural state,” and the state in which “a person is introduced into the supernatural order.” (Le problème, p. 25-27)

Each state is a possible object of study for philosophy. Corresponding to the state of nature, “essential philosophy” (that is, philosophy of insufficiency) systematically examines necessary and possible conditions and structures of human thought and action. At this stage, philosophy becomes critically aware of its own insufficiencies, and human reason is brought to recognition, opening, and orientation towards the “empty space” but not yet to determinately entering it.

The second stage, in which philosophy enters the opened space seeking the supernatural, involves a second philosophical project: “a sort of mixed philosophy, a philosophy of the possible relations…between essential possibilities or necessities and realizable contingents.” (Le problème, p. 167). In the third philosophical project, philosophy engages what Christianity teaches to be humanity’s and all other created being’s real condition, becoming reoriented and expanded in the process. At this stage, it becomes possible “to study the repercussions in natural man of the different states – transnatural, supernatural or rebel – that awaken in consciousness and the will data or reactions other than those of a pure state of nature.” (Le problème, p. 171)

d. Gabriel Marcel’s Position

In his position on Christian philosophy, Marcel harmonized the positions, believed incompatible by their authors, of Gilson and Maritain on one side, and Blondel on the other. He also made enough original contributions of his own to justify interpreting his position as a fourth main position for Christian philosophy. One of these contributions was raising an additional problem for rationalist or neo-Scholastic opponents of Christian philosophy:

If it was admitted that Christianity has had no positive influence on philosophical development, this would entail saying that it has never actually been able to be thought – for there is no thought worthy of that name that does not contribute to transforming all the other thoughts….To say that Christianity has never been thought is to let it be understood that it is not thinkable. (“A propos de L’esprit de la Philosophie médiévale par M. E. Gilson,” p. 309)

While praising Gilson’s The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, Marcel argued, in terms similar to Blondel’s, that

[t]he contribution here is a certain datum – a revealed datum – whose signification, whose value is absolutely transcendent to any experience susceptible of being constituted on purely human bases. There is the paradox, the scandal, if you like. I would be disposed for my part, to think that there is Christian philosophy only there where this paradox, this scandal is not only admitted or even accepted, but embraced with a passionate and unrestricted gratitude. From the moment on when, to the contrary, philosophy seeks by some procedure to attenuate this scandal, to mask the paradox, to reabsorb the revealed datum in a dialectic of pure reason or mind, to this precise degree it ceases to be a Christian philosophy (“A propos”, p. 311-2)

The paradox or scandal Marcel regards as most central to Christian philosophy is the Incarnation, which bears important implications for philosophy and reason itself.

Perhaps it would not be abusive to claim that the essence of such a philosophy is a meditation on that datum’s implications and consequences of every order, not only unpredictable but contrary to reason’s superficial demands from the very start wrongly posing themselves as inviolable. But, the essential function of metaphysical reflection will consist in critiquing these demands in the name of higher demands, and consequently in the name of a superior reason that faith in the Incarnation puts precisely in the condition of becoming fully conscious of itself. (“A propos”, p. 312)

He adds that “the central light residing in the Incarnation radiates in reality through all of the regions of metaphysics” (“A propos”, p. 312), generating the historical examples of Christian philosophy Gilson studied and identified in his works. Christian philosophy, as Marcel envisioned it, has the task not only of noting cases where Christianity has exerted a generative effect on philosophy, but also of investigating how this is possible. This, in turn, requires that “our reason – a created reason ordered to the intelligence of created nature – must, in deepening itself, recognize what in it exceeds the domain of adequacy to itself” (“A propos”, p. 1305).

e. Other Positions Reconciling the Gilson-Maritain and Blondel Positions

Although numerous philosophers have accepted the verdict of fundamental incompatibility between the Gilson-Maritain and Blondel positions, many participants in and commentators on the debates early on saw not only compatibility but even complementarity between their positions, among them Antonin Sertillanges, Bruno De Solages, Aimé Forest, and Henri De Lubac (all of whom were Thomists). Asserting this involved not only arguing compatibility between the positions on Christian philosophy, but also interpreting Thomism as being compatible with the requirements of Blondel’s non-Thomist philosophy.

De Solages likens Gilson’s, Maritain’s and Blondel’s positions on Christian philosophy to three different paths climbing the same mountain:

None of the three lead to the same peak, for our mountain has three peaks, but it seems to me that the view that one has from each of them marvelously completes the view that one has from the others, and that all three allow one to make for oneself a sufficiently complex and exact idea of this complex reality. (“Le problème de la philosophie chrétienne,” p. 232)

De Lubac, drawing from De Solages and Sertillanges, provides a classic account reconciling Blondel with Gilson and Maritain, as well as noting certain differences between the latter two.

If we believe Maritain and Gilson, their two positions come together, one in treating the problem from the historical point of view and the other. In practice, however, Gilson, who is the better historian, admits a greater influence than Maritain concedes…. [O]nly the third thesis, that of Blondel, establishes a truly intrinsic relationship between rational speculation and supernatural revelation, without, for all that, opening to philosophy the mysterious content of this revelation. (“Retrieving the Tradition: On Christian Philosophy”, p.482-3)

He distinguishes several different distinguishable types of Christian philosophy:

[T]here is another sense in which one can and must speak of a Christian philosophy…a sense no longer historical but metaphysical. It is, then, no longer a matter of a philosophy, or of philosophies, which, in fact, find themselves to be Christian because they have received a Christian contribution…Instead, it is a question of the philosophy, which, to be truly and integrally philosophy, must, in a certain way, be Christian. (“Retrieving the Tradition”, p 486)

The relationship between these types is not one of opposition or exclusion, but one going beyond even compatibility or complementarity to mutual requirement. The Gilson-Maritain position needs to be completed and self-critically secured by the Blondelian one: “[T]o the double recognition of the subjective comforts and the objective contributions which philosophy owes to Christianity, it is indispensable to add the elaboration of a philosophy of insufficiency.” Additionally, “posing the problem of the relationship between supernatural mystery and the reason it fertilizes, leads us to look for another more comprehensive meaning of Christian philosophy.” (“Retrieving the Tradition”, p. 494-5) Blondel’s thought is possible, however, only on the unacknowledged basis of the type of Christian philosophy Gilson and Maritain focused on:

[I]f we speak concretely, psychologically, and historically, we will say that this absolute Christian philosophy presupposes the first kind of Christian philosophy, which is completely contingent. We add that it presupposes this contingent Christian philosophy as already established and developed for enough time to have profoundly penetrated the understanding and to have laid bare the secret law. (“Retrieving the Tradition,” p. 488)

5. References and Further Reading

This selective bibliography provides reference to only a portion of the literature either from or about the debates about Christian philosophy, positions developed, and issues involved. For more extensive bibliographies, cf. Bernard Badoux, O.F.M., “Quaestio de philosophia christiana,” Antonianum, vol. 11, p. 487-552; and Luigi Bogliolo. La Filosophia Cristiana: Il problema, la storia, la struttura (Rome: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. 1986). All translations from the French, unless otherwise noted in the bibliography, are the author’s.

a. Literature from the 1930s Christian Philosophy Debates

This list includes two types of literature: 1) books, articles, and conference reports directly part of the debates; 2) books, articles, and conference reports subsequent to the debates in which the positions of these participants are further developed. Many other documents not listed here, of lesser importance or centrality, also form part of the debates.

  • “La notion de philosophie chrétienne”, Session of 21 March 1931, Bulletin de la Société française de Philosophie, v. 31. Includes:
    • Main Presentation by Etienne Gilson
      Presentations by Emile Bréhier, Jacques Maritain, Léon Brunschvicg, Edouard Le Roy, and Raymond Lenoir
      Discussion between Gilson, Bréhier, and Brunschvicg
      Letters from Maurice Blondel and Jacques Chevalier
  • La philosophie chétienne: Juvisy, 11 Septembre 1933 (Account of the 2nd Day of Studies of the Société Thomiste). (Paris: Cerf. 1933) Includes:
    • M.D. Chenu, O. P. “Allocation d’Ouverture”
      Aimé Forest, “Le problème historique de la philosophie chrétienne”
      A.R. Motte, “Vers une solutions doctrinale du problème de la philosophie chrétienne”
      Discussion by numerous members of the Société Thomiste, including substantive presentations made by Festugière, Etienne Gilson, Pierre Mandonnet, Antonin Sertillanges, Daniel Feuling, Masnovo, Cochet,
      Appendix: Correspondence from Jacques Maritain, M.E. Baudin, Roland-Gosselin, O.P. , M.G. Rabeau
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Autonomie normale et connexion réelle de la philosophie et de la religion,” in Library of the 10th international congress of philosophy (Amsterdam 1948). Amsterdam : North Holland, 1948, vol. 1, p. 207-208
  • Blondel, Maurice. “La philosophie ouverte” in Henri Bergson: Essais et témoignages inédits. Albert Béguin, Pierre Thévenaz, eds. (Neuchâtel: Baconnière. 1941), p. 73-90
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Le centre de perspective où il faut se placer pour que la philosophie catholique soit concevable.” Archivio di filosofia, vol. 2, no. 2, p. 3-15 (1932).
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Le devoir intégral de la philosophie” in Actas del primer congreso nacional de filosofia (1949). (Mendoza, Argentina: Univ. Nacional de Cuyo. 1950), vol. 2, p. 884-889.
  • Blondel, Maurice. Le problème de la philosophie catholique (Paris: Bloud & Gay. 1932)
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Le problème de la philosophie catholique: Seance of 26 Nov 1932”, Les Etudes Philosophiques vol. 7, no. 1.
    • Includes letters and discussion by: Enrico Castelli, Jean Delvolvé, Henri Gouhier, Joseph Maréchal, S.J, Jacques Palliard, Gaston Berger
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Office du philosophe”, Revue Thomiste, vol. 19, p. 587-592 (1936).
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Philosophie et Christianisme,” Vie Intellectuelle, 25 Jan 1940, p. 96-105.
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Pour la philosophie integrale”, Revue néoscholastique de Philosophie, vol. 37, p. 49-64. (1934).
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Réponse irénique à des méprises : Comment comprendre et justifier l’accès à la vie surnaturelle?”Giornale di metafisica vol. 3, p. 44-48 (1948).
  • Blondel, Maurice. (under the pseudonym “X”), “Une philosophie chrétienne est-elle rationallement concevable? Est-elle historiquement réalisé? Etat actuel de ce debat”, Revue des Questions Historiques, vol. 116, p. 389-393 (1932).
  • Blondel, Maurice. “Y-a-t’il une philosophie chrétienne?”, Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale, vol 38, no.4 (1931).
  • Borne, Etienne. “D’une ‘Philosophie Chrétienne’ qui serait philosophique,” Esprit, November 1932, p. 335-340.
  • Bréhier, Emile. “Comment je comprends l’histoire de la philosophie,” Etudes Philosophiques, p. 105-13 (1947). Reprinted in Etudes de philosophie antique (Paris: PUF. 1955), p. 1-9.
  • Bréhier, Emile. “Y-a-t’il une philosophie chrétienne?” Revue de Métaphysique et de la Morale, vol. 38 no. 2, p. 133-162 (1931).
  • Brunschvicg, Léon. “De la vraie et fausse conversion,” (parts 1-2) Revue de Métaphysique et de la Morale., vol. 38 no. 1, p. 29-60, n. 2, p. 187-235. All parts later published as De la vraie et de la fausse conversion: suivi de La querelle de l’athéisme (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. 1951)
  • Brunschvicg, Léon. “Religion et Philosophie”, Revue de la Métaphysique et de la Morale, vol. 42, no. 1, p. 1-13. (1935).
  • Brunschvicg, Léon. La Raison et la Religion (Paris: Felix Alcan. 1939)
  • Chestov, Léon. “Athènes et Jérusalem (Concupiscentia irresistibilis)”, Revue Philosophique, vol. 120, p. 305-349. Later becomes part 3 of Athènes et Jérusalem (Paris. 1937)
  • Gilson, Etienne. “Autour de la philosophie chrétienne. La spécificité de l’ordre philosophique”, La Vie Intellectuelle, vol. 21, no. 3, p. 404-424. Translated as “Concerning Christian Philosophy: the Distinctiveness of the Philosophic Order” in Philosophy and history: Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer (Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1936), p. 61-76.
  • Gilson, Etienne. Christianisme et Philosophie. (Paris: Vrin. 1936). Translated as Christianity and Philosophy by Ralph MacDonald, C.S.B. (New York: Sheet & Ward. 1939).
  • Gilson, Etienne. Elements of Christian Philosophy. (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday: 1960).
  • Gilson, Etienne. History of Christian philosophy in the Middle Ages (New York: Random House, 1955).
  • Gilson, Etienne. “La possibilité philosophique de la philosophie chrétienne”, Revue des sciences religieuses, vol. 32.
  • Gilson, Etienne. Introduction à la Philosophie Chrétienne. (Paris: Vrin, 1960) translated by Armand Maurer as Christian Philosophy: An Introduction (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. 1993).
  • Gilson, Etienne. L’esprit de la Philosophie médiévale. Translated by A.H.C. Downes as The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy (Gifford Lectures 1931-1932) (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1936).
  • Gilson, Etienne. “Le christianisme et la tradition philosophique,” Sciences Philosophiques et Théologiques, vol. 20, p. 249-266. (1941).
  • Gilson, Etienne. Le Philosophe et la Théologie (Paris: Fayard. 1960) Translated by Cecile Gilson as The Philosopher and Theology (New York: Random House. 1962).
  • Gilson, Etienne. Reason and Revelation in the Middle Ages. (New York: Scribner’s. 1938)
  • Gilson, Etienne. The Unity of Philosophical Experience. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1937)
  • Gilson, Etienne. “What is Christian Philosophy?” in A Gilson Reader. Anton Pegis, ed. (Garden City, NY: Hanover House, 1957) p. 177-191
  • de Lubac, Henri. “Sur la philosophie chretienne, reflexions a la suite d’un debat”, Nouvelle Revue Théologique, vol. 63, no. 3, p. 125-53, English translation: “Retrieving the Tradition: On Christian Philosophy”, Communio, vol. 19, p. 478-506 (1992).
  • Marc, André, S.J. “La philosophie chrétienne et la théologie”, La Vie Intellectuelle, vol. 24, p. 21-27(1933).
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “A propos de L’esprit de la Philosophie médiévale par M. E. Gilson”, Nouvelle Revue des Jeunes, vol. 4, no. 3, p. 308-315 (1932).
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “A propos de L’esprit de la Philosophie médiévale par M. E. Gilson”, Nouvelle Revue des Jeunes, vol. 4, no. 12, p. 1302-1309 (1932).
  • Marcel, Gabriel. “Position du mystère ontologique et ses approches concrètes”, Les Etudes Philosophiques, vol. 7, no. 3, p. 95-102 (with responses by Blondel and Bréhier). Later translated in Being and Having: An Existentialist Diary. Trans. Katherine Farrer. (New York: Harper. 1965) p.116-121.
  • Maritain, Jacques. Approches sans entraves. (Paris: Fayard.1973). Translated as Untrammeled Approaches (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. 1997).
  • Maritain, Jacques. “A propos de la philosophie chrétienne,” translated as “About Christian Philosophy,” in The Human Person and the World of Values Balduin Schwarz, ed. (New York: Fordham University. Press. 1960), p. 1-11.
  • Maritain, Jacques. “De la notion de philosophie chrétienne”, Revue néo-scolastique de philosophie, vol. 36, p. 153-86. (1932).
  • Maritain, Jacques. Essai sur la philosophie chrétienne Translated as An Essay on Christian Philosophy, by Edward Flannery (New York: Philosophical Library. 1955)
  • Maritain, Jacques. Raison et raisons, essais détachés (Paris: Egloff. 1948) later expanded and translated as The Range of Reason (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1952).
  • Maritain, Jacques. Science et sagesse, suivi d’éclaircissements sur ses frontières et son objet (Paris: Téqui. 1935). translated by Bernard Wall as Science and Wisdom (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1940)
  • Noël, Léon. “La notion de philosophie chrétienne,” Revue néoscholastique de Philosophie, vol. 37 (1934).
  • Sertillanges, Antonin D., O.P.“De la philosophie chrétienne”, La Vie Intellectuelle, vol. 24. no. 1, p. 9-20 (1933).
  • Sertillanges, Antonin D., O.P. “L’apport philosophique du Christianisme d’après M. Etienne Gilson”, La Vie Intellectuelle, vol. 14, p. 386-402 (1932).
  • Sertillanges, Antonin D., O.P. Le Christianisme et les philosophies (Paris: Aubier. 1939)
  • de Solages, Bruno. “Le problème de la philosophie chrétienne,” La Vie Intellectuelle, vol. 25, no. 3, p. 215-228 (1933).
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. “Etienne Gilson: historian de la pensée médievale”, Revue Philosophique de Louvain, vol. 77, p. 487-508 (1979).
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. Etudes philosophiques (Longueuil, Canada: Le Préambule. 1980)
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. Histoire de la philosophie; période chrétienne. (Paris: Nauwelaerts, 1964)
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. Introduction à l’étude de la philosophie médiévale (Paris, Béatrice-Nauwelaerts. 1974)
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. “L’interpretation de la pensée médievale au cours du siècle écoulé,” Revue Philosophique de Louvain, vol. 49, p. 108-19 (1951).
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. “La IIe journée d’études de la Société Thomiste et la notion de ‘philosophie chrétienne’”, Revue néoscholastique de Philosophie, vol. 35, p. 539-554 (1933).
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. “La Philosophie de S. Augustin d’après les travaux du centenaire”, Revue Néoscholastique, vol. 35, pp. 106-127, 231-281 (1933).
  • Van Steenberghen, Fernand. “Philosophie et christianisme: Épilogue d’un débat ancien”, Revue Philosophique de Louvain, v. 86 (1988).

b. Selected Literature from 1940s and 50s Reformed Protestant Discussions about Christian Philosophy

  • Le problème de la philosophie chrétienne (Paris: P.U.F. 1949), includes :
    • Jean Boisset, “Introduction”
      Edmond Rochedieu, “Philosophie chrétienne et vérité théologique”
      Paul Ricouer, “Le renouvellement du problème de la philosophie chrétienne par les philosophies de l’existence”
      Paul Arbouse-Bastide, “Les voies de la raison et la voie de l’amour”
      Jacques Bois, “Unité du christianisme et de la philosophie”
      Maurice Neeser, “La théologie chrétienne peut-elle prétendre à une place dans l’organisme des sciences humaines?”
  • Bois, Jacques. “Philosophie et Religion” (1st part), Études Théologiques et religieuses, Nov. (1933).
  • Bois, Jacques. “Philosophie et Religion” (2nd part), Études Théologiques et religieuses, vol. 9, no. 1, p. 35-49 (1934).
  • Guérin, Pierre. “A propos de la philosophie chrétienne”, Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie religeuses, p. 210-242. (1935)
  • Guérin, Pierre. “La condition du philosophe chrétien”, Revue de Théologie et de Philosophie, vol. 37, p. 65-78. (1949).
  • Mehl, Roger. “Die Philosophie vor der Théologie,” Theologische Literaturzeitung, no. 10, p. 586-90 (1950).
  • Mehl, Roger. Le condition du philosophe chrétien. (Paris: Niestlé. 1947) Translated as The Condition of the Christian philosopher by Eva Kushner (Philadelphia: Fortress Press. 1963).
  • Reymond, A. “Philosophie et théologie dialectique”, Revue de Théologie et de Philosophie, v. 33, p. 255-281. Later published in Philosophie spiritualiste.
  • Ricouer, Paul. “Le renouvellement du problème de la philosophie chrétienne par les philosophiques de l’existence,” in Les Problèmes de la Pensèe Chrétienne, vol. 4: Le Problème de la Philosophie Chrétienne (Paris: 1949), p. 43-67.
  • Ricouer, Paul. “l’Homme de Science at l’Homme de Foi”, in Récherches et Débats: Pensée Scientifique et foi chrétienne, vol. 4 (1953)
  • Souriau, Michel, “Qu’est-ce qu’une philosophie chrétienne?” Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale, vol 39, no. 3, p. 353-385 (1932)
  • Thévenaz, Pierre. “De la philosophie divine à la philosophie chrétienne,” Revue de Théologie et de Philosophie, vol. 1, p. 4-20 (1951).
  • Thévenaz, Pierre. “Dieu des philosophes et Dieu des chrétiens,” Revue de Théologie et de Philosophie, v. 6, p. 203-15 (1954).

c. Selected Literature about the 1930s Christian Philosophy Debates and Positions on the Issue of Christian Philosophy

  • d’Andrea, Thomas, “Rethinking the Christian Philosophy Debate: An Old Puzzle and Some New Points of Orientation,” Acta Philosophica, vol. 1, no. 2, p. 191-214.
  • Badoux, Bernard, O.F.M., “Quaestio de philosophia christiana,” Antonianum, vol. 11, p. 487-552 (1936).
  • de Blic, J., S.J., “Quonam sensu recta sit locutio ‘philosophia christiana’?”, Acta Secundi Congressus Thomistici Internationalis, p. 450-453 (1936).
  • Bremond, André, S.J. “Rationalisme et Religion,” Archives de philosophie, vol. 11, no. 4, p. 1-59 (1934)
  • Bogliolo, Luigi. Il problema della filosophia cristiana (Brescia: Morcelliana. 1959)
  • Bogliolo, Luigi. La Filosophia Cristiana: Il problema, la storia, la struttura (Rome: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. 1986)
  • Chenu, Marie-Domnique. “Les ‘Philosophes’ dans la philosophie chrétienne médievale,” Revue des Sciences philosophiques et théologiques, vol. 27, no. 1, p. 27-40 (1937).
  • Chenu, Marie-Domnique.  “Note pour l’histoire de la notion de philosophie chrétienne,” Revue des Sciences philosophiques et théologiques, vol. 21 no. 2, p. 230-5 (1932).
  • Chenu, Marie-Domnique.  “Ratio superior et inferior. Un cas de philosophie chrétienne,” Laval Théologique et Philosophique, vol. 1 , no. 1, p. 119-23 (1945).
  • Coreth Emmerich, W. M. Neidl and G. Pfligersdorffer, eds. Christliche Philosophie im katholischen Denken des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, v. Neue Ansätze im 19. Jahrhundert (Graz/Wien/Köln: 1987).
  • Coreth Emmerich, W. M. Neidl and G. Pfligersdorffer, eds. Christliche Philosophie im katholischen Denken des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, v. 2: Rückgriff auf scholastisches Erbe. (Graz/Wien/Köln: 1988).
  • Coreth Emmerich, W. M. Neidl and G. Pfligersdorffer, eds. Christliche Philosophie im katholischen Denken des 19. und 20. Jahrhundert,v. 3: Moderne Strömungen im 20. Jahrhundert (Graz/Wien/Köln: 1990).
  • Donneaud, Henry, O.P, “Etienne Gilson et Maurice Blondel dans le débat sur la philosophie chrétienne”, Revue Thomiste. vol. 99, p. 497-516
  • English, Adam C. The Possibility of Christian Philosophy : Maurice Blondel at the Intersection of Theology and Philosophy. (New York : Routledge. 2007)
  • Forest, Aimé. “Deux historiens de la philosophie”in Philosophe de la chrétienité. (Paris: Cerf. 1949)
  • Forest, Aimé. “‘La philosophie du Moyen Age’ d’après M. Emile Bréhier”, Revue de Métaphysique et de la Morale (1939).
  • Floucat, Yves. Métaphysique et religion. Vers une sagesse chrétienne intégrale (Paris: Téqui 1989).
  • Floucat, Yves. Pour une philosophie chrétienne: élements d’un débat fondamental (Paris: Téqui. 1983)
  • Gouhier, Henri. “Digression sur la philosophie à propos de la philosophie chrétienne”, Recherches Philosophiques, vol. 3, p. 211-236 (1933).
  • Gouhier, Henri. Etienne Gilson: Trois Essais: Bergson, La philosophie chrétienne, l’art. (Paris: Vrin. 1993)
  • Gouhier, Henri.  La philosophie et son histoire. (Paris: Vrin. 1947)
  • Gouhier, Henri.  “De l’histoire de la Philosophie à la Philosophie” in Etienne Gilson: Philosophe de la chrétienité. (Paris: Cerf. 1949)
  • Gouhier, Henri.  “Philosophie chrétienne et théologie”, Revue Philosophique de la France et de l’étranger, vol.125, p. 23-65 (1938).
  • Hayen, André. “Philosophie de conversion – philosophie du converti”, L’ami du Clergé, no. 46, p. 705-12. Translated as “Philosophy of the Converted – Philosophy of Conversion: Blondel and Maritain,” Philosophy Today, vol. 6, no. 2, p. 283-94.
  • Henrici, Peter. Aufbrüche christlichen Denkens (Einsiedeln: Johannes 1978)
  • Henrici, Peter. “Der Beitrag christlichen Philosophierens heute”, in Die Philosophie in der modernen Welt. Gedenkschrift Alwin Diemer, ed. U. Hinke-Dürnemann (Frankfurt: Peter Lang. 1988) p. 819-31.
  • Henrici, Peter. “Der Gott der Philosophen”, Internationale Katholische Zeitschrift Communio, v. 17
  • Henrici, Peter. “Philosophieren aus dem Glauben: Hundert Jahre nach Aeterni Patris,” Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie, vol. 103, p. 361-73.
  • Henrici, Peter. “The One Who Went Unnamed: Maurice Blondel in the Encyclical Fides et Ratio, Communio, vol. 26, p. 609-621.
  • Copleston, Frederick Charles, S.J. History of Philosophy, vol. 9: Maine De Biran to Sartre (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press. 1975)
  • Copleston, Frederick Charles, S.J. “The One Who Went Unnamed: Maurice Blondel in the Encyclical Fides et Ratio, Communio, vol. 26, p. 609-621.
  • Jordan, Mark D., “The Terms of the Debate over ‘Christian Philosophy,’” Communio: International Catholic Review, vol. 12, p. 293-311.
  • Livi, Antonio. Blondel, Bréhier, Gilson, Maritain: il problema della filosofia cristiana. (Bolonia: Patron. 1974)
  • Long, Fiachra. “The Blondel-Gilson Correspondence through Foucault’s Mirror” Philosophy Today, vol. 35, no. 4, p. 351-361.
  • Maydieu, Jean-Joseph, “Le bilan d’un débat philosophique: réflexions sur la philosophie chrétienne,” Bulletin de Littérature Ecclésiastique, no. 9-10, p. 193-22 (1935).
  • McInerny, Ralph. Art and Prudence: Studies in the Thought of Jacques Maritain. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. 1988)
  • McInerny, Ralph. “John Paul II and Christian Philosophy,” in John Paul II: Witness to Truth : Proceedings from the Twenty-Third Annual Convention of the Fellowship of Catholic Scholars. Kenneth Whitehead, ed., p. 113-25.
  • McInerny, Ralph. Praeambula Fidei: Thomism and the God of the Philosophers. (Washington D.C.: Catholic University of America Press. 2006)
  • McInerny, Ralph. “Reflections on Christian Philosophy,” in One Hundred Years of Thomism: Aeterni Patris and Afterwards. A Symposium Victor B Bresik, C.S.B., ed. (Houston: Center for Thomistic Studies. 1981).
  • Nédoncelle, Maurice, Existe-t-il une philosophie chrétienne? (Paris: Fayard. 1957), translated as Is There a Christian Philosophy? (Hawthorn Books. 1960)
  • Owens, Joseph. “Neo-Thomism and Christian Philosophy” in Thomistic Papers, v. 6.
  • Owens, Joseph. “The Need for Christian Philosophy,”Faith and Philosophy, vol 11, no 2.
  • Owens, Joseph. Towards a Christian Philosophy. (Washington D.C.: CUA Press. 1990).
  • Peperzak, Adriaan T. Philosophy Between Faith and Theology: Addresses To Catholic Intellectuals. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. 2005)
  • Peperzak, Adriaan T. Reason In Faith: On the Relevance of Christian Spirituality for Philosophy (New York: Paulist Press. 1999)
  • Prouvost, Gery. Catholicité de l’intelligence métaphysique : La philosophie dans la foi selon Jacques Maritain (Paris: Tequi. 1991)
  • Renard, Alex, La Querelle sur la possibilité de la philosophie chrétienne: essai documentaire et critique (Paris: Editions Ecole et College. 1941).
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Author Information

Greg Sadler
Email: greg@reasonio.com
Marist College and ReasonIO
U. S. A.

Naturalism

Naturalism is an approach to philosophical problems that interprets them as tractable through the methods of the empirical sciences or at least, without a distinctively a priori project of theorizing. For much of the history of philosophy it has been widely held that philosophy involved a distinctive method, and could achieve knowledge distinct from that attained by the special sciences. Thus, metaphysics and epistemology have often jointly occupied a position of “first philosophy,” laying the necessary grounds for the understanding of reality and the justification of knowledge claims. Naturalism rejects philosophy’s claim to that special status. Whether in epistemology, ethics, philosophy of mind, philosophy of language, or other areas, naturalism seeks to show that philosophical problems as traditionally conceived are ill-formulated and can be solved or displaced by appropriately naturalistic methods. Naturalism often assigns a key role to the methods and results of the empirical sciences, and sometimes aspires to reductionism and physicalism. However, there are many versions of naturalism and some are explicitly non-scientistic. What they share is a repudiation of the view of philosophy as exclusively a priori theorizing concerned with a distinctively philosophical set of questions.

Naturalistic thinking has a long history, but it has been especially prominent since the last decades of the twentieth century, and its influence is felt all across philosophy. This article looks at why and in what ways it is prominent and describes some of the most influential versions of naturalism.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. Basic Elements of Naturalism Concerning Reality and Knowledge
    1. What There Is
    2. How We Know
  3. Naturalism in Various Versions and Various Contexts
    1. Naturalism in Ethics
    2. Naturalism in the Philosophy of Mind
  4. Overview of the Debate About Naturalism
    1. Conclusion
  5. References and Further Reading

1. Introduction

“Naturalism” is a term that is applied to many doctrines and positions in philosophy, and in fact, just how it is to be defined is itself a matter of philosophical debate. Still, the overall landscape of naturalism can be surveyed, and that is what we will do here. This discussion will not present a defense or critique of one or another specific version of naturalism. Its aim is to characterize the broad range of views typically identified as naturalistic and to say something about what motivates them. It will also locate the debate about naturalism in the larger setting of philosophical inquiry and theorizing overall.

Different periods in the history of philosophy exhibit different emphases in what are the most prominent and pressing concerns, and there are reasons why different issues are at the forefront at different times. In antiquity, basic questions about the constitution of reality motivated various conceptions about the material substance of things, about whether that substance is material, and about the relation between matter and whatever else might be constitutive of reality. Views ranged from variants of (recognizably naturalistic) materialism to those that included decidedly non-materialist and non-naturalist elements, such as Platonism and Aristotelianism. During the Medieval Period, debates over the status of universals and the nature of the intellect, the will, and the soul were especially central. In large part, this had to do with their significance for issues in natural theology. Also, questions concerning the relation between soul and body and whether and how the soul survives the death of the body were prominent. This was because of their significance for the individuation of persons, the possibility and nature of immortality, and for the nature of providence. These families of issues were prominent in all three of the great Western religious traditions. They are though, enduring philosophical questions. Many of them have roots in the Classical tradition.

In the Early Modern Period debates about the respective roles of reason and the senses in knowledge were especially prominent. They had long been important, but there was a revived interest in skepticism and the possibility of knowledge. Also, debates concerning determinism and free will attained high visibility. In both cases, the explanation had to do, in part, with the impact of dramatic developments in scientific theorizing. Those developments led to large-scale revisions in the conceptions of many things, including human nature and human action. In the twentieth century a focus on questions of meaning and semantic issues played a role in many different philosophical movements (from logical positivism to ordinary language philosophy). It was widely thought that linguistic approaches might untie some age-old philosophical knots.

The main problems of philosophy have not really changed over time, but there are differences in what motivates certain formulations of them and ways of addressing them. Since the Early Modern Period, the methods and the results of the sciences are again playing an increasingly important role in motivating new philosophical conceptions, and indeed, overall conceptions of philosophy itself. Various versions and defenses of naturalism are currently at the center of many philosophical debates. Naturalism is a philosophical view, but one according to which philosophy is not a distinct mode of inquiry with its own problems and its own special body of (possible) knowledge. According to many naturalists, philosophy is a certain sort of reflective attention to the sciences and it is continuous with them. They maintain that this is so not only in the sense that philosophy’s problems are motivated by the sciences, but also in that its methods are not fundamentally distinct. It might be said that the sciences afford us a more systematic, rigorous, and explanatory conception of the world than is supplied by common sense. In turn, we might say that philosophy is motivated by, and remains connected to the scientific conception of the world. There may be ways in which the scientific conception dramatically departs from common sense, but it is rooted in experience and the questions that arise at the level of common sense. Similarly, according to many defenders of naturalism, philosophy is not discontinuous with science. While it attains a kind of generality of conceptions and explanations that is perhaps not attained by the special sciences, it is not an essentially different inquiry. There are no separate philosophical problems that need to be addressed in a distinctive manner. Moreover, philosophy does not yield results that are different in content and kind from what could be attained by the sciences. Thus, in being a view about the world, naturalism is also a view about the nature of philosophy.

It is worthy of remark that while the sources of naturalism go back a very long way in Western philosophy, it has been especially prominent in philosophy in America. The pragmatist tradition, in which philosophers such as C. S. Peirce, William James, John Dewey, W. V. O. Quine, and Richard Rorty are key figures, has been crucial to the development of naturalism. (There are other key figures in the American pragmatist tradition less clearly associated with its naturalist dimension. Nelson Goodman [1978; 1979] and Hilary Putnam [1981] are examples.) There is a naturalistic cast to a great deal of pragmatist thought in a number of respects. It regards the general skeptical problem in epistemology as less than genuine. (We will see the significance of this below.) It closely ties meaning to experiential consequences, and it closely ties truth to methods of inquiry and the practical consequences of belief. Also, it often emphasizes the public or social and non-a priori character of inquiry (in contrast to the ego-situated method described by René Descartes, for example). It is anti-foundational, anti-skeptical, and fallibilist. It tends to put a great deal of weight on the accessibility to scientific resolution of genuine intellectual problems. In the American pragmatist tradition there is a wide spectrum of views, of course. But it is an outstanding example of a significant, modern, and still evolving tradition with significant naturalistic currents running in it. Peirce and other American pragmatists have influenced a great deal of philosophy of many types. As a result, they are beginning to be more thoroughly studied, after having been widely neglected for several decades.

At numerous places in this discussion we will see that the affirmation of science as the only genuine approach to acquiring knowledge is often a feature of naturalism. However, naturalism is not always narrowly scientistic. There are versions of naturalism that repudiate supernaturalism and various types of a priori theorizing without exclusively championing the natural sciences.

2. Basic Elements of Naturalism Concerning Reality and Knowledge

The debate about naturalism ranges across many areas of philosophy, including metaphysics, epistemology, ethics, and philosophy of mind, just to mention areas where it is especially prominent. There are two basic dimensions in which the debate takes place. One of them concerns (to put it simply) what there is, and the other concerns methods of acquiring belief and knowledge. There are several affiliated issues (supervenience, objectivity, various realism/antirealism debates, the character of norms of epistemic justification, the theory of meaning, and so forth) but they are all connected through those two main concerns.

a. What There Is

With respect to the first, the naturalist maintains that all of what there is belongs to the natural world. Obviously, a great deal turns on how nature is understood. But the key point is that an accurate, adequate conception of the world does not (according to the naturalist) include reference to supernatural entities or agencies. According to the naturalist, there are no Platonic forms, Cartesian mental substances, Kantian noumena, or any other agents, powers, or entities that do not (in some broad sense) belong to nature. As a very loose characterization, it may suffice to say that nature is the order of things accessible to us through observation and the methods of the empirical sciences. If some other method, such as a priori theorizing, is needed to have access to the alleged entity or to the truth in question, then it is not a real entity or a genuine truth. According to the naturalist, there is only the natural order. If something is postulated or claimed to exist, but is not described in the vocabulary that describes natural phenomena, and not studied by the inquiries that study natural phenomena, it is not something we should recognize as real.

Unsurprisingly, the success of the sciences has been one of the main motivations for thinkers to embrace naturalism. The sciences have proved to be powerful tools for making the world intelligible. They seem to have such a strong claim to yield genuine knowledge that it is widely thought that whatever there is, is a proper object of science. That does not require that in embracing naturalism one also embrace determinism, physicalism, and reductionism. (However, it is true that many advocates of some or all of those are also very often naturalists.) While those specific theses about the structure or character of the world are not essential features of naturalism, many who endorse naturalism believe that over time scientific progress will make the case for physicalism, in particular. Even if, for example, attempts to provide fully reductive accounts of mental phenomena, certain biological phenomena, and values do not succeed, that would not be an insurmountable impediment to physicalism; or, at least that is the view of some defenders of naturalism. There is only the physical natural order, even if there are various constituents and aspects of it that are to be described in their own non-reducible vocabularies.

Naturalism could be said to involve a denial that there is any distinctively metaphysical area of inquiry. Thus, even if one’s preferred interpretation of naturalism is not reductionist or even physicalist (in a non-reductionist form), naturalism is a conception of reality as homogeneous in the sense that there is one natural order that comprises all of reality. There are no objects or properties that can only be identified or comprehended by metaphysical theorizing or non-empirical understanding. What exactly is the true theory of that single natural order may remain open to dispute. The key points are that our conception of reality need include nothing that is exclusively accessible to a priori theorizing, or to “first philosophy,” and there is only one natural order.

b. How We Know

For naturalistic epistemology, the main claim is roughly the following: the acquisition of belief and knowledge is a (broadly) causal process within the natural order, and a priori norms, principles, and methods are not essential to the acquisition or justification of beliefs and knowledge. Compare David Hume and Descartes, for example. Hume explains our acceptance of beliefs on the basis of habits of association—causal tendencies that we can reflectively articulate into rules of epistemic practice. There are processes of belief acquisition and acceptance, but they are not underwritten by principles formulated a priori, nor are they structured by such principles. Epistemology is part of the overall science of human nature. It is not a project that is prior to or independent of the empirical sciences. There are norms of belief acceptance and of inquiry, but they are derived from consideration of experience and practice. (Here too, there is also an important point of contrast with Kant and also with the Platonic theory of knowledge as recollection of innate ideas, as well as with Descartes.)

Descartes held that the norms and method of belief acceptance must be independent of experience, and must have their grounds in reason alone. Otherwise, they would be vulnerable to exactly the sorts of skeptical objections that led to the search for epistemic principles in the first place. Even if one does not defend rationalism or a conception of the synthetic a priori, one might still think (as most philosophers have) that there are certain distinctively philosophical epistemological issues that can be dealt with only by distinctively philosophical (that is, a priori) methods. Hume and Descartes’ positions are rather like bookends, and there are many other, less “pure” or radical positions, in between theirs. But they are excellent examples of a causal-empirical approach on the one hand and a rationalist-a priori normative approach on the other.

There is a vast contemporary literature on the extent to which epistemology can be naturalized and what a naturalized epistemology would or should look like. At the core of the controversy is whether we need a philosophical theory in order to understand knowledge or epistemic justification, or is the so-called “problem of knowledge” really just another (broadly) empirical problem. If it is, then perhaps it can be addressed by the methods of the sciences (psychology, linguistics, neuroscience, cognitive science, etc.). This is not just the same as the debate between rationalists and empiricists, though it is related to it. It is open to an empiricist to argue that there are analytic truths that are known just by consideration of their meanings, and that this knowledge is not explicable in exclusively naturalistic terms. Similarly, if there are conceptual truths or logical truths that are not explicated in naturalistic terms, then that could be an important part of an empiricism that is not also a variant of naturalism. Still, there are some affinities between empiricism and naturalism that make them plausible candidates for having close relations.

Most epistemological theories are not as purely rationalistic as Descartes’. Also, though Kant’s influence has been enormous, there are few contemporary theorists who accept the conception of synthetic a priori knowledge on the basis of Kant’s transcendental idealism. Nonetheless, many epistemologists argue that fundamental issues concerning skepticism and the nature of epistemic justification cannot be successfully handled by the resources of naturalism. Or, they argue that they can only be handled in a question begging way by those resources. On the other hand, naturalists insist that there is nothing for a priori epistemology to be. Unless epistemology remains fully grounded in and tethered to the practices of scientific inquiry and the results they yield, it is cut off from the only sorts of evidence and strategies of explanation that can be conclusively vindicated or confirmed.

Subsequent decades have seen the development of not only different versions of naturalized epistemology, but also different overall approaches to it. One of the key distinctions is between what are sometimes called “replacement” theories and theories that develop naturalistic accounts of epistemic justification instead of repudiating the traditional epistemological project. The former are attempts to abandon the normative issue of epistemic justification. They substitute for it a more fully descriptive and causal account of our beliefs.

For example, at some points in his career, Quine openly rejected the traditional project of justification (at least as he construed it). He sought to fully assimilate epistemology to psychology (broadly construed), making it a part of empirical science, rather than a special inquiry that might underwrite scientific knowledge claims. He held that we should abandon (as hopeless) the project of identifying epistemically privileged foundational beliefs and inferring other beliefs from them, via a priori rules. Moreover, there is no clean break between supposed analytic truths on the one hand and synthetic truths on the other, and there is no realm of meanings distinct from linguistic behavior and the rest of behavior that it is embedded in. The philosophical distinction between truths of meaning and truths of fact does not reflect a genuine, explanatorily significant distinction. Like the entire project of a priori epistemology, it is a misrepresentation of what the actual problems of knowledge are. Also, while Hume had shown that there is no a priori justification of inductive inference, Quine maintained that that does not leave us with a profound skeptical difficulty. Rather, we are to examine and adjust our inductive practices in light of what we find to be empirically effective and supported without first (or ever) requiring that they be justified on non-empirical grounds. There is no “first philosophy” that underwrites science.

Other defenders of naturalistic epistemology, such as Alvin Goldman (1979; 1986), have developed causal accounts of justified beliefs or of knowledge, but still regard the philosophical project of epistemology as a genuine project, though it is to be carried out with naturalistic resources. We still are to speak in terms of beliefs being justified. In that respect there are versions of naturalism that continue to regard epistemology as involving normative considerations about belief and knowledge. Also, if we ascertain what is involved in beliefs being caused by reliable processes, we can deflect or defeat various general skeptical challenges. Those can be taken seriously, but naturalism can meet them. In meeting them, we will have attained substantive conditions of justification, but without requiring that they be accessible to a cognitive agent in order to be fulfilled. The causality of justified beliefs is one thing; whether an agent can articulate grounds for his beliefs is another. Justification can be explicated in non-epistemic terms, in terms of processes that are reliably truth-conducive. The problems of epistemology admit of naturalistic solutions, but need not repudiate the problems as unwelcome and less than genuine philosophical artifice.

Both the more and the less radical approaches share the central claim that the correct account of knowledge is in terms of reliable processes of belief-acquisition that are themselves explicated in empirical, and mainly causal, terms. The true beliefs of cognitive subjects, we might say, are one type of phenomenon that occurs in the natural world. We need not leave the latter in order to explain the former. There is no stand-alone problem of epistemic justification, requiring its own distinctive vocabulary and evidential considerations. Epistemic value, we might say, can be interpreted in terms of naturalistic facts and properties.

3. Naturalism in Various Versions and Various Contexts

On the basis of the discussion so far, it might appear that naturalism is more or less a type of scientism, the view that only the methods of the sciences are legitimate in seeking knowledge, and that only the things recognized by the sciences as real are real. There are indeed naturalists who hold that view, but it is not a necessary feature of naturalism. As noted at the outset, there is considerable debate over what sorts of views should be recognized as naturalistic. There are theorists who wish to identify their views and approaches as naturalistic without embracing reductionist physicalism. There are also some approaches that can plausibly be described as naturalistic that are quite self-consciously anti-scientistic. In particular, there are philosophers who have been influenced by the later work of Ludwig Wittgenstein (1953) who regard their general approach as naturalistic, though it is just as critical of scientism as it is of traditional metaphysics.

This is not to say that Wittgenstein was deliberately making a case for naturalism. Rather, because of his emphasis on the importance of looking at actual practice, the significance of the wider social context of practices, and the avoidance of a priori theorizing, his work can be seen as having features of naturalism. Like G. E. Moore before him, Wittgenstein argued that the refutation of skeptical hypotheses is not required in order to succeed in making knowledge claims, and that we have knowledge of the external world without first proving that such knowledge is possible. Moreover, Wittgenstein rejected the view that there is some single, global method (including the scientific method) for arriving at a true account of the world, and his approach is explicitly oriented to honoring the differences between contexts. This is evident in his discussion of language games, for example. His philosophical explorations are anti-reductionist. They disavow any attempt to capture and explain everything in the terms of some overall theory within one or another special science. He vigorously opposed the attempt to force phenomena to “fit” some preferred theory or vocabulary. Indeed, in some important ways, his work is anti-theoretical without being anti-philosophical. (The same might be said of Thomas Reid [1785] in the eighteenth century. It is also plausible to regard his views as naturalistic in important respects. One can see this especially in contrast to Kant, for example.)

If it is appropriate to describe this approach as naturalistic it is because of the ways in which Wittgenstein insisted that philosophical examination should look closely at the facts and should avoid theorizing about them in ways that lead to a large scale reconceiving of them or to postulation of entities, agencies, and processes. Very often the truth is disclosed by looking carefully, rather than by discovering something “behind” or distinct from what we encounter in experience. There is not some order of the “really real” or a transcendent order beyond what we meet with in the natural world. Yet, this does not mean that only a narrowly scientific understanding of it is a correct understanding. That sort of view itself would be an example of an overly restrictive approach that misrepresents the world and our understanding of it.

In addition, Wittgenstein was especially concerned to understand normative issues (such as the normativity involved in the use of concepts and in engaging in various practices) without explaining them away or reducing them to something non-normative. There are important normative issues even in contexts where we are not directly investigating questions concerning values. All sorts of practices, including various kinds of thinking and the use of language, have normative dimensions. Their normativity cannot be reduced to the occurrence of this or that event, or state, or causal process. For example, there may be no specific physical or psychological state or process that underlies or causally explains how a person is able to go on applying a concept to new cases, and to use a term in indefinitely many new situations, and to do so correctly in ways that are understood by others. That might mean that there is an irreducible normativity involved in the use of concepts and terms. There is nothing metaphysically exotic about that. It does not indicate that there are special normative entities or properties in addition to the practices and activities in question. There just is the normative, but natural activity of speaking, understanding, and making judgments. These are altogether familiar to all of us. If we want to understand what makes for the correct use of a term, for example, we should look at the way that it is used rather than look for some other fact or entity underlying its use. There is no special realm of meanings, or a thinking substance that grasps them, or a world of universals outside of space and time that is grasped by thought. (It is noteworthy that Plato understood the forms to be not only real, but normative realities.)

Many approaches to meaning, to the explication of inference and thought in general, and to the acquisition of concepts that have been influenced by Wittgenstein (see Wittgenstein on meaning), are naturalistic in an anti-metaphysical regard and in their close descriptive attention to the actual facts and natural and social contexts of the phenomena at issue. Traditional, central, philosophical debates, such as those between realism and nominalism in regard to universals, are purportedly deflated by Wittgensteinian approaches. That makes it plausible to regard them as naturalistic in at least a broad sense, though there is a very wide spectrum of Wittgenstein-influenced views and of Wittgenstein interpretation. Many different “-isms” can be interpretively connected to Wittgenstein’s work. Some Wittgensteinians and interpreters of Wittgenstein seem to support antirealism and nominalism. Others present views plausibly described as realist, but in a distinctively Wittgensteinian way. The range of Wittgenstein-influenced views is so wide, in large part, because he refused to be drawn into the use of many of the prevailing formulations of issues.

Wittgensteinian approaches have been very influential in the philosophy of social explanation, an area in which there has long been a debate about whether the methods of the natural sciences are appropriate to the kinds of phenomena it is claimed are uniquely encountered in social explanation. This is a place where we can see the breadth of the field of interpretation of naturalism. In one sense, Wittgensteinian approaches are naturalistic, in the ways described. At the same time, they are decidedly not naturalistic, if by “naturalism” we mean that the categories, concepts, and methods of the natural sciences are the only ones that are needed to explain whatever there is.

There are some affinities between Wittgenstein and some currents in American pragmatism with respect to the emphasis on the importance of the shared, public world for understanding language and the significance of practices. In particular, work by Richard Rorty (1979; 1982) has been important in drawing attention to that tradition and reinvigorating pragmatism in a post-Wittgensteinian context. His views and others like them have also attracted a great deal of criticism, reinvigorating debates about the interpretation and plausibility of naturalism. At the center of the debate is the issue of whether there are enduring philosophical problems about the nature of reality, and truth, and about value, for example, or just the more concrete, contingent, but still significant problems that individuals and societies encounter in the business of living.

As might be expected, many naturalistic thinkers feel discomfort at being grouped with Wittgenstein under the same heading. They regard his approach as unscientific and as much more permissive in regard to interpretation than more empirically fastidious approaches can accept. Still, it is plausible to regard at least some of Wittgenstein’s views as naturalistic even though they constitute a version of naturalism that differs from others in important respects.

a. Naturalism in Ethics

Ethics is a context in which there are important non-scientistic versions of naturalism. For example, there are respects in which neo-Aristotelian virtue ethics can be regarded as naturalistic. It does not involve a non-natural source or realm of moral value, as does Kant’s ethical theory, or Plato’s or Moore’s. For Aristotle, judgments of what are goods for a human being are based upon considerations about human capacities, propensities, and the conditions for successful human activity of various kinds. Thus, while it is not a scientistic conception of human agency or moral value, it also contrasts clearly with many clearly non-naturalistic conceptions of agency and moral value. Central to the view are the notions that there are goods proper to human nature and that the virtues are excellent states of character enabling an agent to act well and realize those goods. This can be construed as naturalism in that many defenders of the view have argued that familiar versions of the so-called “fact-value distinction” are seriously mistaken. Correlatively, they have argued that the distinction between descriptive meaning and evaluative meaning is mistaken. Their view is that various types of factual considerations have ethical significance—not as a non-natural supervening property, and not merely expressively or projectively. The agent with virtues is able to acknowledge and appreciate the ethical significance of factual considerations, and act upon them accordingly.

While it is apt to call this “naturalism,” it is quite different from some paradigmatic examples of moral naturalism, such as the hedonistic utilitarianism of John Stuart Mill. Mill attempted to explain moral value in non-moral (naturalistic) terms—in terms of what people desire for its own sake and what they find pleasing. He sought to do this without any non-empirical assumptions or commitments about what people should desire, or what are proper goods for human beings. (He tried to make distinctions between inferior and superior pleasures on an empirical basis independent of antecedent normative commitments.) This is an attempt to demystify moral value by showing that it can be explained (even if not outright defined) in terms of facts and properties that are themselves non-moral and accessible to observation and the methods of the sciences. Other theorists, whether or not they accept Mill’s conception of what in fact has moral value, have pursued the project of theorizing in the same general direction in so far as they wish to show that moral values can be understood in terms of natural (including social) facts and properties.

In some respects, this is analogous to showing how, say, biological phenomena are explicable in physico-chemical terms. There are theories of moral value according to which it is constituted by, supervenes upon, or is defined in terms of non-moral, natural facts and properties. (Each is a different account of the relation between the moral and the non-moral. They are not simply different ways of saying the same thing.) This does not turn moral thought into a department of natural science, but it does mean that the explanation of what moral thought is about may very well depend extensively upon scientific methods. There may be regular and even law-like relations between non-moral facts and properties on the one hand, and moral facts and properties on the other. It may be that moral concepts are not entailed by or reducible to non-moral ones, but moral values have no independent ontological standing and are not essentially different in kind from natural phenomena in the way that Moore, for example, understood them to be. At the same time, moral values are real, and there are moral facts. The evaluative meaning of moral judgments is not merely expressive (see non-cognitivism in ethics). Moral judgments report moral facts, and moral claims are literally true or false. There are numerous versions of naturalistic moral realism.

There are other versions of ethical naturalism that owe much more to Hume and make the case for antirealism rather than realism. It was central to Hume’s moral theory that there are no value-entities or special faculties for perceiving or knowing them. According to Hume, moral value and moral motivation are to be explained in terms of facts about human sensibility. In this type of view, moral judgments are to be interpreted projectively, but they are also to be regarded as having all the form and force of cognitive discourse. On the one hand, commitment to objective values (with all of their alleged metaphysical and epistemological difficulties) is avoided. On the other hand, there is ample scope for moral argument, for critical assessment of moral views, and for regarding moral language as having much richer meaning than just being emotive in a person-relative way. The learning of moral concepts, the practice of reason-giving, and the adjustment of moral beliefs that we take to be part of moral experience and practice really are parts of it, though their genuineness does not depend upon there being moral facts or objective values. All that is needed is a common human sensibility and our propensity to make action-guiding judgments. To defenders of this approach, naturalism is not a way of explaining away moral values, or translating moral language into non-moral language. Instead it is the project of explaining all that moral values can be, in terms of sensibility, and showing how that is sufficient for full-fledged morality. It may be instructive to interpret this account of moral thought and discourse as analogous to Hume’s treatment of causal thought and discourse. There too, he severely criticized realist interpretations, but he also sought to show that his account could preserve the significance and the form of causal claims and causal reasoning. In that regard, the Humean approach can be said to explain moral judgments and causal judgments, rather than explaining them away.

Some Humean-influenced views of morality put weight on the role of evolutionary explanations. They can be important to the story of how there came to be creatures with morally relevant sentiments and moral concern, and also why certain kinds of cooperative and coordinated behavior—certain types of moral behavior—well-serve us as a species, and are regarded by us as valuable. That does not mean that we are “naturally” moral, but that naturalistic explanations are central to the account of the possibility and character of morality. The Humean-influenced approach (of which there are many variants) to meta-ethics is not reductive naturalism, but it certainly seems to count as a type of naturalism. And, as we have noted, special argumentation is needed to show why naturalism would have to be reductive.

There are also versions of evolutionary ethics that are not much influenced by Hume. Ethical theories strongly influenced by evolutionary thinking but without ties to Hume’s philosophy were developed in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. Some were crude variants of Social Darwinism, but others were sophisticated attempts to show the naturalistic origin and ground of ethical value and practice. (Thomas Henry Huxley [1893] is a good example of a subtle, sophisticated nineteenth century exponent of the role of evolution in ethics.) In subsequent decades there have been important developments in this tradition, incorporating knowledge of genetics and animal behavior and its physiological bases.

In general terms, evolutionary ethics attempts to show that the attitudes, motives, and practices that are part and parcel of ethical life are to be accounted for in terms of how they are adaptive. Virtues, vices, moral rules and principles, and so forth do not have an independent standing, or a basis in a priori reasoning. Moral values are not detected by a quasi-perceptual moral sense or by a faculty of intuition. This does not mean that morally significant behavior is robotic or uninfluenced by judgment and reasoning. Rather, the point is that needs are met by certain dispositions, susceptibilities, and behaviors, and the presence of those things themselves is explicable in terms of selective advantage in the struggle for existence. Altruism and various patterns of coordinated behaviors are explained in terms of the biological benefits they confer. They enhance fitness. That there is morality and concern for moral issues at all are facts that can be accounted for in terms of an account of how we came to be, and came to be the sorts of animals we are in a process of natural selection. Defenders of this view argue that only if one thinks morality must have its source in God or reason would one find this threatening to morality. It does not subvert virtue, or render moral motivation something base or no more than an animal function, like digestion or excretion. Morality is a no less real or significant part of our lives, but it is in our lives at all, in the ways that it is, because of our evolutionary history. We need not look elsewhere.

b. Naturalism in the Philosophy of Mind

The philosophy of mind is another area in which naturalistic views have been prominent and highly controversial. Many theorists hold that the categories, concepts, and vocabulary needed to explain consciousness, experience, thought, and language are those of the natural sciences (and perhaps some of the social sciences, understood naturalistically). The impetus for this view comes from a number of directions, including developments in biological sciences, linguistics, artificial intelligence, and cognitive science. To many theorists it seems increasingly clear, or at least plausible, that the mind is as fully a part of nature as anything else. They hold that while the properties and processes of mental life may have distinctive features, (which, admittedly, may be especially difficult to study and to understand) they are not ultimately inexplicable by the methods of the sciences. The study of them is especially complicated because of the ways in which biochemical, physiological, social, developmental, and many other processes and events interact. But according to the naturalist, the mind is not “outside of nature.” It operates in accordance with principles fundamentally like those that govern other natural phenomena. Here again, the naturalist need not be a reductionist physicalist. The theorist of mind may be a non-reductionist physicalist (taking the view that the mental supervenes on the physical) or not take an explicit stand on physicalism one way or the other. Rather, the naturalist with respect to philosophy of mind may emphasize the claim that the study of the mind does not involve any methods other than those recognized in the various natural sciences. It requires no commitments to the existence of entities and properties other than those recognized in the sciences.

As before, Plato, Descartes, and Kant are excellent examples of non-naturalism concerning the mind. Their theories differ in important ways, but they all share the principle that the mind and its activities are not physical and are not governed by the laws of nature. This is not because of pre-scientific ignorance or lack of sophistication. It is because they found it virtually or literally incoherent that awareness, comprehension, and the activity of thought should just be part of what goes on in the natural order. Many theorists still find that incoherent. They argue that either the object of cognition is something non-natural, such as a state of affairs, or a proposition, or a universal (or a complex of instances of universals), or that cognition itself is something non-natural—or that both are. Thinking, the objects of thought, and the relations between them (which are often necessary relations, but not causally necessary relations) seem to be matters that are not susceptible to being rendered in naturalistic terms. (It may be that the objects of cognition are not exactly the same things as the objects of perception, which are natural objects and also artifacts made by human beings.) Indeed, even apart from disputes focused on naturalism these are some of the persistent, fundamental problems of philosophy of mind, and its relations to epistemology, metaphysics, and philosophy of language.

Modern critics of naturalism often point to (at least) two especially significant problem areas for naturalism. One of them concerns how a naturalistic conception of mind is to handle intentional states—states such as belief, desire, hope, fear, and others that have objects. These are expressed in the form, “X believes that…” or “X hopes that…” and so forth. These are states that are about something. Many mental states are intentional in this way, and this feature of being about something seems to be distinctive of mental states. A state of temperature, or a quantity, or a positive or negative charge, or a valence, or combustion, or the suppression of an immunological response is not about something. These and other states, events, and processes have causes (and effects) but do not have objects. They are not directed at anything in the way that many mental states are. There are difficult questions concerning the nature of intentionality and also the nature and status of the objects of intentional states. Are the latter propositions, or states of affairs, or something else? Many mental states (such as belief) seem to be representational. How is representation to be understood?

A second issue is the following. Is understanding the meaning of a sentence, or the grasp of a mathematical truth, or the grasp of other sorts of necessary truths (as in logic) something that can be exhaustively explained in terms confined to the language of the natural sciences and its referents? In addition to questions about how thought has intentional objects and about the objects of thought, there are questions about the form and structure of thought and whether they are susceptible to naturalistic treatment. Is the necessity of logical validity something that can be completely accounted for in causal-empirical terms? Are relations between concepts supervenient upon, or explicable in terms of, relations between events? Are they resistant to assimilation into natural causal processes, even if they are dependent upon them? (There are analogies here to the issue of epistemic justification and the status of moral values, which too may be dependent upon naturalistic phenomena, though not simply “nothing but” naturalistic phenomena.)

The insistence that the mind is not a separate substance is not sufficient to make for naturalism about the mind. Similarly, insisting that we can only learn language and develop cognitive abilities because of the way we have evolved is not enough to underwrite naturalism. It is not a view only about what is relevant to explain or understand a certain range of phenomena. It is a view about what is sufficient to do so. Substance dualism is very much out of favor, but it is hardly the only alternative to naturalism with regard to the mind. In this context, as in the other contexts, there is a broad range of views, many of them naturalistic, many of them not. It is not as though there is a single, prevailing naturalistic theory of mind. The debate about what naturalism about the mind should look like remains very much open and ongoing.

4. Overview of the Debate About Naturalism

The debate about naturalism remains so very much alive and so complex. Much of it concerns just how narrowly or broadly to construe naturalism and how open it should be to the form and content of what is accepted as belonging to science. What if our best understanding of the sciences indicates that reductionism is at best “local,” confined to certain areas, and there is no single, fundamental level of description in which all scientific truths can be expressed? And what if the interpretation of the “physical” is expanded to include supervenient properties, including mental properties, and moral values? Would that be a defeat for naturalism, or only for certain versions of it? Or, suppose a theorist claimed that philosophy could dispense with a priori theorizing or with attempts to arrive at highly general theories altogether (the theory of knowledge, the theory of morality, the theory of meaning, etc.), say, in the manner of the later Wittgenstein? Would that rejection of “first philosophy” and the search for foundations or essences constitute a kind of naturalism? We can imagine a defender of that approach answering in the affirmative, and other self-avowed naturalists finding that inappropriate and misleading. In their view naturalism requires certain quite specific commitments about what there is and how it can be known or explained.

This does not mean that the debate about naturalism is merely or mainly verbal. There are significant, substantive issues involved. Some of them concern just how naturalism is to be interpreted, and some of them concern the truth of naturalism in one or another area. These are not matters of stipulation, but difficult, complex issues. In trying to resolve them there is considerable traffic back and forth between philosophical theorizing and empirical science. One could, for example, be a naturalist about moral value, but not a “global” naturalist, a naturalist about all things. Moral theorizing has some important relations with epistemology, metaphysics, and philosophy of mind, but one need not tackle all of those issues and relations at once in order to assess the claims of naturalism in one area. Or, at least that appears to be a workable approach. At the same time, part of the appeal of naturalism is its potentially global scope. It has the apparent merit of providing a single, or at least integrated overall account of what there is, and what it is like, and how it works—including the actions, experiences, and thoughts of rational animals.

a. Conclusion

Totalizing views have often had considerable appeal to philosophers. Such views promise to make the world intelligible with a single array of fundamental concepts. They purport to overcome the perplexities attending views in which the world is ultimately heterogeneous, with objects, properties, and processes of fundamentally different kinds, belonging to different categories. Objective idealism such as Hegel’s is one sort of totalizing view, and so is global naturalism, though the two are radically different from each other. Spinoza’s metaphysical theory according to which there is just one substance is another totalizing view, and so is phenomenalism, in its own way. Each is an attempt to produce the widest and most thorough intelligibility by identifying a small number of basic categories and principles through which things can be understood.

It is understandable that a great deal of philosophical theorizing should have a tendency to be reductionist or to seek a “privileged” vocabulary for describing the ultimate constituents of reality or the basic activities or processes that govern it. After all, many philosophers conceive the project of philosophy to include the task of articulating an account of the most general features of reality, knowledge, value, and so forth. In one respect, naturalism resists that tendency, in so far as it rejects the project of a priori theorizing as hopeless, irrelevant, or obsolete. Given the guiding intellectual disposition of naturalism, it seems that it would countenance as real whatever the progress of (empirical) enquiry indicates is required for complete explanations. It would be open to what is found. Rather than fashioning a completely general and abstract conception of reality, it focuses on the substantive explanations and theories that are developed in specific areas of inquiry. According to naturalism, if philosophy becomes detached from those, it is mere theory-building and does not afford us real understanding.

In another respect though, naturalism is a decidedly philosophical approach and an entrant in the grand debate about what is the true global view. As noted above, naturalism is itself a philosophical view, though it claims to be a rejection of a great deal that historically has been distinctive of philosophy. Even if naturalism is articulated in strictly empirical terms, and strives to be scientific, we are still faced with the issue of whether strictly empirical terms are adequate to capture and express all that there is and all we can know. It is not as though naturalism can avoid questions about whether it is itself a true view, and all the associated concerns about how to interpret truth, and what would make it a true view. The issue of whether naturalism is true may be the sort of issue that is not clearly resolvable in exclusively naturalistic terms. At least it seems that the view that it can be, is itself a distinctively philosophical view. Once we begin to explore such questions, we are of course doing philosophy, even if our aim is to make the case for naturalism.

For critiques of naturalism, see the Social Science article.

5. References and Further Reading

This list indicates titles of selected sources and is not an attempt to be exhaustive. It includes some of the most relevant works of thinkers referred to in the article and also some important works by thinkers who are not named in the article.

  • Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics.
  • Blackburn, Simon (1988). “How To be an Ethical Anti-realist,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 12, pp. 361-375.
  • Blackburn, Simon (1998). Ruling Passions, Oxford University Press.
  • Churchland, P. M. (1988). Matter and Consciousness, MIT Press.
  • Descartes, René (1641). Meditations on First Philosophy.
  • Dewey, John (1920). Reconstruction in Philosophy, N.Y.: Henry Holt and Company.
  • Dewey, John (1925). Experience and Nature, Chicago: Open Court.
  • Foot, Philippa (2003). Natural Goodness, Oxford University Press.
  • Gibbard, Alan (1990). Wise Choices, Apt Feelings: A Theory of Normative Judgment, Oxford University Press.
  • Goldman, Alvin (1979) “What is Justified Belief?” in George S. Pappas Justification and Knowledge Dordrecht, pp. 1-23.
  • Goldman, Alvin (1986). Epistemology and Cognition, Harvard University Press
  • Goodman, Nelson (1978). Ways of Worldmaking, Hackett Publishing Company.
  • Goodman, Nelson (1979). Fact, Fiction, and Forecast, Harvard University Press.
  • Hume, David (1748). An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding.
  • Hume, David (1751). An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals.
  • Huxley, Thomas Henry (1893). Evolution and Ethics, Pilot Press.
  • Jackson, Frank (1982). “Epiphenomenal Qualia” The Philosophical Quarterly, Vol. 32, No. 127 April, pp. 127-136.
  • James, William (1907/1979). Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979 (originally published in 1907).
  • Kant, Immanuel (1781/87). Critique of Pure Reason, Werner Pluhar (trans.), Indianapolis: Hackett, 1996. (First edition originally published in 1781, second edition in 1787.)
  • Kant, Immanuel (1783). Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, Gary Hatfield (trans.), New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997 (originally published in1783).
  • Kim, Jaegwon: “What Is ‘Naturalized Epistemology’?” Philosophical Perspectives 2, James E. Tomberlin (ed.), Asascadero, CA: Ridgeview Publishing Co., pp. 381-406.
  • Kornblith, Hilary, ed. (1985). Naturalizing Epistemology, MIT Press.
  • McDowell, John (1995). “Two Sorts of Naturalism” in Virtues and Reasons: Philippa Foot and Moral Theory, Rosalind Hursthouse, Gavin Lawrence, and Warren Quinn (eds.), Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 149-79.
  • McDowell, John (1996). Mind and World, Harvard University Press.
  • Mill, John Stuart (1861/1998). Utilitarianism, Roger Crips (ed.), Oxford University Press. (Originally published in 1861).
  • Moore, G. E. (1925). “A Defense of Common Sense,” Contemporary British Philosophy (2nd series), ed. J. H. Muirhead. Reprinted in Moore (1959c).
  • Moore, G. E. (1959a). “Proof of the External World” Ch. 7 of Moore (1959b), pp. 126-148.
  • Moore, G. E. (1959b). Philosophical Papers. London: George, Allen and Unwin.
  • Peirce, Charles Sanders (1898/1992). Reasoning and the Logic of Things: The Cambridge Conference Lectures of 1898, Kenneth Laine Ketner (ed., intro.) and Hilary Putnam (intro., comm.), Harvard University Press, 1992.
  • Peirce, Charles Sanders (1903/1997). Pragmatism as a Principle and Method of Right Thinking: The 1903 Harvard Lectures on Pragmatism, Patricia Ann Turrisi (ed.), SUNY Press.
  • Plato. Republic.
  • Plato. Theaetetus.
  • Plato. Sophist.
  • Putnam, Hilary (1981). Reason, Truth and History, Cambridge University Press.
  • Quine, W. V. O. (1969a). “Epistemology Naturalized,” Ontological Relativity and Other Essays, New York: Columbia University Press.
  • Quine, W. V. O. (1969b). “Natural Kinds,”Ontological Relativity and Other Essays, New York: Columbia University Press.
  • Quine, W. V. O. (1990). Pursuit of Truth, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
  • Reid, Thomas (1785). Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man.
  • Rorty, Richard (1979). Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, Princeton University Press.
  • Rorty, Richard (1982). Consequences of Pragmatism, University of Minnesota Press.
  • Ruse, Michael (1986). Taking Darwin Seriously: A Naturalistic Approach to Philosophy, N.Y.: Blackwell.
  • Ruse, Michael & Wilson, E. O. (1985). “The Evolution of Ethics,” New Scientist 108, pp. 50-52.
  • Searle, John (1980). “Minds, Brains and Programs,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 3, pp. 417-57.
  • Searle, John (1983). Intentionality: An Essay in the Philosophy of Mind. Cambridge University Press.
  • Trigg, Roger (1982). The Shaping of Man: Philosophical Aspects of Sociobiology, Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1953). Philosophical Investigations, New York: Macmillan.

Author Information

Jon Jacobs
Email: jojacobs@jjay.cuny.edu
Colgate University
U. S. A.

Philosophy of Law

law_scalesPhilosophy of law (or legal philosophy) is concerned with providing a general philosophical analysis of law and legal institutions. Issues in the field range from abstract conceptual questions about the nature of law and legal systems to normative questions about the relationship between law and morality and the justification for various legal institutions.

Topics in legal philosophy tend to be more abstract than related topics in political philosophy and applied ethics. For example, whereas the question of how properly to interpret the U.S. Constitution belongs to democratic theory (and hence falls under the heading of political philosophy), the analysis of legal interpretation falls under the heading of legal philosophy. Likewise, whereas the question of whether capital punishment is morally permissible falls under the heading of applied ethics, the question of whether the institution of punishment can be justified falls under the heading of legal philosophy.

There are roughly three categories into which the topics of legal philosophy fall: analytic jurisprudence, normative jurisprudence, and critical theories of law. Analytic jurisprudence involves providing an analysis of the essence of law so as to understand what differentiates it from other systems of norms, such as ethics. Normative jurisprudence involves the examination of normative, evaluative, and otherwise prescriptive issues about the law, such as restrictions on freedom, obligations to obey the law, and the grounds for punishment. Finally, critical theories of law, such as critical legal studies and feminist jurisprudence, challenge more traditional forms of legal philosophy.

Table of Contents

  1. Analytic Jurisprudence
    1. Natural Law Theory
    2. Legal Positivism
      1. The Conventionality Thesis
      2. The Social Fact Thesis
      3. The Separability Thesis
    3. Ronald Dworkin’s Third Theory
  2. Normative Jurisprudence
    1. Freedom and the Limits of Legitimate Law
      1. Legal Moralism
      2. Legal Paternalism
      3. The Offense Principle
    2. The Obligation to Obey Law
    3. The Justification of Punishment
  3. Critical Theories of Law
    1. Legal Realism
    2. Critical Legal Studies
    3. Law and Economics
    4. Outsider Jurisprudence
  4. References and Further Reading

1. Analytic Jurisprudence

The principal objective of analytic jurisprudence has traditionally been to provide an account of what distinguishes law as a system of norms from other systems of norms, such as ethical norms. As John Austin describes the project, analytic jurisprudence seeks “the essence or nature which is common to all laws that are properly so called” (Austin 1995, p. 11). Accordingly, analytic jurisprudence is concerned with providing necessary and sufficient conditions for the existence of law that distinguish law from non-law.

While this task is usually interpreted as an attempt to analyze the concepts of law and legal system, there is some confusion as to both the value and character of conceptual analysis in philosophy of law. As Brian Leiter (1998) points out, philosophy of law is one of the few philosophical disciplines that takes conceptual analysis as its principal concern; most other areas in philosophy have taken a naturalistic turn, incorporating the tools and methods of the sciences. To clarify the role of conceptual analysis in law, Brian Bix (1995) distinguishes a number of different purposes that can be served by conceptual claims:

  1. to track linguistic usage;
  2. to stipulate meanings;
  3. to explain what is important or essential about a class of objects; and
  4. to establish an evaluative test for the concept-word.

Bix takes conceptual analysis in law to be primarily concerned with (3) and (4).

In any event, conceptual analysis of law remains an important, if controversial, project in contemporary legal theory. Conceptual theories of law can be divided into two main headings: (a) those that affirm there is a conceptual relation between law and morality and (b) those that deny that there is such a relation. Nevertheless, Ronald Dworkin’s view is often characterized as a third theory partly because it is not clear where he stands on the question of whether there is a conceptual relation between law and morality.

a. Natural Law Theory

All forms of natural law theory subscribe to the Overlap Thesis, which is that there is a necessary relation between the concepts of law and morality. According to this view, then, the concept of law cannot be fully articulated without some reference to moral notions. Though the Overlap Thesis may seem unambiguous, there are a number of different ways in which it can be interpreted.

The strongest form of the Overlap Thesis underlies the classical naturalism of St. Thomas Aquinas and William Blackstone. As Blackstone describes the thesis:

This law of nature, being co-eval with mankind and dictated by God himself, is of course superior in obligation to any other. It is binding over all the globe, in all countries, and at all times: no human laws are of any validity, if contrary to this; and such of them as are valid derive all their force, and all their authority, mediately or immediately, from this original (1979, p. 41).

In this passage, Blackstone articulates the two claims that constitute the theoretical core of classical naturalism: 1) there can be no legally valid standards that conflict with the natural law; and 2) all valid laws derive what force and authority they have from the natural law. On this view, to paraphrase Augustine, an unjust law is no law at all.

Related to Blackstone’s classical naturalism is the neo-naturalism of John Finnis (1980). Finnis believes that the naturalism of Aquinas and Blackstone should not be construed as a conceptual account of the existence conditions for law. According to Finnis (see also Bix, 1996), the classical naturalists were not concerned with giving a conceptual account of legal validity; rather they were concerned with explaining the moral force of law: “the principles of natural law explain the obligatory force (in the fullest sense of “obligation”) of positive laws, even when those laws cannot be deduced from those principles” (Finnis 1980, pp. 23-24). On Finnis’s view of the Overlap Thesis, the essential function of law is to provide a justification for state coercion. Accordingly, an unjust law can be legally valid, but cannot provide an adequate justification for use of the state coercive power and is hence not obligatory in the fullest sense; thus, an unjust law fails to realize the moral ideals implicit in the concept of law. An unjust law, on this view, is legally binding, but is not fully law.

Lon Fuller (1964) rejects the idea that there are necessary moral constraints on the content of law. On Fuller’s view, law is necessarily subject to a procedural morality consisting of eight principles:

P1: the rules must be expressed in general terms;
P2: the rules must be publicly promulgated;
P3: the rules must be prospective in effect;
P4: the rules must be expressed in understandable terms;
P5: the rules must be consistent with one another;
P6: the rules must not require conduct beyond the powers of the affected parties;
P7: the rules must not be changed so frequently that the subject cannot rely on them; and
P8: the rules must be administered in a manner consistent with their wording.

On Fuller’s view, no system of rules that fails minimally to satisfy these principles of legality can achieve law’s essential purpose of achieving social order through the use of rules that guide behavior. A system of rules that fails to satisfy (P2) or (P4), for example, cannot guide behavior because people will not be able to determine what the rules require. Accordingly, Fuller concludes that his eight principles are “internal” to law in the sense that they are built into the existence conditions for law: “A total failure in any one of these eight directions does not simply result in a bad system of law; it results in something that is not properly called a legal system at all” (1964, p. 39).

b. Legal Positivism

Opposed to all forms of naturalism is legal positivism, which is roughly constituted by three theoretical commitments: (i) the Social Fact Thesis, (ii) the Conventionality Thesis, and (iii) the Separability Thesis. The Social Fact Thesis (which is also known as the Pedigree Thesis) asserts that it is a necessary truth that legal validity is ultimately a function of certain kinds of social facts. The Conventionality Thesis emphasizes law’s conventional nature, claiming that the social facts giving rise to legal validity are authoritative in virtue of some kind of social convention. The Separability Thesis, at the most general level, simply denies naturalism’s Overlap Thesis; according to the Separability Thesis, there is no conceptual overlap between the notions of law and morality.

i. The Conventionality Thesis

According to the Conventionality Thesis, it is a conceptual truth about law that legal validity can ultimately be explained in terms of criteria that are authoritative in virtue of some kind of social convention. Thus, for example, H.L.A. Hart (1996) believes the criteria of legal validity are contained in a rule of recognition that sets forth rules for creating, changing, and adjudicating law. On Hart’s view, the rule of recognition is authoritative in virtue of a convention among officials to regard its criteria as standards that govern their behavior as officials. While Joseph Raz does not appear to endorse Hart’s view about a master rule of recognition containing the criteria of validity, he also believes the validity criteria are authoritative only in virtue of a convention among officials.

ii. The Social Fact Thesis

The Social Fact Thesis asserts that legal validity is a function of certain social facts. Borrowing heavily from Jeremy Bentham, John Austin (1995) argues that the principal distinguishing feature of a legal system is the presence of a sovereign who is habitually obeyed by most people in the society, but not in the habit of obeying any determinate human superior. On Austin’s view, a rule R is legally valid (that is, is a law) in a society S if and only if R is commanded by the sovereign in S and is backed up with the threat of a sanction. The relevant social fact that confers validity, on Austin’s view, is promulgation by a sovereign willing to impose a sanction for noncompliance.

Hart takes a different view of the Social Fact Thesis. Hart believes that Austin’s theory accounts, at most, for one kind of rule: primary rules that require or prohibit certain kinds of behavior. On Hart’s view, Austin overlooked the presence of other primary rules that confer upon citizens the power to create, modify, and extinguish rights and obligations in other persons. As Hart points out, the rules governing the creation of contracts and wills cannot plausibly be characterized as restrictions on freedom that are backed by the threat of a sanction.

Most importantly, however, Hart argues Austin overlooks the existence of secondary meta-rules that have as their subject matter the primary rules themselves and distinguish full-blown legal systems from primitive systems of law:

[Secondary rules] may all be said to be on a different level from the primary rules, for they are all about such rules; in the sense that while primary rules are concerned with the actions that individuals must or must not do, these secondary rules are all concerned with the primary rules themselves. They specify the way in which the primary rules may be conclusively ascertained, introduced, eliminated, varied, and the fact of their violation conclusively determined (Hart 1994, p. 92).

Hart distinguishes three types of secondary rules that mark the transition from primitive forms of law to full-blown legal systems: (1) the rule of recognition, which “specif[ies] some feature or features possession of which by a suggested rule is taken as a conclusive affirmative indication that it is a rule of the group to be supported by the social pressure it exerts” (Hart 1994, p. 92); (2) the rule of change, which enables a society to add, remove, and modify valid rules; and (3) the rule of adjudication, which provides a mechanism for determining whether a valid rule has been violated. On Hart’s view, then, every society with a full-blown legal system necessarily has a rule of recognition that articulates criteria for legal validity that include provisions for making, changing and adjudicating law. Law is, to use Hart’s famous phrase, “the union of primary and secondary rules” (Hart 1994, p. 107).

According to Hart’s view of the Social Fact Thesis, then, a proposition P is legally valid in a society S if and only if it satisfies the criteria of validity contained in a rule of recognition that is binding in S. As we have seen, the Conventionality Thesis implies that a rule of recognition is binding in S only if there is a social convention among officials to treat it as defining standards of official behavior. Thus, on Hart’s view, “[the] rules of recognition specifying the criteria of legal validity and its rules of change and adjudication must be effectively accepted as common public standards of official behaviour by its officials” (Hart 1994, p. 113).

iii. The Separability Thesis

The final thesis comprising the foundation of legal positivism is the Separability Thesis. In its most general form, the Separability Thesis asserts that law and morality are conceptually distinct. This abstract formulation can be interpreted in a number of ways. For example, Klaus F¸þer (1996) interprets it as making a meta-level claim that the definition of law must be entirely free of moral notions. This interpretation implies that any reference to moral considerations in defining the related notions of law, legal validity, and legal system is inconsistent with the Separability Thesis.

More commonly, the Separability Thesis is interpreted as making only an object-level claim about the existence conditions for legal validity. As Hart describes it, the Separability Thesis is no more than the “simple contention that it is in no sense a necessary truth that laws reproduce or satisfy certain demands of morality, though in fact they have often done so” (Hart 1994, pp. 181-82). Insofar as the object-level interpretation of the Separability Thesis denies it is a necessary truth that there are moral constraints on legal validity, it implies the existence of a possible legal system in which there are no moral constraints on legal validity.

Though all positivists agree there are possible legal systems without moral constraints on legal validity, there are conflicting views on whether there are possible legal systems with such constraints. According to inclusive positivism (also known as incorporationism and soft positivism), it is possible for a society’s rule of recognition to incorporate moral constraints on the content of law. Prominent inclusive positivists include Jules Coleman and Hart, who maintains that “the rule of recognition may incorporate as criteria of legal validity conformity with moral principles or substantive values … such as the Sixteenth or Nineteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution respecting the establishment of religion or abridgements of the right to vote” (Hart 1994, p. 250).

In contrast, exclusive positivism (also called hard positivism) denies that a legal system can incorporate moral constraints on legal validity. Exclusive positivists like Raz (1979) subscribe to the Source Thesis, according to which the existence and content of law can always be determined by reference to its sources without recourse to moral argument. On this view, the sources of law include both the circumstances of its promulgation and relevant interpretative materials, such as court cases involving its application.

c. Ronald Dworkin’s Third Theory

Ronald Dworkin rejects positivism’s Social Fact Thesis on the ground that there are some legal standards the authority of which cannot be explained in terms of social facts. In deciding hard cases, for example, judges often invoke moral principles that Dworkin believes do not derive their legal authority from the social criteria of legality contained in a rule of recognition (Dworkin 1977, p. 40). Nevertheless, since judges are bound to consider such principles when relevant, they must be characterized as law. Thus, Dworkin concludes, “if we treat principles as law we must reject the positivists’ first tenet, that the law of a community is distinguished from other social standards by some test in the form of a master rule” (Dworkin 1977, p. 44).

Dworkin believes adjudication is and should be interpretive: “judges should decide hard cases by interpreting the political structure of their community in the following, perhaps special way: by trying to find the best justification they can find, in principles of political morality, for the structure as a whole, from the most profound constitutional rules and arrangements to the details of, for example, the private law of tort or contract” (Dworkin 1982, p. 165). There are, then, two elements of a successful interpretation. First, since an interpretation is successful insofar as it justifies the particular practices of a particular society, the interpretation must fit with those practices in the sense that it coheres with existing legal materials defining the practices. Second, since an interpretation provides a moral justification for those practices, it must present them in the best possible moral light. Thus, Dworkin argues, a judge should strive to interpret a case in roughly the following way:

A thoughtful judge might establish for himself, for example, a rough “threshold” of fit which any interpretation of data must meet in order to be “acceptable” on the dimension of fit, and then suppose that if more than one interpretation of some part of the law meets this threshold, the choice among these should be made, not through further and more precise comparisons between the two along that dimension, but by choosing the interpretation which is “substantively” better, that is, which better promotes the political ideals he thinks correct (Dworkin 1982, p. 171).

Accordingly, on Dworkin’s view, the legal authority of a binding principle derives from the contribution it makes to the best moral justification for a society’s legal practices considered as a whole. Thus, a legal principle maximally contributes to such a justification if and only if it satisfies two conditions:

  1. the principle coheres with existing legal materials; and
  2. the principle is the most morally attractive standard that satisfies (1).

The correct legal principle is the one that makes the law the moral best it can be.

In later writings, Dworkin expands the scope of his “constructivist” view beyond adjudication to encompass the realm of legal theory. Dworkin distinguishes conversational interpretation from artistic/creative interpretation and argues that the task of interpreting a social practice is more like artistic interpretation:

The most familiar occasion of interpretation is conversation. We interpret the sounds or marks another person makes in order to decide what he has said. Artistic interpretation is yet another: critics interpret poems and plays and paintings in order to defend some view of their meaning or theme or point. The form of interpretation we are studying-the interpretation of a social practice-is like artistic interpretation in this way: both aim to interpret something created by people as an entity distinct from them, rather than what people say, as in conversational interpretation” (Dworkin 1986, p. 50).

Artistic interpretation, like judicial interpretation, is constrained by the dimensions of fit and justification: “constructive interpretation is a matter of imposing purpose on an object or practice in order to make of it the best possible example of the form or genre to which it is taken to belong” (Dworkin 1986, p. 52).

On Dworkin’s view, the point of any general theory of law is to interpret a very complex set of related social practices that are “created by people as an entity distinct from them”; for this reason, Dworkin believes the project of putting together a general theory of law is inherently constructivist:

General theories of law must be abstract because they aim to interpret the main point and structure of legal practice, not some particular part or department of it. But for all their abstraction, they are constructive interpretations: they try to show legal practice as a whole in its best light, to achieve equilibrium between legal practice as they find it and the best justification of that practice. So no firm line divides jurisprudence from adjudication or any other aspect of legal practice (Dworkin 1986, p. 90).

Indeed, so tight is the relation between jurisprudence and adjudication, according to Dworkin, that jurisprudence is no more than the most general part of adjudication; thus, Dworkin concludes, “any judge’s opinion is itself a piece of legal philosophy” (Dworkin 1986, p. 90).

Accordingly, Dworkin rejects not only positivism’s Social Fact Thesis, but also what he takes to be its underlying presuppositions about legal theory. Hart distinguishes two perspectives from which a set of legal practices can be understood. A legal practice can be understood from the “internal” point of view of the person who accepts that practice as providing legitimate guides to conduct, as well as from the “external” point of view of the observer who wishes to understand the practice but does not accept it as being authoritative or legitimate.

Hart understands his theory of law to be both descriptive and general in the sense that it provides an account of fundamental features common to all legal systems-which presupposes a point of view that is external to all legal systems. For this reason, he regards his project as “a radically different enterprise from Dworkin’s conception of legal theory (or ‘jurisprudence’ as he often terms it) as in part evaluative and justificatory and as ‘addressed to a particular legal culture’, which is usually the theorist’s own and in Dworkin’s case is that of Anglo-American law” (Hart 1994, p. 240).

These remarks show Hart believes Dworkin’s theoretical objectives are fundamentally different from those of positivism, which, as a theory of analytic jurisprudence, is largely concerned with conceptual analysis. For his part, Dworkin conceives his work as conceptual but not in the same sense that Hart regards his work:

We all-at least all lawyers-share a concept of law and of legal right, and we contest different conceptions of that concept. Positivism defends a particular conception, and I have tried to defend a competing conception. We disagree about what legal rights are in much the same way as we philosophers who argue about justice disagree about what justice is. I concentrate on the details of a particular legal system with which I am especially familiar, not simply to show that positivism provides a poor account of that system, but to show that positivism provides a poor conception of the concept of a legal right (Dworkin 1977, 351-52).

These differences between Hart and Dworkin have led many legal philosophers, most recently Bix (1996), to suspect that they are not really taking inconsistent positions at all. Accordingly, there remains an issue as to whether Dworkin’s work should be construed as falling under the rubric of analytic jurisprudence.

2. Normative Jurisprudence

Normative jurisprudence involves normative, evaluative, and otherwise prescriptive questions about the law. Here we will examine three key issues: (a) when and to what extent laws can restrict the freedom of citizens, (b) the nature of one’s obligation to obey the law, and (c) the justification of punishment by law.

a. Freedom and the Limits of Legitimate Law

Laws limit human autonomy by restricting freedom. Criminal laws, for example, remove certain behaviors from the range of behavioral options by penalizing them with imprisonment and, in some cases, death. Likewise, civil laws require people to take certain precautions not to injure others and to honor their contracts. Given that human autonomy deserves prima facie moral respect, the question arises as to what are the limits of the state’s legitimate authority to restrict the freedom of its citizens.

John Stuart Mill provides the classic liberal answer in the form of the harm principle:

[T]he sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number is self-protection. The only purpose for which power can rightfully be exercised over any member of a civilised community against his will is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign (Mill 1906, pp. 12-13).

While Mill left the notion of harm underdeveloped, he is most frequently taken to mean only physical harms and more extreme forms of psychological harm.

Though Mill’s view—or something like it—enjoys currency among the public, it has generated considerable controversy among philosophers of law and political philosophers. Many philosophers believe that Mill understates the limits of legitimate state authority over the individual, claiming that law may be used to enforce morality, to protect the individual from herself, and in some cases to protect individuals from offensive behavior.

i. Legal Moralism

Legal moralism is the view that the law can legitimately be used to prohibit behaviors that conflict with society’s collective moral judgments even when those behaviors do not result in physical or psychological harm to others. According to this view, a person’s freedom can legitimately be restricted simply because it conflicts with society’s collective morality; thus, legal moralism implies that it is permissible for the state to use its coercive power to enforce society’s collective morality.

The most famous legal moralist is Patrick Devlin, who argues that a shared morality is essential to the existence of a society:

[I]f men and women try to create a society in which there is no fundamental agreement about good and evil they will fail; if, having based it on common agreement, the agreement goes, the society will disintegrate. For society is not something that is kept together physically; it is held by the invisible bonds of common thought. If the bonds were too far relaxed the members would drift apart. A common morality is part of the bondage. The bondage is part of the price of society; and mankind, which needs society, must pay its price. (Devlin 1965, p. 10).

Insofar as human beings cannot lead a meaningful existence outside of society, it follows, on Devlin’s view, that the law can be used to preserve the shared morality as a means of preserving society itself.

H.L.A. Hart (1963) points out that Devlin overstates the extent to which preservation of a shared morality is necessary to the continuing existence of a society. Devlin attempts to conclude from the necessity of a shared social morality that it is permissible for the state to legislate sexual morality (in particular, to legislate against same-sex sexual relations), but Hart argues it is implausible to think that “deviation from accepted sexual morality, even by adults in private, is something which, like treason, threatens the existence of society” (Hart 1963, p. 50). While enforcement of certain social norms protecting life, safety, and property are likely essential to the existence of a society, a society can survive a diversity of behavior in many other areas of moral concern-as is evidenced by the controversies in the U.S. surrounding abortion and homosexuality.

ii. Legal Paternalism

Legal paternalism is the view that it is permissible for the state to legislate against what Mill calls “self-regarding actions” when necessary to prevent individuals from inflicting physical or severe emotional harm on themselves. As Gerald Dworkin describes it, a paternalist interference is an “interference with a person’s liberty of action justified by reasons referring exclusively to the welfare, good, happiness, needs, interests or values of the person being coerced” (G. Dworkin 1972, p. 65). Thus, for example, a law requiring use of a helmet when riding a motorcycle is a paternalistic interference insofar as it is justified by concerns for the safety of the rider.

Dworkin argues that Mill’s view that a person “cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him” (Mill 1906, p. 13) precludes paternalistic legislation to which fully rational individuals would agree. According to Dworkin, there are goods, such as health and education, that any rational person needs to pursue her own good-no matter how that good is conceived. Thus, Dworkin concludes, the attainment of these basic goods can legitimately be promoted in certain circumstances by using the state’s coercive force.

Dworkin offers a hypothetical consent justification for his limited legal paternalism. On his view, there are a number of different situations in which fully rational adults would consent to paternalistic restrictions on freedom. For example, Dworkin believes a fully rational adult would consent to paternalistic restrictions to protect her from making decisions that are “far-reaching, potentially dangerous and irreversible” (G. Dworkin 1972, p. 80). Nevertheless, he argues that there are limits to legitimate paternalism: (1) the state must show that the behavior governed by the proposed restriction involves the sort of harm that a rational person would want to avoid; (2) on the calculations of a fully rational person, the potential harm outweighs the benefits of the relevant behavior; and (3) the proposed restriction is the least restrictive alternative for protecting against the harm.

iii. The Offense Principle

Joel Feinberg believes the harm principle does not provide sufficient protection against the wrongful behaviors of others, as it is inconsistent with many criminal prohibitions we take for granted as being justified. If the only legitimate use of the state coercive force is to protect people from harm caused by others, then statutes prohibiting public sex are impermissible because public sex might be offensive but it does not cause harm (in the Millian sense) to others.

Accordingly, Feinberg argues the harm principle must be augmented by the offense principle, which he defines as follows: “It is always a good reason in support of a proposed criminal prohibition that it would probably be an effective way of preventing serious offense (as opposed to injury or harm) to persons other than the actor, and that it is probably a necessary means to that end” (Feinberg 1985). By “offense,” Feinberg intends a subjective and objective element: the subjective element consists in the experience of an unpleasant mental state (for example, shame, disgust, anxiety, embarrassment); the objective element consists in the existence of a wrongful cause of such a mental state.

b. The Obligation to Obey Law

Natural law critics of positivism (for example, Fuller 1958) frequently complain that if positivism is correct, there cannot be a moral obligation to obey the law qua law (that is, to obey the law as such, no matter what the laws are, simply because it is the law). As Feinberg (1979) puts the point:

The positivist account of legal validity is hard to reconcile with the [claim] that valid law as such, no matter what its content, deserves our respect and general fidelity. Even if valid law is bad law, we have some obligation to obey it simply because it is law. But how can this be so if a law’s validity has nothing to do with its content?

The idea is this: if what is essential to law is just that there exist specified recipes for making law, then there cannot be a moral obligation to obey a rule simply because it is the law.

Contemporary positivists, for the most part, accept the idea that positivism is inconsistent with an obligation to obey law qua law (compare Himma 1998), but argue that the mere status of a norm as law cannot give rise to any moral obligation to obey that norm. While there might be a moral obligation to obey a particular law because of its moral content (for example, laws prohibiting murder) or because it solves a coordination problem (for example, laws requiring people to drive on the right side of the road), the mere fact that a rule is law does not provide a moral reason for doing what the law requires.

Indeed, arguments for the existence of even a prima facie obligation to obey law (that is, an obligation that can be outweighed by competing obligations) have largely been unsuccessful. Arguments in favor of an obligation to obey the law roughly fall into four categories: (1) arguments from gratitude; (2) arguments from fair play; (3) arguments from implied consent; and (4) arguments from general utility.

The argument from gratitude begins with the observation that all persons, even those who are worst off, derive some benefit from the state’s enforcement of the law. On this view, a person who accepts benefits from another person thereby incurs a duty of gratitude towards the benefactor. And the only plausible way to discharge this duty towards the government is to obey its laws. Nevertheless, as M.B.E. Smith points out (1973, p. 953), “if someone confers benefits on me without any consideration of whether I want them, and if he does this in order to advance some purpose other than promotion of my particular welfare, I have no obligation to be grateful towards him.” Since the state does not give citizens a choice with respect to such benefits, the mere enjoyment of them cannot give rise to a duty of gratitude.

John Rawls (1964) argues that there is a moral obligation to obey law qua law in societies in which there is a mutually beneficial and just scheme of social cooperation. What gives rise to a moral obligation to obey law qua law in such societies is a duty of fair play: fairness requires obedience of persons who intentionally accept the benefits made available in a society organized around a just scheme of mutually beneficial cooperation. There are a couple of problems here. First, Rawls’s argument does not establish the existence of a content-independent obligation to obey law; the obligation arises only in those societies that institutionalize a just scheme of social cooperation. Second, even in such societies, citizens are not presented with a genuine option to refuse those benefits. For example, I cannot avoid the benefits of laws ensuring clean air. But accepting benefits one is not in a position to refuse cannot give rise to an obligation of fair play.

The argument from consent grounds an obligation to obey law on some sort of implied promise. As is readily evident, we can voluntarily assume obligations by consenting to them or making a promise. Of course, most citizens never explicitly promise or consent to obey the laws; for this reason, proponents of this argument attempt to infer consent from such considerations as continued residence and acceptance of benefits from the state. Nevertheless, acceptance of benefits one cannot decline no more implies consent to obey law than it does duties of fair play or gratitude. Moreover, the prohibitive difficulties associated with emigration preclude an inference of consent from continued residence.

Finally, the argument from general utility grounds the duty to obey the law in the consequences of universal disobedience. Since, according to this argument, the consequences of general disobedience would be catastrophic, it is wrong for any individual to disobey the law; for no person may disobey the law unless everyone may do so. In response, Smith points out that this strategy of argument leads to absurdities: “We will have to maintain, for example, that there is a prima facie obligation not to eat dinner at five o’clock, for if everyone did so, certain essential services could not be maintained” (Smith 1973, p. 966).

c. The Justification of Punishment

Punishment is unique among putatively legitimate acts in that its point is to inflict discomfort on the recipient; an act that is incapable of causing a person minimal discomfort cannot be characterized as a punishment. In most contexts, the commission of an act for the purpose of inflicting discomfort is morally problematic because of its resemblance to torture. For this reason, institutional punishment requires a moral justification sufficient to distinguish it from other practices of purposely inflicting discomfort on other people.

Justifications for punishment typically take five forms: (1) retributive; (2) deterrence; (3) preventive; (4) rehabilitative; and (5) restitutionary. According to the retributive justification, what justifies punishing a person is that she committed an offense that deserves the punishment. On this view, it is morally appropriate that a person who has committed a wrongful act should suffer in proportion to the magnitude of her wrongdoing. The problem, however, is that the mere fact that someone is deserving of punishment does not imply it is morally permissible for the state to administer punishment; it would be wrong for me, for example, to punish someone else’s child even though her behavior might deserve it.

In contrast to the retributivist theories that look back to a person’s prior wrongful act as justification for punishment, utilitarian theories look forward to the beneficial consequences of punishing a person. There are three main lines of utilitarian reasoning. According to the deterrence justification, punishment of a wrongdoer is justified by the socially beneficial effects that it has on other persons. On this view, punishment deters wrongdoing by persons who would otherwise commit wrongful acts. The problem with the deterrence theory is that it justifies punishment of one person on the strength of the effects that it has on other persons. The idea that it is permissible to deliberately inflict discomfort on one person because doing so may have beneficial effects on the behavior of other persons appears inconsistent with the Kantian principle that it is wrong to use people as mere means.

The preventive justification argues that incarcerating a person for wrongful acts is justified insofar as it prevents that person from committing wrongful acts against society during the period of incarceration. The rehabilitative justification argues that punishment is justified in virtue of the effect that it has on the moral character of the offender. Each of these justifications suffers from the same flaw: prevention of crime and rehabilitation of the offender can be achieved without the deliberate infliction of discomfort that constitutes punishment. For example, prevention of crime might require detaining the offender, but it does not require detention in an environment that is as unpleasant as those typically found in prisons.

The restitutionary justification focuses on the effect of the offender’s wrongful act on the victim. Other theories of punishment conceptualize the wrongful act as an offense against society; the restitutionary theory sees wrongdoing as an offense against the victim. Thus, on this view, the principal purpose of punishment must be to make the victim whole to the extent that this can be done: “The point is not that the offender deserves to suffer; it is rather that the offended party desires compensation” (Barnett 1977, p. 289). Accordingly, a criminal convicted of wrongdoing should be sentenced to compensate her victim in proportion to the victim’s loss. The problem with the restitutionary theory is that it fails to distinguish between compensation and punishment. Compensatory objectives focus on the victim, while punitive objectives focus on the offender.

3. Critical Theories of Law

a. Legal Realism

The legal realist movement was inspired by John Chipman Gray and Oliver Wendall Holmes and reached its apex in the 1920s and 30s through the work of Karl Llewellyn, Jerome Frank, and Felix Cohen. The realists eschewed the conceptual approach of the positivists and naturalists in favor of an empirical analysis that sought to show how practicing judges really decide cases (see Leiter 1998). The realists were deeply skeptical of the ascendant notion that judicial legislation is a rarity. While not entirely rejecting the idea that judges can be constrained by rules, the realists maintained that judges create new law through the exercise of lawmaking discretion considerably more often than is commonly supposed. On their view, judicial decision is guided far more frequently by political and moral intuitions about the facts of the case (instead of by legal rules) than theories like positivism and naturalism acknowledge.

As an historical matter, legal realism arose in response to legal formalism, a particular model of legal reasoning that assimilates legal reasoning to syllogistic reasoning. According to the formalist model, the legal outcome (that is, the holding) logically follows from the legal rule (major premise) and a statement of the relevant facts (minor premise). Realists believe that formalism understates judicial lawmaking abilities insofar as it represents legal outcomes as entailed syllogistically by applicable rules and facts. For if legal outcomes are logically implied by propositions that bind judges, it follows that judges lack legal authority to reach conflicting outcomes.

Legal realism can roughly be characterized by the following claims:

  1. the class of available legal materials is insufficient to logically entail a unique legal outcome in most cases worth litigating at the appellate level (the Local Indeterminacy Thesis);
  2. in such cases, judges make new law in deciding legal disputes through the exercise of a lawmaking discretion (the Discretion Thesis); and
  3. judicial decisions in indeterminate cases are influenced by the judge’s political and moral convictions, not by legal considerations.

Though (3) is logically independent of (1) and (2), (1) seems to imply (2): insofar as judges decide legally indeterminate cases, they must be creating new law.

It is worth noting the relations between legal realism, formalism, and positivism. While formalism is often thought to be entailed by positivism, it turns out that legal realism is not only consistent with positivism, but also presupposes the truth of all three of positivism’s core theses. Indeed, the realist acknowledges that law is essentially the product of official activity, but believes that judicial lawmaking occurs more frequently than is commonly assumed. But the idea that law is essentially the product of official activity presupposes the truth of positivism’s Conventionality, Social Fact, and Separability theses. Though the preoccupations of the realists were empirical (that is, attempting to identify the psychological and sociological factors influencing judicial decision-making), their implicit conceptual commitments were decidedly positivistic in flavor.

b. Critical Legal Studies

The critical legal studies (CLS) movement attempts to expand the radical aspects of legal realism into a Marxist critique of mainstream liberal jurisprudence. CLS theorists believe the realists understate the extent of indeterminacy; whereas the realists believe that indeterminacy is local in the sense that it is confined to a certain class of cases, CLS theorists argue that law is radically (or globally) indeterminate in the sense that the class of available legal materials rarely, if ever, logically/causally entails a unique outcome.

CLS theorists emphasize the role of ideology in shaping the content of the law. On this view, the content of the law in liberal democracies necessarily reflects “ideological struggles among social factions in which competing conceptions of justice, goodness, and social and political life get compromised, truncated, vitiated, and adjusted” (Altman 1986, p. 221). The inevitable outcome of such struggles, on this view, is a profound inconsistency permeating the deepest layers of the law. It is this pervasive inconsistency that gives rise to radical indeterminacy in the law. For insofar as the law is inconsistent, a judge can justify any of a number of conflicting outcomes.

At the heart of the CLS critique of liberal jurisprudence is the idea that radical indeterminacy is inconsistent with liberal conceptions of legitimacy. According to these traditional liberal conceptions, the province of judges is to interpret, and not make, the law. For, on this view, democratic ideals imply that lawmaking must be left to legislators who, unlike appointed judges, are accountable to the electorate. But if law is radically indeterminate, then judges nearly always decide cases by making new law, which is inconsistent with liberal conceptions of the legitimate sources of lawmaking authority.

c. Law and Economics

The law and economics movement argues for the value of economic analysis in the law both as a description about how courts and legislators do behave and as a prescription for how such officials should behave. The legal economists, led by Richard Posner, argue that the content of many areas of the common law can be explained in terms of its tendency to maximize preferences:

[M]any areas of law, especially the great common law fields of property, torts, crimes, and contracts, bear the stamp of economic reasoning. It is not a refutation that few judicial opinions contain explicit references to economic concepts. Often the true grounds of decision are concealed rather than illuminated by the characteristic rhetoric of judicial opinions. Indeed, legal education consists primarily of learning to dig beneath the rhetorical surface to find those grounds, many of which may turn out to have an economic character (Posner 1992, p. 23).

Posner subscribes to the so-called efficiency theory of the common law, according to which “the common law is best (not perfectly) explained as a system for maximizing the wealth of society” (Posner 1992, p. 23).

More influential than Posner’s descriptive claims is his normative view that law should strive to maximize wealth. According to Posner, the proper goal of the statutory and common law is to promote wealth maximization, which can best be done by facilitating the mechanisms of the free market. Posner’s normative view combines elements of utilitarian analysis with a Kantian respect for autonomy. On the utilitarian side, markets tend to maximize wealth and the satisfaction of preferences. In a market transaction with no third-party effects, wealth is increased because all parties are made better off by the transaction-otherwise there would be no incentive to consummate the transaction-and no one is made worse off.

On the Kantian side, the law should facilitate market transactions because market transactions best reflect autonomous judgments about the value of individual preferences. At least ideally, individuals express and realize their preferences through mutually consensual market transactions consummated from positions of equal bargaining power. Thus, market transactions tend, ideally, to be both efficient (because they tend to maximize wealth without harmful third-party effects) and just (because all parties are consenting).

d. Outsider Jurisprudence

So-called “outsider jurisprudence” is concerned with providing an analysis of the ways in which law is structured to promote the interests of white males and to exclude females and persons of color. For example, one principal objective of feminist jurisprudence is to show how patriarchal assumptions have shaped the content of laws in a wide variety of areas: property, contract, criminal law, constitutional law, and the law of civil rights. Additionally, feminist scholars challenge traditional ideals of judicial decision-making according to which judges decide legal disputes by applying neutral rules in an impartial and objective fashion. Feminists have, of course, always questioned whether it is possible for judges to achieve an objective and impartial perspective, but now question whether the traditional model is even desirable.

Critical race theory is likewise concerned to point up the way in which assumptions of white supremacy have shaped the content of the law at the expense of persons of color. Additionally, critical race theorists show how the experience, concerns, values, and perspectives of persons of color are systematically excluded from mainstream discourse among practicing lawyers, judges, and legislators. Finally, such theorists attempt to show how assumptions about race are built into most liberal theories of law.

4. References and Further Reading

  • Andrew Altman (1986), “Legal Realism, Critical Legal Studies, and Dworkin,” Philosophy and Public Affairs, vol. 15, no. 2, pp. 205-236.
  • Thomas Aquinas (1988), On Law, Morality and Politics (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co.).
  • John Austin (1977), Lectures on Jurisprudence and the Philosophy of Positive Law (St. Clair Shores, MI: Scholarly Press.
  • John Austin (1995), The Province of Jurisprudence Determined (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
  • Randy E. Barnett (1977), “Restitution: A New Paradigm of Criminal Justice,” Ethics, vol. 87, no. 4, pp. 279-301.
  • Jeremy Bentham (1988), A Fragment of Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
  • Jeremy Bentham (1970), Of Laws In General (London: Athlone Press).
  • Brian Bix (1995), “Conceptual Questions and Jurisprudence,” Legal Theory, vol. 1, no. 4 (December), pp. 465-479.
  • Brian Bix (1996a), Jurisprudence: Theory and Context (Boulder, CO: Westview Press).
  • Brian Bix (1996b), “Natural Law Theory,” in Dennis M. Patterson (ed.), A Companion to Philosophy of Law and Legal Theory (Cambridge: Blackwell Publishing Co.).
  • William Blackstone (1979), Commentaries on the Law of England (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press).
  • Jules L. Coleman (1989), “On the Relationship Between Law and Morality,” Ratio Juris, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 66-78.
  • Jules L. Coleman (1982), “Negative and Positive Positivism,” 11 Journal of Legal Studies vol. 139, no. 1, pp. 139-164.
  • Jules L. Coleman (1996), “Authority and Reason,” in Robert P. George, The Autonomy of Law: Essays on Legal Positivism (Oxford: Clarendon Press), pp. 287-319.
  • Jules L. Coleman (1998), “Incorporationism, Conventionality and The Practical Difference Thesis,” Legal Theory, vol. 4, no. 4, pp. 381-426.
  • Jules L. Coleman and Jeffrie Murphy (1990), Philosophy of Law (Boulder, CO: Westview Press).
  • Kimberle Crenshaw, Neil Gotanda, Gary Peller, and Kendall Thomas, eds. (1995), Critical Race Theory: The Key Writings That Formed the Movement (New York: The New Press).
  • Patrick Devlin (1965), The Enforcement of Morals (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  • Gerald Dworkin (1972), “Paternalism,” The Monist, vol. 56, pp. 64-84.
  • Ronald Dworkin (1978), Taking Rights Seriously (Cambridge: Harvard University Press).
  • Ronald Dworkin (1982), “‘Natural’ Law Revisited,” University of Florida Law Review vol. 34, no. 2, pp. 165-188.
  • Ronald Dworkin (1986), Law’s Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press).
  • Joel Feinberg (1985), Offense to Others (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  • Joel Feinberg (1979), “Civil Disobedience in the Modern World,” Humanities in Review, vol. 2, pp. 37-60.
  • John Finnis (1980), Natural Law and Natural Rights (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • William Fisher, Morton Horovitz, and Thomas Reed, eds. (1993), American Legal Realism (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • Jerome Frank (1930), Law and the Modern Mind (New York: Brentano’s Publishing).
  • Lon L. Fuller (1964), The Morality of Law (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press).
  • Lon L. Fuller (1958), “Positivism and Fidelity to Law,” Harvard Law Review, vol. 71, no. 4, pp. 630-672 .
  • Klaus Füßer (1996), “Farewell to ‘Legal Positivism’: The Separation Thesis Unravelling,” in Robert P. George, The Autonomy of Law: Essays on Legal Positivism (Oxford: Clarendon Press), pp. 119-162.
  • John Chipman Gray (1921), The Nature and Source of Law (New York: Macmillan).
  • Kent Greenawalt (1987), Conflicts of Law and Morality (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • H.L.A. Hart (1994), The Concept of Law, 2nd Edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  • H.L.A. Hart (1983), Essays in Jurisprudence and Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • H.L.A. Hart (1963), Law, Liberty and Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  • Kenneth Einar Himma (1998), “Positivism, Naturalism, and the Obligation to Obey Law,” Southern Journal of Philosophy, vol. 36, no. 2, pp. 145-161.
  • Oliver Wendall Holmes (1898), “The Path of the Law,” Harvard Law Review, vol. 110, no. 5, pp. 991-1009 .
  • Brian Leiter (1998), “Naturalism and Naturalized Jurisprudence,” in Brian Bix (ed.), Analyzing Law: New Essays in Legal Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • Brian Leiter, “Legal Realism,” in Dennis M. Patterson, ed. (1996), A Companion to Philosophy of Law and Legal Theory (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers).
  • John Stuart Mill (1906), On Liberty (New York: Alfred A. Knopf).
  • Michael Moore (1992), “Law as a Functional Kind,” in Robert P. George (ed.), Natural Law Theories: Contemporary Essays (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • Michael Moore, “The Moral Worth of Retribution,” in Ferdinand Schoeman, ed. (1987), Responsibility, Character, and the Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
  • Richard Posner (1992), Economic Analysis of Law, 4th Edition (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company).
  • John Rawls (1964), “Legal Obligation and the Duty of Fair Play,” in Sidney Hook (ed.), Law and Philosophy (New York: New York University Press), pp. 3-18.
  • Joseph Raz (1979), The Authority of Law: Essays on Law and Morality (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • Joseph Raz (1980), The Concept of a Legal System: An Introduction to the Theory of Legal Systems, Second Edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • Roger Shiner (1992), Norm and Nature (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • M.B.E. Smith (1973), “Do We have a Prima Facie Obligation to Obey the Law,” 82 Yale Law Journal 950-976.
  • Patricia Smith, ed. (1993), Feminist Jurisprudence (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  • C.L. Ten (1987), Crime, Guilt, and Punishment (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
  • W.J. Waluchow (1994), Inclusive Legal Positivism (Oxford: Clarendon Press).

Author Information

Kenneth Einar Himma
Email: himma@spu.edu
Seattle Pacific University
U. S. A.

Feminist Jurisprudence

American feminist jurisprudence is the study of the construction and workings of the law from perspectives which foreground the implications of the law for women and women’s lives. This study includes law as a theoretical enterprise as well its practical and concrete effects in women’s lives. Further, it includes law as an academic discipline, and thus incorporates concerns regarding pedagogy and the influence of teachers. On all these levels, feminist scholars, lawyers, and activists raise questions about the meaning and the impact of law on women’s lives. Feminist jurisprudence seeks to analyze and redress more traditional legal theory and practice. It focuses on the ways in which law has been structured (sometimes unwittingly) that deny the experiences and needs of women. Feminist jurisprudence claims that patriarchy (the system of interconnected relations and institutions that oppress women) infuses the legal system and all its workings, and that this is an unacceptable state of affairs. Consequently, feminist jurisprudence is not politically neutral, but a normative approach, as expressed by philosopher Patricia Smith: “[F]eminist jurisprudence challenges basic legal categories and concepts rather than analyzing them as given. Feminist jurisprudence asks what is implied in traditional categories, distinctions, or concepts and rejects them if they imply the subordination of women. In this sense, feminist jurisprudence is normative and claims that traditional jurisprudence and law are implicitly normative as well” (Smith 1993, p. 10). Feminist jurisprudence sees the workings of law as thoroughly permeated by political and moral judgments about the worth of women and how women should be treated. These judgments are not commensurate with women’s understandings of themselves, nor even with traditional liberal conceptions of (moral and legal) equality and fairness.

Although feminist jurisprudence revolves around a number of questions and features a diversity of focus and approach, two characteristics are central to it. First, because the Anglo-American legal tradition is built on liberalism and its tenets, feminist jurisprudence tends to respond to liberalism in some way. The second characteristic is the goal of bringing the law and its practitioners to recognize that law as currently constructed does not acknowledge or respond to the needs of women, and must be changed. These two features can be seen in the major debates in current feminist jurisprudence, which range from questions of the proper perspective from which to understand the problems of the law, to questions of legal theory and practice.

Table of Contents

  1. Responding to Liberalism: Questions of Perspective
  2. Central Concerns: Questions of Theory and Practice
    1. Equality and Rights
    2. Understanding Harm
    3. The Processes of Adjudication
  3. Trajectories
  4. References and Further Reading

1. Responding to Liberalism: Questions of Perspective

As a critical theory, feminist jurisprudence responds to the current dominant understanding of legal thought, which is usually identified with the liberal Anglo-American tradition. (This tradition is represented by such authors as Hart 1961 and Dworkin 1977, 1986.) Two major branches of this tradition have been legal positivism, on the one hand, and natural law theory on the other. Feminist jurisprudence responds to both these branches of the American legal tradition by raising questions regarding their assumptions about the law, including:

  • that law is properly objective and thus must have recourse to objective rules or understandings at some level
  • that law is properly impartial, especially in that it is not to be tainted by the personal experience of any of its practitioners, particularly judges
  • that equality must function as a formal notion rather than a substantive one, such that in the eyes of the law, difference must be shown to be “relevant” in order to be admissible/visible
  • that law, when working properly, should be certain, and that the goal of lawmaking and legal decision-making is to gain certainty
  • that justice can be understood as a matter of procedures, such that a proper following of procedures can be understood as sufficient to rendering justice.

Each of these assumptions, although contested and debated, has remained a significant feature of the liberal tradition of legal understanding.

Feminist jurisprudence usually frames its responses to traditional legal thought in terms of whether or not the critic is maintaining some commitment to the tradition or some particular feature of it. This split in responses has been formulated in a number of different ways, according to the particular concerns they emphasize. The two formulations found most frequently in American feminist jurisprudence characterize the split either as the reformist/radical debate or as the sameness/difference debate. Within the reformist/radical debate, reformist feminists argue that the liberal tradition offers much that can be shaped to fit feminist hands and should be retained for all that it offers. These feminists approach jurisprudence with an eye to what needs to be changed within the system that already exists. Their work, then, is to gain entry into that system and use its own tools to construct a legal system which prevents the inequities of patriarchy from affecting justice.

Those who see the traditional system as either bankrupt or so problematic that it cannot be reshaped are often referred to as transformist or radical feminists. According to this approach, the corruption of the legal tradition by patriarchy is thought to be too deeply embedded to allow for any significant adjustments to the problems that women face. Feminists using this approach tend to argue that the legal system, either parts or as a whole, must be abandoned. They argue that liberal legal concepts, categories and processes must be rejected, and new ones put in place which can be free from the biases of the current system. Their work, then, is to craft the transformations that are necessary in legal theory and practice and to create a new legal system that can provide a more equitable justice.

Under the sameness/difference debate, the central concern for feminists is to understand the role of difference and how women’s needs must be figured before the law. Sameness feminists argue that to emphasize the differences between men and women is to weaken women’s abilities to gain access to the rights and protections that men have enjoyed. Their concern is that it is women’s difference that has been used to keep women from enjoying a legal status equal to men’s. Consequently, they see difference as a concept that must be de-emphasized. Sameness feminists work to highlight the ways in which women can be seen as the same as men, entitled to the same rights, protections, and privileges.

Difference feminists argue that (at least some of) the differences between men and women, as well as other types of difference such as race, age, and sexual orientation, are significant. These significant differences must be taken into account by the law in order for justice and equity to be achieved. What has been good law for men cannot simply be adopted by women, because women are not in fact the same as men. Women have different needs which require different legal remedies. The law must be made to recognize differences that are relevant to women’s lives, status and possibilities.

The two characterizations of the debate about what perspective is best for understanding the problems of the law do share some features. Those who argue a sameness position are often thought to fit, to some degree, with the reformist view. Difference feminists are seen as sharing much with radicals. The parallel between the two characterizations is that both argue over how much, if any, of the current legal system can and must be preserved and put to use in the service of feminist concerns. The two characterizations are not the same, but the important parallel between them allows for some generalization regarding the ways in which each is likely to respond to particular theoretical and substantive issues. However, while the two may reasonably be grouped for some purposes, they must not be conflated.

From these perspectives, feminist jurisprudence emphasizes two kinds of question: the theoretical and the substantive. These two kinds of question are, perhaps especially for feminists, deeply connected and overlapping. Discussions of central theoretical issues in feminist jurisprudence are punctuated by elaboration of the substantive issues with which they are intertwined.

2. Central Concerns: Questions of Theory and Practice

In asking theoretical questions, feminists are concerned with how to understand the law itself, its proper scope, legitimacy, and meaning. Many of these are the questions of traditional legal theory, but asked in the context of the feminist project: What is the proper moral foundation of the law, especially given that any answer depends on the moral principles of the dominant structure of the society? What is the meaning of rule of law, especially given that obedience to law has been an important part of the history of subjugation? What is the meaning of equality, especially in a world of diversity? What is the meaning of harm, especially in a world in which women, not men, are subjected by men to certain kinds of violence? How can adjudication of conflict be properly and fairly achieved, especially when not all persons are able to come to the adjudication process on a “level playing field”? What is the meaning of property, and how can women avoid being categorized as property? Is law the best and most appropriate channel for the resolution of conflict, especially given its traditional grounding in patriarchal goals and structures?

Although feminists have addressed all these questions and more, perhaps one issue stands out in many feminists’ eyes as a matter of special importance, encompassing as it does some aspect of many of the questions noted above. The issue that for many feminists is at the heart of concerns is that of equality and rights. Two others that may be considered nearly as central are problems of harm, and of the processes of adjudication.

a. Equality and Rights

Law works partly by drawing abstract guiding principles out of the specifics of the cases it adjudicates. On this abstract level, theoretical questions arise for feminist jurisprudence regarding equality and rights, including the following: what understanding of equality will make it possible for women to have control over their lives, in both the private and public spheres? What understanding of equality will provide an adequate grounding for the concept of rights, such that women’s rights can protect both their individual liberty and their identity as women?

In general, the feminist concern with equality involves the claim that equality must be understood not simply as a formal concept that functions rhetorically and legally. Equality must be a substantive concept which can actually make changes in the power structure and the relative power positions of men and women generally. Although equality is examined in a wide variety of specific applications, the major concern is the goal of making equality meaningful in the lives of women. But for many feminists, concerns with equality cannot be addressed without also attending to rights. Because the liberal tradition figures rights as the hallmark of equality, it is in terms of rights that we are expected to see ourselves as equals before the law. Further, rights discourse has structured both our understanding of equality, and our claims to it.

Examinations of equality are, therefore, often framed by particular substantive issues. For example, much feminist jurisprudence regarding equality is framed in terms of concerns about work. If women are equal, then how will this be expressed in workplace law and policy? One of the key issues in this field has been how to treat pregnancy in the workplace: Is it fair for women to have extended or paid leave for pregnancy and birthing? Under what circumstances, or limitations? Are women being given “special” rights if they have a right to such leave? The struggle over the proper understanding of pregnancy and work raises questions about whether women should be treated in such law as individuals or as a class. As individuals, it has seemed relatively easy for workplaces to claim that not all employees are given such leave, and thus that women who do not are being treated “equally”. One feminist strategy has been to attempt to revise such law to recognize the particular difference of women as a class. Herma Hill Kay, for example, argues that pregnancy can be seen as an episode which affects women’s ability to take advantage of opportunities in the workplace, and that pregnant workers must be protected against loss of equal opportunity during episodes of pregnancy. (Kay, 1985)

Concerns over pregnancy express the fundamental questions of the sameness/difference debate. The sameness position suggests difference should be erased to the greatest extent possible, because it has been used as a basis for discrimination. Difference proponents argue that pregnancy involves significant differences which should be seen as a linchpin of legal understanding. Does equality mean that women should wish to be treated exactly the same as men, or does it mean that women should wish to be treated differently, because their differences are such that same treatment cannot provide equity?

Feminists who argue that equality requires creating for women the same opportunities and rights which are currently available to men of the ruling class are bringing the reformist or sameness approach to bear. Approaches to rights and equality which focus on women’s individuality, emphasizing it in the way that law has done for men and requiring women to show that they are like men and thus may be treated like men, tend then to be reformist or sameness oriented. Because these approaches are seen as requiring that women become as much like men as possible, and that law treat women as it does men, they are often referred to as assimilationist.

Christine Littleton (Littleton, 1987) offers a further set of terms for approaches to understanding equality: symmetrical (paralleling reformist and sameness approaches) and asymmetrical (paralleling radical and difference approaches). This classification refers to how women and men are “located in society” with regard to issues, norms and rules. If a theorist sees men and women as sharing a location regarding an issue, then that theorist has a symmetrical approach; if not, then the approach is asymmetrical. Littleton classifies assimilationist approaches as symmetrical, along with what she calls the androgyny approach. The androgyny approach argues that men and women are very much alike, but that equality will require social institutions to pick a “mean” between the two, and apply that standard to all persons. This model is less frequently argued than the assimilation model.

There are also many radical and difference approaches to equality. What they share is the desire to avoid having to take on all that is questionable and/or undesirable about (society’s construction of) men in order to be considered equal before the law. Thus many radical approaches (although not all – MacKinnon, below, is an example of one which is not) emphasize similar questions and problems as difference approaches. How to recognize relevant difference, and what kind of difference law must be responsive to, is a crucial part of these feminist examinations of equality. Ann Scales, for example, argues that liberal/reformist approaches do not do enough to really make the changes that are necessary, because the problem in equality is a problem of understanding how domination works. We must learn to see how equality has formally been tied in to domination through the liberal framework. In her view, a certain kind of inequality needs to be recognized and worked with, rather than ignored or assimilated. (Scales, 1986)

Other difference/radical approaches include the special rights, accommodation, acceptance, and empowerment models. (Littleton, 1987) The special rights model suggests that justice requires our recognizing that equality is too easily understood as “sameness”, where men and women are not the same. Rights should be based on needs, and if women have needs that men do not, that should not limit their rights. The accommodation model asserts that differences which are not fundamental or biologically based should be treated under a symmetrical or assimilation model. But this leaves those differences which are fundamental (such as the ability to be pregnant) as differences which must be recognized in the law and accommodated by it.

Littleton’s own approach is expressed in the acceptance model. This argues that (gender) difference must be accepted, and that law should focus on the consequences of such differences, rather than the differences themselves. Although differences exist between men and women, equality should function to make these differences “costless” relative to each other. Equality should function to prevent women’s being penalized on the basis of their difference. Thus equality should require us to institute paid leave for pregnancy and birthing, and to guarantee women’s return to their jobs after birthing.

Empowerment models reject difference as irrelevant, and shift focus to levels of empowerment. Equality, then, is understood as what balances power for groups and individuals, and dismantles the ability of some to dominate others. This radical and asymmetrical view does not, however, fit well with the categorization of feminist positions in terms of sameness and difference. The empowerment model’s focus on domination and the ways in which power is distributed seems to represent a significant departure from the parallel suggested above. Thus some feminist jurists have suggested that it be understood as a separate approach. Judith Baer calls it simply the domination model of feminist jurisprudence. Catherine MacKinnon is one well-known scholar who holds this view. (MacKinnon, 1987) In her theorizing of pornography, for example, she focuses on the question of how power is used in pornography to maintain a structure of domination which belies the possibility of equality between men and women.

Feminist critiques of rights in general assert that rights have been apportioned based on notions of equality that deliberately exclude the needs of women. If rights are to be truly equal, they must be apportioned on a more equitable basis, informed by the experience of women and others previously excluded. Or, following MacKinnon or Patricia Williams (discussed below), rights must be apportioned based on how they empower those to whom they are granted. Feminist scholars debate the ground for understanding rights while working to create a foundation from which women can claim and exercise rights that will be meaningful in their lives.

b. Understanding Harm

Perhaps the most difficult question for feminist jurisprudence regarding the issue of harm is that of perspective: who defines and identifies harm in specific cases? Given that law has traditionally worked from a patriarchal perspective, it is perhaps not surprising that identifying harm to women has been problematic. A patriarchal system will benefit from a very stingy recognition of harms against women. Feminist jurisprudence, therefore, must examine the basic question, what is harm? It also must ask, what counts as harm in our legal system, and why? What has been excluded from definitions of harm that women need included, and how can such trends be overturned?

Three types of harm-causing actions that are typically and systematically directed against women have formed the background for discussion about what harm means, and what counts as harm: rape, sexual harassment, and battering. Until fairly recently (for example, before the legislative reform movements of the 1970s), some forms of these actions were not considered actionable offenses under the law. This was largely due to the history of understanding women not as independent and autonomous agents, but as property belonging to men (thus issues of the meaning of property are also crucial to understanding harm). Feminist jurisprudence has challenged this state of affairs. As a result, changes have been made in the laws regarding each of the three categories, although the effectiveness of these changes is widely disputed (see, e.g., Schulhofer 1998 for an excellent review of this law). At the very least, work by feminists has made it possible to speak of these harms by providing a vocabulary for them, by raising awareness about them, and by prosecuting them more frequently and with some success.

Discussions of rape attempt to answer many of the questions that apply to all three types of harm-causing actions. Cases of all three types give rise to similar problems that prevent women from being treated justly: blaming the victim; privileging the point of view of “the” agent, i.e., the male perpetrator; indicting the woman’s sexual history while ignoring the man’s history, whether sexual or violent. Underlying all these problems are assumptions about gender and agency which encourage the law to place responsibility for their own harm on women rather than on the men who cause it. Women have been believed to be mentally unstable or at least weak-minded, to be scheming and deceptive, and to have an improper motivation for making claims of harm against men. For these reasons, they tend to be seen as untrustworthy witnesses. Because they have been characterized as sexually insatiable and indiscriminate, they tend to be seen as deserving whatever harm they “provoke” from men. Corresponding assumptions about men’s rational superiority encourage their being seen as believable witnesses. At the same time, assumptions about men’s natural sexual needs are taken as justification for their violations of women. Feminist jurisprudence attempts to respond to these problems as double standards and matters of equality and rights.

Other issues of harm require different responses. Harm-causing actions tend to be defined in terms of external and observable characteristics (levels of force), of intention on the part of the agent (mens rea), and of the consent of the one harmed. Consequently, what is at issue is how law uses these criteria in determining both when harm has occurred and whether it is to be justified or excused. What feminist jurisprudence has found is that women and men frequently differ over the understanding of each of these criteria. But since it is a patriarchal understanding which grounds the law, women’s understandings tend not to be given a proper hearing.

In Susan Estrich’s discussion of rape (Estrich, 1987, 1987a), she claims that the mens rea criterion can be used to create either too much emphasis on the perpetrator’s intention, or too little. In either case, she believes the focus on this criterion makes evident the law’s lack of understanding of and concern for the harms women suffer. The law’s focus is to not wrongly punish men, which is achieved at the cost of not protecting women.

Further, Estrich argues that the force criterion is understood from a patriarchal perspective: force is seen as a matter of what “boys do in schoolyards.” This criterion figures force as a simple matter of the straightforward use of physical strength, or the use of implements of violence. But it ignores the kinds of force that are most frequently used in rape and other types of harm to women, such as psychological coercion. If the courts expect women to resist physical and psychological coercion in the same ways and at the same level that men do, then the courts impose an unreasonable expectation on the “reasonable” woman.

Regarding consent, Estrich explains that the courts have believed that if consent is given, then rape (or other harms) do not occur. This places responsibility on the one who has been harmed to show that she did not, in fact, consent. But patriarchal courts have held that only the strongest and most emphatic expression of non-consent functions as evidence. This means that in many cases, women have been said to have “consented” even though they were physically carried off by men and verbally expressed non-consent (Schulhofer 1998). Non-consent has not been easily proven unless the woman has been severely beaten, or unless a significant weapon (that is, gun or knife) was used, or death was threatened in a way that convinces the court. Thus what non-consent means for the court has been very different from what women themselves have said about (their) consent.

Robin West (West, 1988) argues along similar lines, claiming that women’s social training does not impart the same fundamental values that men’s training does. She theorizes that men value separation and autonomy to the point that they would physically fight, desperately, to maintain theirs. But because women value connection and relation most highly, they find it difficult to respond to physical violence with violence of their own. Violence destroys connection and relationship, which is what women are socialized to value most. This makes it difficult for women to respond to rape, and other harms, in a way which convinces masculine courts that they did not consent. Women’s definition and identification of these harms is very different from what the courts have so far constructed.

It is difficult to separate out some parts of the reformist or sameness and radical or difference approaches with regard to harm. In general, however, those who argue that current laws can be changed to adequately protect women have reformist or sameness views. Those arguing that the current definitions of harm simply cannot be revised sufficiently have radical or difference views. Thus Estrich, who concludes that we need to treat rape as we treat other kinds of crime which require nonconsent (theft, for example) could be considered a reformist view. Mary Lou Fellows and Bev Balos offer a similar analysis of how women’s perception of the harms of date rape can be accommodated in current law. This can be accomplished by the application of the heightened duty of care that exists already in the common law doctrine of confidential relationship. (Fellows and Balos, 1991) West’s argument, based on recognizing and responding to fundamental differences between men and women regarding harm, could be seen as a radical or difference view. MacKinnon’s analysis of sexual harassment, which focuses on the need for women to be empowered to define the harms against them, represents a dominance view on harms.

c. The Processes of Adjudication

Many feminist jurists challenge the processes of adjudication by raising questions about the neutrality or impartiality that such processes are assumed to embody. Neutrality is believed to function in the law in at least two ways. It is assumed to be built into the processes of the law, and it is assumed to be produced by those processes. Feminist jurisprudence challenges the first set of assumptions by raising questions about legal reasoning. It challenges the second by raising questions about how a law created and applied by partial and biased persons can itself be neutral. Thus feminist jurisprudence also raises the question of whether neutrality is a possible, or an appropriate, goal of the law.

As traditionally understood, neutrality in law is supposed to protect us from a number of ills. It protects from personal bias by insisting that judges, attorneys, law enforcement officers, etc., treat us not as people with specific characteristics, but as interchangeable subjects. We should be seen only in terms of certain specific actions and our intentions with regard to those specific actions. Officials are expected not to bring their personal biases to bear on those who come before them, and certain personal aspects of those brought before the law are not permitted to come under scrutiny. For example, if a judge personally believes that women are pathological liars, this is not supposed to influence his or her interpretation of any particular woman’s testimony. Similarly, no person’s race is supposed to influence any judge’s understanding of their case. Feminist jurisprudence challenges such claims to neutrality.

Neutrality in law is supposed to protect against ideological bias as well. It does this by taking a supposedly universal perspective on a case, rather than a particular perspective. This belief that law and its practitioners can see, and judge, from the “view from nowhere” has been criticized by feminist jurisprudence. Feminists claim that such complete objectivity seems not to be fully possible. They also argue that claiming such neutrality deflects attention away from the fact that a partial view – a masculinist view – is being presented as universal. Feminist jurisprudence, like most feminist theory, rejects the claim of law that it is a neutral practice, and instead points to the ways in which law is clearly not neutral.

One of the ways law is not neutral is through the individual people that work in law. Feminist jurisprudence argues that because there is no such thing as the “view from nowhere”, every understanding has a perspective. This perspective influences it, and provides an interpretive field for whatever matters of fact there may be. Since law is made, administered and enforced by people, and people must have a perspective, law must reflect those perspectives at least to some degree. Feminists tend to agree that to the extent that a practice or person is unaware of their own perspective, that perspective will more strongly influence their interpretations of the world. It is when we become aware of biases that we are able, through critical reflection, to reduce their influence and thus move toward a greater (although not a perfect) objectivity.

Another way that law is not neutral is in its content. Because it is made by people, many of whom have not critically examined their own standpoints, the content of law may be unfair or discriminatory. Such content would require officials to act in ways that are not impartial, or not fair. But even if law is written by those whose perspectives are relatively objective, our legislative system often imposes compromises on laws. Some compromises required to pass law may change or weaken its objectives in ways that prevent its functioning as intended. These criticisms show that the content of the law, affected by the contestations of our legislative system, may not be neutral. Further, it shows that the processes of the law do not guarantee the neutrality that they are assumed to do.

Neutrality is also assumed to be built into certain processes of the law, and in particular the processes of judicial reasoning. The traditional model of judicial decision-making relies on case law, which uses precedent and analogy to provide evidence and justification. Interpretation of statutes in prior cases provides precedent or rules. Courts then attempt to determine how the facts of current cases require one rule or another to be brought to bear. This way of making decisions has itself been thought to be neutral, and the formalities of due process that support it are thought to reinforce that neutrality. This feature of law, relying on past judgments to influence current and future ones, also makes it peculiarly resistant to change. For feminist jurisprudence, use of precedent allows the law to insulate itself against the critiques of outsiders, including women.

Use of precedent has been challenged by a feminist and non-feminist critiques, including the pragmatism of Margaret Radin (Radin, 1990) and Jerome Frank’s legal realism (Frank, 1963). Feminist jurisprudence responds to use of precedent by pointing out those areas which are most likely to be subject to sexist understandings. For example, case law that has derived from cases in which plaintiffs and defendants are men will assume that the circumstances for those men are simply the “normal” circumstances. Workplace law has frequently been challenged by feminist critics for this reason. The law assumes, based on cases in which the workplace was populated mainly by men, that everyone who works shares men’s circumstances. This assumption entails that workers are supported by a full-time homemaker, such that the burdens of home life and child rearing should not affect one’s ability to function efficiently in the workplace. But such assumptions work against women, who usually are supporting someone else in this way rather than being supported.

Reform and sameness feminists argue that case law is not a bad system but that reforms are needed to emphasize to the realities of women’s lives. Radical and difference feminists are more likely to argue that case law is itself a system that is too heavily entrenched in patriarchy to be maintained. Its reliance on precedent makes it too conservative a system of decision-making to be adequately brought to the service of feminism.

3. Trajectories

Although it seems that the sameness/difference and the reform/radical debates could create an impasse for feminists, some theorists believe that some combination of the two views can be more effective than either alone. Patricia Williams (Williams, 1991), for example, believes that rights can function as powerful liberatory tools for the traditionally disadvantaged. However, she also believes that in a racist society such as contemporary America, racial difference must be recognized because it creates disadvantage before the law. In this way, she claims that some features of the liberal tradition, like rights, need to be maintained for the liberatory work they can do. However, she argues that the liberal tradition of formal equality is damaging to historically marginalized groups. This aspect of law needs to be completely transformed.

As an example of the ways in which rights are still needed by the traditionally disadvantaged, she examines the relationship to rights that is enjoyed by a white male colleague. His sense of his rights is so entrenched that he sees them as creating distance between himself and others, and believes that rights should be played down. In contrast, Williams expresses her own relationship to rights, being a black woman, as much more tenuous. The history of American slavery, under which black Americans were literally owned by whites, makes it difficult for both blacks and whites to figure blacks as empowered by rights in the same ways that whites are.

This example shows how Williams weaves together important elements of both reform and radical positions, and at the same time includes the element of empowerment that is seen in dominance positions. She claims that for blacks, and for any traditionally disadvantaged group, rights are a significant part of a program of advancement. One’s relationship to rights depends on who one is, and how one is empowered by one’s society and law. For those whose rights are already guaranteed, what may be necessary for social change is to challenge the power of rights rhetoric for one’s group. But for those whose rights have never been secure, this will not look like the best course of action. Williams’ suggestion is that we recognize that rights and rights rhetoric function differently in different settings and for different people. But this, then, is a response which relies on the radical and difference premise that difference must in fact be attended to rather than elided. In order that rights be made effective for historically marginalized people, we must first see that they do not in fact function for all people in the way that they do for those they were created for.

Another approach to drawing the two sides of the debate in feminist jurisprudence together is offered by Judith Baer, whose claim is that feminist jurisprudence to date has failed to either reform or transform law because feminists in both camps have made crucial mistakes. (Baer, 1999) The primary error has been that feminist jurisprudence has tended to misunderstand the tradition it criticizes. Although feminist jurists recognize that the liberal tradition has secured rights for men but not women, they have failed to make explicit the corresponding asymmetry of responsibility. Women are accorded responsibility for themselves and others in ways that men are not. For example, women are expected to be responsible for the lives of children in ways that men are not; as noted above, this has implications in areas like workplace law.

The second major error Baer sees in feminist jurisprudence is that it, along with most feminism, has tended to focus almost exclusively on women. This has drawn feminist attention away from men and the institutions that feminism needs to study, criticize, challenge and change. It has also created a series of debates within feminism that are divisive and draining of feminist energy. Again, the solution is to recognize when reform (sameness) and radical (difference) approaches are effective, and to use each as appropriate. Baer argues that

[f]eminist jurists need not – indeed, we must not – choose between laws that treat men and women the same and laws that treat them differently. We already know that both kinds of law can be sexist. Our gender-neutral law of reproductive rights treats women worse than men, but so did “protective” labor legislation. Conversely, both gender-neutral and gender-specific laws can promote sexual equality. Comparable worth legislation would make women more nearly equal with men. So have affirmative action policies. Women can have it both ways. Law can treat men and women alike where they are alike and differently where they are different. (Baer 1999, 55)

Baer provides critiques of both reform and radical feminist jurisprudence. She concludes that neither alone is sufficient, but that both, applied where appropriate, could be. She argues that the feminist focus on women has encouraged an inability to think on a universal scale. This leaves feminists, and law under feminist jurisprudence, mired in the particularities of individual cases and individual traits. To move out of this mire, she suggests three tasks for feminist jurisprudence:

First, it must do the opposite of what conventional theory and feminist critiques have done: posit rights and question responsibility. Second, it must develop analyses that will separate situations from the people experiencing them, so we can talk about women’s victimization without labeling them as victims. Finally, it must move beyond women and begin scrutinizing men and institutions. (Baer 1999, 68)

Baer does not suggest that feminism, nor feminist jurisprudence, should give up the study of women and women’s situations. Rather, her suggestion is that this study as an exclusive focus is not sufficient for either reform or transformation. Because “women neither create nor sustain their position in society” feminists need to scrutinize those who do. Baer’s suggestion is that what is needed is an account of “what it means to be a human being, a man, or a woman, which makes equality possible.” (Baer 1999, 192) The mistakes that feminist jurisprudence has made have prevented its developing this account, which Baer thinks could be the foundation of what she calls a feminist postliberalism sufficient for feminist jurisprudence.

4. References and Further Reading

  • Baer, Judith A, Our Lives Before the Law: Constructing a Feminist Jurisprudence (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999)
  • Cornell, Drucilla, Beyond Accommodation: Ethical Feminism, Deconstruction and the Law (New York: Routledge, 1990)
  • Dworkin, Andrea, Intercourse, (New York: The Free Press, 1987)
  • Dworkin, Ronald, Law’s Empire (Cambridge: Harvaard University Press, 1986)
  • Dworkin, Ronald, Taking Rights Seriously (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977)
  • Estrich, Susan, “Rape,” 95 Yale Law Journal 1087-1184 (1987)
  • Estrich, Susan, Real Rape (Cambrdige: Harvard University Press, 1987a)
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Author Information

Melissa Burchard
Email: mburchard@unca.edu
University of North Carolina – Asheville
U. S. A.

Animal Minds

This article surveys philosophical issues related to the nature and scope of animal mentality, as well as to our commonsense understanding and scientific knowledge of animal minds. Two general sets of problems have played a prominent role in defining the field and will take center stage in the discussion below: (i) the problems of animal thought and reason, and (ii) the problems of animal consciousness.

The article begins by examining three historically influential views on animal thought and reason. The first is David Hume’s analogical argument for the existence of thought and reason in animals. The second is René Descartes‘ two arguments against animal thought and reason. And the third is Donald Davidson‘s three arguments against ascribing thought and reason to animals.

Next, the article examines contemporary philosophical views on the nature and limits of animal reason by Jonathan Bennett, José Bermúdez, and John Searle, as well as four prominent arguments for the existence of animal thought and reason: (i) the argument from the intentional systems theory by Daniel Dennett, (ii) the argument from common-sense functionalism by Jerry Fodor, Peter Carruthers, and Stephen Stich, (iii) the argument from biological naturalism by John Searle, and (iv) the argument from science by Colin Allen and Marc Bekoff, and José Bermúdez.

The article then turns to the important debate over animal consciousness. Three theories of consciousness—the inner-sense theory, the higher-order thought theory, and the first-order theory—are examined in relation to what they have to say about the possibility and existence of animal consciousness.

The article ends with a brief description of other important issues within the field, such as the nature and existence of animal emotions and propositional knowledge, the status of Lloyd Morgan’s canon and other methodological principles of simplicity used in the science of animal minds, the nature and status of anthropomorphism employed by scientists and lay folk, and the history of the philosophy of animal minds. The field has had a long and distinguished history and has of late seen a revival.

Table of Contents

  1. The Problems of Animal Thought and Reason
    1. Hume’s Argument for Animal Thought and Reason
    2. Descartes’ Two Arguments Against Animal Thought and Reason
      1. The Language-Test Argument
      2. The Action-Test Argument
    3. Davidson’s Arguments Against Animal Thought and Reason
      1. The Intensionality Test
      2. The Argument from Holism
      3. Davidson’s Main Argument
    4. Contemporary Philosophical Arguments on Animal Reason
    5. Contemporary Philosophical Arguments for Animal Thought and Reason
      1. The Intentional Systems Theory Argument
      2. The Argument from Common-Sense Functionalism
      3. The Argument from Biological Naturalism
      4. The Argument from Science
  2. The Problems of Animal Consciousness
    1. Higher-Order Theories of Consciousness
      1. Inner-Sense Theories
      2. Higher-Order Thought Theories
    2. First-Order Theories
  3. Other Issues
  4. References and Further Reading
    1. References
    2. Suggested Further Readings

1. The Problems of Animal Thought and Reason

Given what we know or can safely assume to be true of their behaviors and brains, can animals have thought and reason? The answer depend in large measure on what one takes thought and reason to be, as well as what animals one is considering. Philosophers have held various views about the nature and possession conditions of thought and reason and, as a result, have offered various arguments for and against thought and reason in animals. Below are the most influential of such arguments.

a. Hume’s Argument for Animal Thought and Reason

David Hume (1711-1776) famously proclaimed that “no truth appears to be more evident, than that beast are endow’d with thought and reason as well as men” (1739/1978, p. 176). The type of thought that Hume had in mind here was belief, which he defined as a “lively idea” or “image” caused by (or associated with) a prior sensory experience (1739/1978, p. 94). Reason Hume defined as a mere disposition or instinct to form associations among such ideas on the basis of past experience. In the section of A Treatise of Human Nature entitled, “Of the Reason of Animals,” Hume argued by analogy that since animals behave in ways that closely resemble the behaviors of human beings that we know to be caused by associations among ideas, animals also behave as a result of forming similar associations among ideas in their minds. Given Hume’s definitions of “thought” and “reason,” he took this analogical argument to give “incontestable” proof that animals have thought and reason.

A well-known problem with Hume’s argument is the fact that “belief” does not appear to be definable in terms of vivid ideas presented to consciousness. Beliefs have propositional content, whereas ideas, as Hume understood them, do not (or need not). To have a belief or thought about some object (for example, the color red) always involves representing some fact or proposition about it (for example, that red is the color of blood), but one can entertain an image of something (for example, the color red) without representing any fact or proposition about it. Also, beliefs aim at the truth, they represent states of affairs as being the case, whereas ideas, even vivid ideas, do not. Upon looking down a railway track, for instance, one could close one’s eyes and entertain a vivid idea of the tracks as they appeared a moment ago (that is, as converging in the distance) without thereby believing that the tracks actually converge. And it is further argued, insofar as “belief” fails to be definable in terms of vivid ideas presented to consciousness, “reason” fails to be definable in terms of a disposition to form associations among such ideas; for whatever else reason might be, so the argument goes, it is a surely a relation among beliefs. Finally, and independently of Hume’s definitions of “belief” and “reason,” there is a serious question about how incontestable his analogical proof is, since similar types of behaviors can often be caused by very different types of processes. Toy robotic dogs, computers, and even radios behave in ways that are similar to the ways that human beings behave when we have vivid ideas presented to our consciousness, but few would take this fact alone as incontestable proof that these objects act as a result of vivid ideas presented to their consciousness (Searle 1994).

b. Descartes’ Two Arguments Against Animal Thought and Reason

Equally as famous as Hume’s declaration that animals have thought and reason is René Descartes’ (1596-1650) declaration that they do not. “[A]fter the error of those who deny God, ” Descartes wrote, “there is none that leads weak minds further from the straight path of virtue than that of imagining that the souls of beasts are of the same nature as our own” (1637/1988, p. 46). Descartes gave two independent arguments for his denial of animal thought and reason, which have come to be called his language-test argument and his action-test argument, respectively (Radner & Radner 1989).

i. The Language-Test Argument

Not surprising, Descartes meant something different from Hume by “thought.” In the context of denying it of animals, Descartes appears to take the term to stand for occurrent thought—that is, thoughts that one entertains, brings to mind, or is suddenly struck by (Malcolm 1973). Normal adult human beings, of course, express their occurrent thoughts through their declarative speech; and declarative speech and occurrent thoughts share some important features. Both, for example, have propositional content, both are stimulus independent (that is, thoughts can occur to one, and declarative speech can be produced, quite independently of what is going on in one’s immediate perceptual environment), and both are action independent (that is, thoughts can occur to one, and declarative speech can be produced, that are quite irrelevant to one’s current actions or needs). In light of these commonalities, it is understandable why Descartes took declarative speech to be “the only certain sign of thought hidden in a body” (1649/1970, p. 244-245).

In addition to taking speech to be thought’s only certain sign, Descartes argued that the absence of speech in animals could only be explained in terms of animals lacking thought. Descartes was well aware that animals produce calls, cries, songs, and various gestures that function to express their “passions,” but, he argued, they never produce anything like declarative speech in which they “use words, or put together other signs, as we do in order to declare our thoughts to others” (1637/1988, p. 45). This fact, Descartes reasoned, could not be explained in terms of animals lacking the necessary speech organs, since, he argued, speech organs are not required, as evidenced by the fact that humans born “deaf” or “dumb” typically invent signs to engage in declarative speech, and some animals (for example, magpies and parrots) who have the requisite speech organs never produce declarative speech; nor could it be explained as a result of speech requiring a great deal of intelligence, since even the most “stupid” and “insane” humans beings are capable of it; and neither could it be explained, as it is in the case of human infants who are incapable of speech but nevertheless possess thought, in terms of animals failing to develop far enough ontogenetically, since “animals never grow up enough for any certain sign of thought to be detected in them” (1649/1970, p. 251). Rather, Descartes concluded, the best explanation for the absence of speech in animals is the absence of what speech expresses—thought. There are various places in his writings where Descartes appears to go on from this conclusion to maintain that since all modes of thinking and consciousness depend upon the existence of thought, animals are devoid of all forms of thinking and consciousness and are nothing but mindless machines or automata. It should be noted, however, that not every commentator has accepted this interpretation (see Cottingham 1978).

Various responses have been given to Descartes’ language-test argument. Malcolm (1973), for example, argued that dispositional thinking is not dependent upon occurrent thought, as Descartes seemed to suppose, and is clearly possessed by many animals. The fact that Fido cannot entertain the thought, the cat is in the tree, Malcolm argued, is not a reason to doubt that he thinks that the cat is in the tree. Others (Hauser et al. 2002), following Noam Chomsky, have argued that the best explanation for the absence of speech in animals is the not the absence of occurrent thought but the absence of the capacity for recursion (that is, the ability to produce and understand a potentially infinite number of expressions from a finite array of expressions). And others (Pepperberg 1999; Savage-Rumbaugh et al. 1998; Tetzlaff & Rey 2009) have argued that, contrary to Descartes and Chomsky, some animals, such as grey parrots, chimpanzee, and honeybees, possess the capacity to put together various signs in order to express their thoughts. Finally, it has been argued that there are behaviors other than declarative speech, such as insight learning, that can reasonably be taken as evidence of occurrent thought in animals (see Köhler 1925; Heinrich 2000).

ii. The Action-Test Argument

Whereas Descartes’ principal aim in his language-test argument was to prove that animals lack thought, his principal aim in his action-test argument is prove that animals lack reason. By “reason,” Descartes meant “a universal instrument which can be used in all kinds of situations” (1637/1988, p. 44). For Descartes, to act through reason is to act on general principles that can be applied to an open-ended number of different circumstances. Descartes acknowledged that animals sometime act in accordance with such general rules of reason (for example, as when the kingfisher is said to act in accordance with Snell’s Law when it dives into a pond to catch a fish (see Boden 1984)), but he argued that this does not show that they act for these reasons, since animals show no evidence of transferring this knowledge of the general principles under which their behaviors fall to an open-ended number of novel circumstances.

Some researchers and philosophers have accepted Descartes’ definition of “reason” but have argued that some animals do show the capacity to transfer their general knowledge to a wide (or wide enough) range of novel situations. For example, honey bees that were trained to fly down a corridor that had the same (or different) color as the entry room into which they had initially flown automatically transferred this knowledge to the novel stimulus dimension of smell: those that were trained to choose the corridor with the same color, flew down the corridor with the same smell as in the entry room; and those that were trained to choose the corridor with a different color, flew down the corridor with a different smell as in the entry room. It is difficult to resist interpreting the bees’ performance here, as the researchers do, in terms of their grasping and then transferring the general rule, “pick the same/different feature” (Giurfa et al. 2001). Other researchers and philosophers, however, have objected to Descartes’ definition of “reason.” They argue that reason is not, as Descartes conceived it, a universal instrument but is more like a Swiss army knife in which there is a collection of various specialized capacities dedicated to solving problems in particular domains (Hauser 2000; Carruthers 2006). On this view of intelligence, sometimes called the massive modularity thesis, subjects have various distinct mechanisms, or modules, in their brains for solving problems in different domains (for example, a module for solving navigation problems, a module for solving problems in the physical environment, a module for solving social problems within a group, and so on). It is not to be expected on this theory of intelligence that an animal capable of solving problems in one domain, such as exclusion problems for food, should be capable of solving similar problems in a variety of other domains, such as exclusion problems for predators, mates, and offspring. Therefore, on the massive modularity thesis, the fact that “many animals show more skill than we do in some of their actions, yet the same animals show none at all in many others” is not evidence, as Descartes saw it (1637/1988, p. 45), that animals lack intelligence and reason but that their intelligence and reason are domain specific.

c. Davidson’s Arguments Against Animal Thought and Reason

No 20th century philosopher is better known for his denial of animal thought and reason than Donald Davidson (1917-2003). In a series of articles (1984, 1985, 1997), Davidson put forward three distinct but related arguments against animal thought and reason: the intensionality test, the argument from holism, and his main argument. Although Davidson’s arguments are not much discussed these days (for exceptions, see Beisecker 2001; Glock 2000; Fellows 2000), they were quite influential in shaping the direction of the contemporary debate in philosophy on animal thought and reason and continue to pose a challenging skeptical position on this topic, which makes them deserved of close examination.

i. The Intensionality Test

The intensionality test rest on the assumption that the contents of beliefs (and thought in general) are finer grained than the states of affairs they are about. The belief that Benjamin Franklyn was the inventor of bifocals, for example, is not the same as the belief that the first postmaster general of the US was the inventor of bifocals, even though both beliefs are about the same state of affairs. This fine-grained nature of belief content is reflected in the sentences we use to ascribe them. Thus, the sentence, “Sam believes that Benjamin Franklyn was the inventor of bifocals,” may be true while the sentence, “Sam believes that the first postmaster general of the US was the inventor of bifocals,” may be false. Belief ascriptions that have this semantic feature—that is, their truth value may be affected by the substitution of co-referring expressions within their “that”-clauses—are called intensional (or semantically opaque). The reason that is typically given for why belief ascriptions are intensional is that their purpose is to describe the way the subject thinks or conceives of some object or state of affairs. Belief ascriptions with this purpose are called de dicto ascriptions, as opposed to de re ascriptions (see below).

Our de dicto belief ascriptions to animals are unjustified, Davidson argued, since for any plausible de dicto belief ascription that we make there are countless others and no principled way of deciding which is the correct way of describing how the animal thinks. Take, for instance, the claim that Fido believes that the cat is in the tree. It seems that one could just as well have said that Fido believes that the small furry object is in the tree, or that the small furry object is in the tallest object in the yard, and so on. And yet there does not appear to be any objective fact of the matter that would determine the correct translation into our language of the way Fido thinks about the cat and the tree. Davidson concludes that “unless there is behaviour that can be interpreted as speech, the evidence will not be adequate to justify the fine distinctions we are used to making in attribution of thought” (1984, p. 164).

Some philosophers (Searle 1994; McGinn 1982) have interpreted Davidson’s argument here as aiming to prove that animals cannot have thought on the basis of a verificationist principle which holds that if we cannot determinately verify what a creature thinks, then it cannot think. Such philosophers reject this principle on the grounds that absence of proof of what is thought is not thereby proof of the absence of thought. But Davidson himself states that he is not appealing to such a principle in his argument (1985, p. 476), and neither does he say that he takes the intensionality test to prove that animals cannot have thought. Rather, he takes the argument to undermine our intuitive confidence in our ascriptions of de dicto beliefs to animals.

However, even on this interpretation of the intensionality test, objections have been raised. Some philosophers (Armstrong 1973; Allen & Bekoff 1997; Bermúdez 2003a, 2003b) have argued that, contrary to Davidson’s claim, there is a principled way of deciding among the alternative de dicto belief ascriptions to animals—by scientifically studying their discriminatory behaviors under various conditions and by stipulating the meanings of the terms used in our de dicto ascriptions so the they do not attribute more than what is necessary to capture the way the animal thinks. Although at present we may not be completely entitled to any one of the many de dicto belief ascriptions to animals, according to this view, there is no reason to think that we could not come to be so entitled through future empirical research on animal behavior and by the stipulation of the meanings of the terms used in our belief ascriptions. Also, it is important to mention that Bermúdez (2003a; 2003b) has developed a fairly well worked out theory of how to make de dicto ascriptions to animals that takes the practice of making such attributions to be a form of success semantics—”the idea that true beliefs are functions from desires to action that cause thinkers to behave in the ways that will satisfy their desires” (2003a, p. 65). (See Fodor 2003 for a criticism of Bermúdez’s success semantic approach.)

In addition, David Armstrong (1973) has objected that the intensionality test merely undermines our justification of de dicto belief ascriptions to animals, not de re belief ascriptions, since the latter do not aim to describe how the animal thinks but simply to identify the state of affairs the animal’s thought is about. Furthermore, Armstrong argues that it is in fact de re belief ascriptions, not de dicto belief ascriptions, that we ordinarily use to describe animal beliefs. When we say that Fido believes that the cat is up the tree, for example, our intention is simply to pick out the state of affairs that Fido’s belief is about, while remaining neutral with respect to how Fido thinks about it. Roughly, what we are saying, according to Armstong, is that Fido believes a proposition of the form Rab, where “R” is Fido’s relational concept that picks out the same two-place relation as our term “up,” “a” is Fido’s concept that refers to the same class of animals as our word “cat,” and “b” is Fido’s concept that refers to the same class of objects as our word “tree.”

ii. The Argument from Holism

One thing that Armstrong’s objection assumes is that we are at present justified in saying what objects, properties, or states of affairs in the world an animal’s belief is about. Davidson’s second argument, the argument from holism, aims to challenge this assumption. Davidson endorses a holistic principle regarding how the referents or extension of beliefs are determined. According to this principle, “[b]efore some object in, or aspect of, the world can become part of the subject matter of a belief (true or false) there must be endless true beliefs about the subject matter” (1984, p. 168). Applying this principle to the case of animals, Davidson argues that in order for us to be entitled to fix the extension of an animal’s belief, we must suppose that the animal has an endless stock of other beliefs. So, according to Davidson, to be entitled to say that Fido has a belief about a cat, we must assume that Fido has a large stock of other beliefs about cats and related things, such as that cats are three-dimensional objects that persist through various changes, that they are animals, that animals are living organisms, that cats can move freely about their environment, and so on. There is no fixed list of beliefs about cats and related items that Fido needs to possess in order to have a belief about cats, Davidson maintains, but unless Fido has a very large stock of such general beliefs, we will not be entitled to say that he has a belief about a cat as opposed to something else, such as undetached cat parts, or the surface of a cat, or a cat appearance, or a stage in the history of a cat. But in the absence of speech, Davidson claims, “there could [not] be adequate grounds for attributing the general beliefs needed for making sense of any thought” (Davidson 1985, p. 475). The upshot is that we are not, and never will be, justified even in our de re ascriptions of beliefs to animals.

One chief weakness with Davidson’s argument here is that its rests upon a radical form of holism that would appear to deny that any two human beings could have beliefs about the same things, since no two human beings ever share all (or very nearly all) the same general background beliefs on some subject. This has been taken by some philosophers as a reductio of the theory (Fodor and Lepore 1992).

iii. Davidson’s Main Argument

Davidson’s main argument against animal thought consists of the following two steps:

First, I argue that in order to have a belief, it is necessary to have the concept of belief.

Second, I argue that in order to have the concept of belief one must have language.
(1985, p. 478)

Davidson concludes from these steps that since animals do not understand or speak a language, they cannot have beliefs. Davidson goes on to defend the centrality of belief, which holds that no creature can have thought or reason of any form without possessing beliefs, and concludes that animals are incapable of any form of thought or reason.

Davidson supports the first step of his main argument by pointing out what he sees as a logical connection between the possession of belief and the capacity for being surprised, and between the capacity for being surprised and possessing the concept belief. The idea, roughly, is that for any (empirical) proposition p, if one believes that p, then one should be surprised to discover that p is not the case, but to be surprised that p is not the case involves believing that one’s former belief that p was false, which, in turn, requires one to have the concept belief (as well as the concept falsity). (See Moser (1983) for a rendition of Davidson’s argument that avoids Davidson’s appeal to surprise.)

Davidson’s defense of the second step of his main argument is sketchier and more speculative. The general idea, however, appears to be as follows. If one has the concept belief and is thereby able to comprehend that one has beliefs, then one must also be able to comprehend that one’s beliefs are sometimes true and sometimes false, since beliefs are, by their nature, states capable of being true or false. However, to comprehend that one’s beliefs are true or false is to comprehend that they succeed or fail to depict the objective facts. But the only way for a creature to grasp the idea of a world of objective facts, Davidson speculates, is through its ability to triangulate—that is, through its ability to compare its own beliefs with those of others. Therefore, Davidson argues, since triangulation necessarily involves the capacity of ascribing beliefs to others and this capacity, according to the intensionality test and the argument from holism (see sections 1c.i and 1c.ii. above), requires language, possessing the concept belief requires the possession of language.

A number of commentators of Davidson’s main argument have raised objections to his defense of its first step—that having beliefs requires having the concept belief. Carruthers (2008), Tye (1997) and Searle (1996), for example, all argue that having beliefs does not require having the concept belief. These philosophers agree that beliefs, by their nature, are states that are revisable in light of supporting or countervailing evidence presented to the senses but maintain that this process of belief revision does not require the creature to be aware of the process or to have the concept belief. Carruthers (2008) offers the most specific defense of this claim by developing an account of surprise that does not involve higher-order beliefs, as Davidson maintains. According to Carruthers’ account, being surprised simply involves a mechanism that is sensitive to conflicts between the contents of one’s beliefs—that is, conflicts with what one believes, not conflicts with the fact that one believes such contents. On this model, being surprised that there is no coin in one’s pocket involves having a mechanism in one’s head that takes as its input the content that there is a coin in one’s pocket (not the fact that one believes this content) and the content that there is no coin in one’s pocket (again, not the fact that one believes this content) and produces as its output a suite of reactions, such as releasing chemicals into the bloodstream that heightens alertness, widening the eyes, and orienting towards and attending to the perceived state of affairs one took as evidence that there is no coin in one’s pocket. It is one’s awareness of these changes, Carruthers argues, not one’s awareness that one’s former belief was false, as Davidson maintains, that constitutes being surprised.

Compared with the commentary on the first step of his main argument, there is little critical commentary in print on Davidson’s defense of the second step of his main argument. However, Lurz (1998) has raised the following objection. He argues that the intensionality test and the argument from holism at most show that belief attributions to nonlinguistic animals are unjustified but not that they are impossible. The fact that we routinely attribute beliefs to nonlinguistic animals shows that such attributions are quite possible. But, Lurz argues, if we can attribute beliefs to nonlinguistic animals on the basis of their nonlinguistic behavior, then there is no reason to think (at least, none provided by the intensionality test and the argument from holism) that a nonlinguistic animal could not in principle attribute beliefs to other nonlinguistic animals on the same basis. Of course, if the intensionality test and argument from holism are sound, such belief attributions would be unjustified, but this alone is irrelevant to whether it is possible for nonlinguistic animals to attribute beliefs to others and thereby engage in triangulation; for triangulation requires the capacity for belief attribution, not the capacity for justified belief attribution. Therefore, Lurz argues, if triangulation is possible without language, then Davidson has failed to prove that having the concept belief requires language. Furthermore, if some animals actually are capable of attributing beliefs to others, as some researchers (Premack & Woodruff 1978; Menzel 1974; Tschudin 2001) have suggested that chimpanzees and dolphins may be (thought such claims are considered highly controversial at present), then even if triangulation is a requirement for having beliefs, as Davidson maintains, it may turn out that some animals (for example, chimpanzees and dolphins) actually have beliefs, contrary to what Davidson’s main argument concludes.

d. Contemporary Philosophical Arguments on Animal Reason

Although the vast majority of contemporary philosophers do not go as far as Descartes and Davidson in denying reason to animals completely, a number of them have argued for important limits on animal rationality. The arguments here are numerous and complex; so only an outline of the more influential ones is provided.

In Rationality (1964/1989), Jonathan Bennett argued that since it is impossible for animals without language to express universal beliefs (for example, All As are Bs) and past-tensed beliefs (for example, A was F) separately, they cannot posses either type of belief, on the grounds that what cannot be manifested separately in behavior cannot exist as distinct and separate states in the mind. A consequence of this argument is that animals cannot think or reason about matters beyond their own particular and immediate circumstances. In Linguistic Behaviour (1976), Bennett went further and argued that animals cannot draw logical inferences from their beliefs, on the grounds that if they did, they would do so for every belief that they possessed, which is absurd. According to this argument, Fido may believe that the cat is in tree, as well as believe that there is an animal in the tree, but he cannot come to have the latter belief as result of inferring it from the former.

More recently, José Bermúdez (2003a) has argued that the ability to think about thoughts (what Bermúdez calls “intentional ascent”) requires the ability to think about words in one’s natural language (what Bermúdez calls “semantic ascent”), and that since animals cannot do the latter, they cannot do the former. Bermudez’s argument that intentional ascent requires semantic ascent is, roughly, that thinking about thought involves the ability to “‘to hold a thought in mind’ in such a way that can only be done if the thought is linguistically vehicled” via a natural language sentence that one understand (p. ix). The idea is that the only way for a creature to grasp and think about a thought (that is, an abstract proposition) is by its saying, writing, or bringing to mind a concrete sentence that expresses the thought in question. Bermúdez goes on to argue that the ability to think about thoughts (propositions) is involved in a wide variety of types of reasoning, from thinking about and reasoning with truth-functional, temporal, modal, and quantified propositions, to thinking and reasoning about one’s own and others’ propositional attitudes (for example, beliefs and desires). Bermúdez concludes that since animals do no think about words or sentences in a natural language, their thinking and reasoning are restricted to observable states of affairs in their environment. However, see Lurz (2007) for critical comment on Bermúdez’s argument here.

Finally, John Searle (1994) has argued that since animals lack certain linguistic abilities, they cannot think or reasons about institutional facts (for example, facts about money or marriages), facts about the distant past (for example, facts about matters before their birth), logically complex facts (for example, subjunctive facts or facts that involve mixed quantifies), or facts that can only be represented via some symbolic system (for example, facts pertaining to the days of the week). In addition, and more interesting, Searle (2001) has argued that since animals cannot perform certain speech acts such as asserting, they cannot have desire-independent reasons for action. According to this argument, animals act only for the sake of satisfying some non-rationally assessable desire (for example, the satisfaction of hunger) and never out of a sense of commitment. Consequently, if acts of courage, fidelity, loyalty, and parental commitment involve desire-independent reasons for action, as they arguably do, then on Searle’s argument here, no animal is or can be courageous, faithful, loyal, or a committed parent.

e. Contemporary Philosophical Arguments for Animal Thought and Reason

There are four types of arguments in contemporary philosophy for animal thought and reason. The first is the argument from the intentional systems theory championed by Daniel Dennett (1987, 1995, 1997). The second is the argument from common-sense functionalism championed by (among others) Jerry Fodor (1987), Stephen Stich (1979) and Peter Carruthers (2004). The third is the argument from biological naturalism, championed by John Searle (1994). And the fourth is the argument from science championed by (among others) Allen and Bekoff (1997) and Bermúdez (2003a).

i. The Intentional Systems Theory Argument

The intentional systems theory consists of two general ideas. The first is that our concepts of intentional states, such as our concepts belief, desire, and perceiving, are theoretical concepts whose identity and existence are determined by a common-sense psychological theory or folk-psychology. Folk psychology is a set of general principles that state that subjects, on the assumption that they are rational, tend to believe what they perceive, tend to draw obvious logical inferences from their beliefs, and tend act so as to satisfy their desires given what they believe. In many cases, we apply our folk psychology to animals to predict and make sense of their behaviors. When we do, we view animals as intentional systems and take up, what Dennett (1987) calls, the intentional stance toward them. The second important idea of the intentional systems theory is its instrumentalist interpretation of folk psychology. On the instrumentalist interpretation, what it is for a creature to have intentional states is for its behaviors to be well predicted and explained by the principles of folk psychology. Nothing more is required. There need not be anything inside the creature’s brain or body, for instance, that corresponds to or has structural or functional features similar to the intentional state concepts employed in our folk psychology. Our intentional state concepts, on the instrumentalist reading, do not aim to refer to real, concrete internal states of subjects but to abstract entities that are merely useful constructs for predicting and explaining various behaviors (much like centers of gravity used in mechanics). Therefore, according to the intentional systems theory argument, the fact that much of animal behavior is usefully predicted and explained from the intentional stance makes animals genuine thinkers and reasoners.

There are two general types of objections raised against the intentional systems theory argument. First, some have argued (Searle 1983) that our intentional state concepts are not theoretical concepts, since intentional states are experienced and, hence, our concepts of them are independent of our having any theory about them. Second, some (Braddon-Mitchell & Jackson 2007) have objected to the intentional systems theory’s commitment to instrumentalism, arguing that on such an interpretation of folk psychology, even lowly thermostats, laptop computers, and Blockheaded robots have beliefs and desires, since it is useful to predict and explain behaviors of such objects from the intentional stance.

ii. The Argument from Common-Sense Functionalism

Similar to the intentional systems theory, common-sense functionalism holds that our intentional state concepts are theoretical concepts that belong to and are determined by our folk psychology. Unlike the intentional systems theory, however, common-sense functionalism takes a realist interpretation of folk psychology. (In addition, many common-sense functionalists reject the rationality assumption that the intentional systems theory places on folk psychology (Fodor 1987, 1991).) On the realist interpretation, for a subject to have intentional states is for the subject to have in his brain a variety of discrete internal states that play the causal roles and have the internal structures that our intentional state concepts describe. According to this view, if Fido believes that the cat is up the tree, then he has in his brain an individual state, s, that plays the causal role that beliefs play according to our folk psychology, and s has an internal structure similar to the “that”-clause used to specify its content—that is, s has the structure Rxy where “R” represents the two-place relation up, “x” represents the cat, and “y” represents the tree. Since the internal state s is seen as having an internal structure similar to the sentence “the cat is up the tree,” common-sense functionalism is often taken to support the view that thinking involves an internal language or language of thought (Fodor 1975). It is then argued that since animal behavior is successfully predicted and explained by our folk psychology, there is defeasible grounds for supposing that animals actually have such internal states in their heads (Fodor 1987; Stich 1979; Carruthers 2004).

Two problems are typically raised regarding the argument from common-sense functionalism. Some (Stalnaker 1999) have objected that if, as common-sense functionalism claims, our ascriptions of intentional states to animals commit us to thinking that the animals have in their heads states that have the same representational structure as the “that”-clauses we use to specify their contents, then intentional ascriptions to animals (and to ourselves) would be a far more speculative practice than it actually is. The objection here does not deny that animals actually have such representational structures in their heads, it simply denies that that is what we are saying or thinking when we ascribe intentional states to them. Others (Camp, 2009) accept the common-sense functionalist account of intentional state concepts but have argued, on the basis of Evan’s (1982) generality constraint principle, that few animals have the sorts of structured representational states in their heads that folk psychology describes them as having. If Fido’s thoughts are structured in the way that common-sense functionalism claims, the objection runs, then if Fido is able to think that he is chasing a cat, then he must also be capable of thinking that a cat is chasing him, but, it is argued, this may be a thought that is completely unthinkable by Fido. However, see Carruthers (2009) and Tetzlaff and Rey (2009) for important objections to this type of argument.

iii. The Argument from Biological Naturalism

Biological naturalism is the theory, championed by John Searle (1983, 1992), that holds that our concepts of intentional states are concepts of experienced subjective states. The concept belief, for example, is the concept of an experienced, conscious state that has truth conditions and world-to-mind direction of fit; whereas, our concept desires is the concept of an experienced, conscious state that has satisfaction conditions and mind-to-world direction of fit. Intentional states, according to this theory, are irreducibly subjective states that are caused by low-level biochemical states of the brain in virtue of their causal structures, not in virtue of their functional or causal roles, or, if they have such, their representational structures. According to biological naturalism, if Fido believes that the cat is in the tree, then he has in his brain a low-level biochemical state, s, that, in virtue of its unique causal structure, causes Fido to have a subjective experience that has a world-to-mind direction of fit and is true if and only if the cat is in the tree.

Searle argues that there are two main reasons why we find it irresistible to suppose that animals have intentional states, as biological naturalism conceives them. First, many animals have perceptual organs (for example, eyes, ears, mouths, and skin) that we see as similar to our own and which, we assume, operate according to similar physiological principles. Since we know in our own case that the stimulation of our perceptual organs leads to certain physiological processes which cause us to have certain perceptual experiences, we reason, from the principle of similar cause-similar effect, that the stimulation of perceptual organs in animals leads to similar physiological processes which cause them to have similar perceptual experiences. The behavior of animals, Searle repeatedly stresses, is by itself irrelevant to why we think animals have perceptual experiences; it is only relevant if we take the behavior to be caused by the stimulation of perceptual organs and underlying physiological processes relevantly similar to our own. This argument, of course, would only account for why we think that animals have perceptual experiences, not why we think that they have beliefs, desires, and other intentional states that are only distantly related to the stimulation of sensory organs. So Searle adds that the second reason we find it irresistible that animals have intentional states is that we cannot make sense of their behaviors otherwise. To make sense of why Fido is still barking up the tree when the cat is long out of sight, for example, we must suppose that Fido continues to want to catch the cat and continues to think that the cat is up the tree.

There are two main problems with Searle’s argument for animal thought and reason. First, according to biological naturalism, animals have intentional states solely in virtue of their having brain states that are relevantly similar in causal structure to those in human beings which cause us to have intentional states. But this raises the question: how are we to determine whether the brain states of animals are relevantly similar to our own? They will not be exactly similar, since animal brains and human brains are different. Suppose, for example, scientists discover that a certain type of electro-chemical process (XYZ) in human brains is necessary and sufficient for intentional states in us, and that an electro-chemical process (PDQ) similar to XYZ occurs in animal brains. Is PDQ similar enough to XYZ to produce intentional states in animals? Well, suppose PDQ produces behaviors in animals that are similar to those that XYZ produces in humans. Would that show that PDQ is enough like XYZ to produce intentional states in animals? No, says Searle, for unless those behaviors are produced by relevantly similar physiological processes they are simply irrelevant to whether the animal has intentional states. But that is precisely what we are trying to determine here, of course. It would appears that the only way to determine whether PDQ is similar enough to XYZ, on biological naturalism, is if we humans could temporarily exchange our brains for those of animals and see whether PDQ produces intentional states in us. This, of course, is impossible. And so it would appear that the question of whether animals have intentional states is, on biological naturalism, unknowable in principle.

Finally, Searle’s explanation for why we find it irresistible to ascribe perceptual experiences to animals seems questionable in some cases. If Searle’s explanation were correct, then most ordinary individuals should not find it at all compelling, for example, to ascribe auditory experiences (that is, hearing) to birds, or tactile experiences (that is, feelings of pressures, pain, or temperature) to fish or armadillos, since most ordinary individuals do not see anything on birds’ heads that looks like ears or on the outer surface of fish or armadillos that looks like skin.

iv. The Argument from Science

Why should we believe that colds are caused by viruses and not by drastic changes in weather, as many folk had (and still do) believe? A reasonable answer is that our best scientific theory of the causes of colds is in terms of viruses, commonsense notwithstanding. Sometimes, of course, science and commonsense agree, and when they do, commonsense can be said to be vindicated by science. In either case, it is science that ultimately determines what should (and should not) be believed. This type of argument, sometimes called the argument from science, has been used to justify the claim that animals have thought, reason, consciousness, and other folk-psychological states of mind (see Allen & Bekoff 1997; Bermúdez 2003a). In the past thirty years or so, due in large measure to the demise of radical behaviorism and the birth of cognitivism in psychology, as well as from the influential writings of ethologist Donald Griffin (1976, 1984, 2001), scientists from various fields have found it increasingly useful to propose, test, and ultimately accept hypotheses about the causes of animal behavior in explicitly folk-psychological terms. It is quite common these days to see scientific articles on whether, for example, animals have conscious experiences such as painseeing and (even) joy (Griffin & Speck 2004; Panksepp & Burgdorf 2003), on whether scrub jays have desires, and beliefs, and can recollect their pasts (Clayton et al. 2006), on whether primates understand that other animals knowsee, and hear(Hare et al. 2000; Hare et al. 2001; Santos et al. 2006), on whether primates make judgments about their own states of knowledge and ignorance (Hampton et al. 2004; Smith et al. 2003), and so on. According to the argument, since scientists are finding it useful to test and accept hypothesis about animal behavior in folk-psychological terms, we are justified in believing that animals have such states of mind.

Not everyone has found the argument from science here convincing, however. The chief concern is whether explanations of animal behavior in folk-psychological terms are, as the argument assumes, scientifically respectable (see Kennedy 1992). There are two features of scientific explanations of animal behavior that appear to count against their being so. First, scientific explanations of animal behavior are causal explanations in terms of concrete internal states of the animal, but on some models of folk-psychology, such as Dennett’s intentional systems theory (see 1.e.i. above), folk-psychological explanations are neither causal explanations nor imply anything about the internal states of the animal. Second, scientific explanations of animal behavior are objective in that there is typically a general agreement among researchers in the field on what would count in favor of or against the explanation; however, it has been argued that since the only generally agreed upon indicators of consciousness are verbal reports of the subject, explanations of animal behavior in terms of consciousness are unscientific (see Clayton et al. 2006, p. 206).

One standard type of reply to these objections has been to adopt a common-sense functionalist model of folk-psychology (see 1e.ii above) which interprets folk-psychological explanations as imputing causally efficacious internal states while denying that these explanations imply anything about the consciousness of the internal states. (This seems to be the approach that Clayton et al. (2006) take in their explanation of the behaviors of scrub jays in terms of “episodic-like” memories, which are episodic memories minus consciousness.) This, of course, raises the vexing issue of whether our folk-psychological concepts, such as beliefdesireintentionseeing, and so forth, imply consciousness (see Carruthers 2005; Lurz 2002a; Searle 1992; Stich 1979). Others have responded to the above objections by developing non-subjective measures for consciousness that could be applied to animals (and humans) incapable of verbal reports (Dretske 2006). And still others have proposed objective measures of consciousness in animals by appealing to the communicative signals of animals as non-verbal reports of the presence of conscious experiences (Griffin 1976, 1984, 2001).

2. The Problems of Animal Consciousness

It is generally accepted that most (if not all) types of mental states can be either conscious or unconscious, and that unconscious mental states can have effects on behavior that are not altogether dissimilar from those of their conscious counterparts. It is quite common, for example, for one to have a belief (for example, that one’s keys are in one’s jacket pocket) and a desire (for example, to locate one’s keys) that are responsible for some behavior (for example, reaching into one’s jacket pocket as one approaches one’s apartment) even though at the time of the behavior (and beforehand) one’s mind is preoccupied with matters completely unrelated to one’s belief or desire. Similarly, scientists have shown through various masking experiments and the like that our behaviors are often influenced by stimuli that are perceived below the level of consciousness (Marcel 1983). Also some philosophers have argued that even pains and other bodily sensations can be unconscious, such as when one continues to limp from a pain in one’s leg though at the time one is preoccupied with other matters and is not attending to the pain (Tye 1995).

Given this distinction between conscious and unconscious mental states, the question arises whether the mental states of animals are or can be conscious. It should be noted that this question not only has theoretical import but moral and practical import, as well. For arguably the fact that conscious pains and experiences feel a certain way to their subjects makes them morally relevant conditions, and it is, therefore, of moral and practical concern to determine whether the mental states of animals are conscious (Carruthers 1992). Of course, as with the question of animal thought and reason, the answer to this question depends in large part on what one takes consciousness to be. There are two general philosophical approaches to consciousness—typically referred to as first-order and higher-order theories—that have played a prominent role in the debate over the status of animal consciousness. These two approaches and their relevance to the question of conscious states in animals are described below.

a. Higher-Order Theories of Consciousness

Higher-order theories of consciousness start with the common assumption that conscious mental states are states of which one is higher-order aware, and unconscious mental states are states of which one is not higher-order aware. The theories diverge, however, over what is involved in being higher-order aware of one’s mental states.

i. Inner-Sense Theories

Inner-sense theories take a subject’s higher-order awareness to be a type of perceptual awareness, akin to seeing, that is directed inwardly toward the mind as opposed to outwardly toward the world (Lycan 1996; Armstrong 1997). Since higher-order awareness is a species of perceptual awareness, on this view, it is not usually taken to require the capacity for higher-order thought or the possession of mental-state concepts. A subject need not be able to think that he is in pain or have the concepts I or pain, for example, in order for him to be higher-order aware of his pain. On the inner-sense theory, then, the mental states of animals will be conscious just in case they are higher-order aware of them by means of an inner perception.

Some inner-sense theorists have argued that since higher-order awareness does not require higher-order thought or the possession of mental-state concepts, it is quite consistent with what we know about animal behavior and brains that many animals may have such an awareness of their own mental states. Furthermore, there are recent studies in comparative psychology (Smith et al. 2003; Hampton et al. 2004) that suggest that monkeys, apes and dolphins actually have the capacity to be higher-order aware of their own states of certainty, memory, and knowledge. However, the results of these studies have not gone unchallenged (see Carruthers 2008).

The chief problem with inner-sense theories, however, is not so much their account of animal consciousness but their account of higher-order awareness. Some (Rosenthal 1986; Shoemaker 1996) have argued against a perceptual account of higher-order awareness on the grounds that (i) there is no dedicated perceptual organ in the brain for such a perception as there is for external perception; (ii) there is no distinct phenomenology associated with higher-order awareness as there is for all other types of perceptual modalities; and (iii) it is impossible to reposition oneself in relation to one’s mental states so as to get a better perception of them as one can do in the case of perception of external objects. And still others (Lurz 2003) have objected that the inner-sense theory cannot explain how concept-involving mental states, such as beliefs and desires, can be conscious, since to be aware of such states would require being aware of their conceptual contents, which cannot be done by way of a perceptual awareness that is not itself concept-involving.

ii. Higher-Order Thought Theories

Problems such as these have led a number of higher-order theorists (Rosenthal 1986; Carruthers 2000) to embrace some version or other of the higher-order thought theory. According to this theory, a mental state is conscious just in case one has (or is disposed to have) the higher-order thought that one is in such a mental state. Animals will have conscious mental states, on this theory, if and only if that they are capable of higher-order thoughts about themselves as having mental states. The question of animal consciousness, then, becomes the question of whether animals are capable of such higher-order thought.

A number of philosophers have argued that animals are incapable of such thought. Some have argued that since higher-order thoughts require the possession of the first-person I-concept, it is unlikely that animals are capable of having them. The selves of animals, the argument runs, are selves that experience numerous mental states at any one moment in time and that persist through various changes to their mental states. Thus, if an animal possessed the I-concept, it must be capable of understanding itself as such an entity—that is, it must be capable of thinking not only, I am currently in pain, for example, but I am currently in pain, am seeing, am hearingam smelling, as well as be capable of thinking I was in such-and-such mental states but am not now. However, such thoughts appear to involve the mental equivalent of pronominal reference and past-tensed thoughts, both of which, it is argued, are impossible without language (see Quine 1995; Bermúdez 2003a; Bennett 1964, 1966, 1988).

Various objections have been raised against this argument on behalf of the higher-order theory and animal consciousness. Gennaro (2004, 2009) argues that that the I-concept involved in higher-order thoughts need be no more sophisticated than the concept this particular body or the concept experiencer of mental states, and that the results of various self-recognition studies with apes, dolphins and elephants, as well as the results of a number of episodic memory tests with scrub jays, suggest that many animals possess such minimal I-concepts (Parker et al. 1994; Clayton et al., 2003). Lurz (1999) goes further and argues that insofar as higher-order thoughts confer consciousness on mental states, they need not involve any I-concept at all. The idea here is that just as one can be aware that it is raining, where the “it” here is not used to express one’s concept of a thing or a subject—for there is no thing or subject that is raining—an animal can be aware that it hurts or thinks that p, where the “it” here does not express a concept of a thing or a subject that is thought to possess pain or to think that p. Animals, on this view, are thought to conceive of their mental states as we conceive of rain and snow—that is, as subject-less features placed at a time (see Strawson (1959) and Proust (2009) for similar arguments).

The most common argument against animals possessing higher-order thought, however, is that such thoughts requires linguistic capabilities and mental-state concepts that animals do not possess. Dennett (1991), for example, argues that the ability to say what mental state one is in is the very basis of one’s having the higher-order thought that one is in such mental state, and not the other way round. To think otherwise, Dennett argues, is to commit oneself to an objectionable Cartesian theater view of the mind. According to Dennett’s argument, since animals are incapable of saying what they are feeling or thinking, they are incapable of thinking that they are feeling or thinking. In reply, Carruthers (1996) has argued that there is a way of understand higher-order thoughts that is not tied to linguistic expression of any kind or committed to a Cartesian theater view of the mind.

In a somewhat similar vein of thought to Dennett’s, Davidson (1984, 1985) and Bermúdez (2003a) argue, although on different grounds, that since animals are incapable of speaking and interpreting a natural language, they cannot possess mental-state concepts for propositional attitudes and, therefore, cannot have higher-order thoughts about their own or others propositional attitudes (see sections 1c and 1d.iii above). This alone, of course, is not sufficient to prove that animals are incapable of higher-order thoughts about non-propositional mental states, such as bodily sensations and perceptual experiences. However, some have gone further and argued that animals are incapable of possessing any type of mental-state concept and, therefore, any type of higher-order thought. The argument for this view generally consist of the following two main premises: (1) if animals possess mental-state concepts, then they must have the capacity to apply these concepts to themselves as well as to other animals; and (2) animals have been shown to perform poorly in some important experiments designed to test whether they can apply mental-state concepts to other animals.

Premise (1) of this argument is sometimes supported (Seager 2004) by an appeal to Evan’s generality constraint (see section 1e.ii above); roughly, the argument runs, if an animal can think, for example, I am in pain, and can think of another animal that, for example, he walks, then the animal in question must be capable of thinking of another animal, he is pain, as well as be capable of thinking of himself, I walk. Others, however, have supported premise (1) on evolutionary grounds, arguing that animals would not have evolved the capacity to think with mental-state concepts unless their doing so was of some selective advantage, and the only selective advantage of thinking with mental-state concepts is its use in anticipating and manipulating other animals’ behaviors (Humphrey 1976). Premise (2) of this argument has been supported mainly by the results of a series of experiments conducted by Povinelli and colleagues (see Povinelli & Vonk 2004) which appear to show that chimpanzees are incapable of discriminating betweenseeing and not seeing in other subjects.

Various objections have been raised against such defenses of premises (1) and (2). Gennaro (2009), for example, has argued against the defense of premise (1) based on Evan’s generality constraint. Others have argued that, contrary to the evolutionary defense given for premise (1), the principal selective advantage of thinking with mental-state concepts is its use in recognizing and correcting errors in one’s own thinking, and that the results of various meta-cognition studies have shown that various animals are capable of reflecting upon and improving their pattern of thinking (Smith et al., 2003). (However, see Carruthers (2008) for a critique of such higher-order interpretations of these studies.) And with respect to premise (2), others have argued that, contrary to Povinelli’s interpretation, chimpanzees fail such discrimination tasks not because they are unable to attribute mental states to others but because the experimental tasks are unnatural and confusing for the animals, and that when the experimental tasks are more suitable and natural, such as those used in competitive paradigms (Hare et al. 2000; Hare et al. 2001; Santos et al. 2006), the animals show signs of mental-state attribution. However, see Penn and Povinelli (2007) for challenges to the supposed successes of mental-state attributions by animals in these new experimental protocols and for suggestions on how to improve experimental methods used in testing mental-state attributions in animals.

b. First-Order Theories

According to first-order theories, conscious mental states are those that make one conscious of things or facts in the external environment (Evans 1982; Tye 1995; Dretske 1995). Mental states are not conscious because one is higher-order aware of them but because the states themselves make one aware of the external world. Unconscious mental states, therefore, are mental states that fail to make one conscious of things or facts in the environment—although, they may have various effects on one’s behavior. Furthermore, mental states that make subjects conscious of things or facts in the environment do so, according to first-order theories, in virtue of their effecting, or being poised to effect, subjects’ belief-forming system. So, for example, one’s current perception of the computer screen is conscious, on such theories, because it causes, or is poised to cause, one to believe that there is a computer screen before one; whereas, those perceptual states that are involved in subliminal perception, for instance, are not conscious because they do not cause, nor are poised to cause, subjects to form beliefs about the environment.

First-order theorists argue (Tye 1997; Dretske 1995) that many varieties of animals, from fish to bees to chimpanzees, form beliefs about their environment based upon their perceptional states and bodily sensations and, therefore, enjoy conscious perceptual states and bodily sensations. Additional virtues of first-order theories, it is argued, are that they offer a more parsimonious account of consciousness than higher-order theories, since they do not require higher-order awareness for consciousness, and that they provide a more plausible account of animal consciousness than higher-order theories, since they ascribe consciousness to animals that we intuitively believe to possess conscious perceptual states (for example, bats and mice) but do not intuitively believe to possess higher-order awareness.

It has been argued (Lurz 2004, 2006), however, that first-order theories are at their best when explaining the consciousness of perceptual states and bodily sensations but have difficultly explaining the consciousness of beliefs and desires. Most first-order theorists have responded to this problem by endorsing a higher-order thought theory of consciousness for such mental states (Tye 1997; Dretske 2000, p. 188). On such a hybrid view, beliefs and desires are conscious in virtue of having higher-order thoughts about them, while perceptual states and bodily sensations are conscious in virtue of their being poised to make an impact on one’s belief-forming system. This hybrid view faces two important problems, however. First, on such a view, few, if any, animals would be capable of conscious beliefs and desires, since it seems implausible, for various reasons, to suppose that many animals are capable of higher-order thoughts about their own beliefs and desires. And yet it has been argued (Lurz 2002b) that there is intuitively compelling grounds for thinking that many animals are capable of conscious beliefs and desires, since their behaviors are quite often predictable and explainable in terms of the concepts beliefand desire of our folk psychology, which is a set of laws about the causal properties and interactions ofconscious beliefs and desires (or, at the very least, a set of laws about the causal properties and interactions of beliefs and desires that are apt to be conscious (Stich 1978)). However, see Carruthers (2005) for a reply to this argument.

The second problem for the hybrid view is that on its most plausible rendition it would ascribe consciousness to the same limited class of animals as higher-order thought theory and, thereby, provide no more of an intuitively plausible account of animal consciousness than its main competitor. For it seems intuitively plausible to suppose that a perceptual state or bodily sensation will be conscious only if it effects, or is poised to effect, a subject’s conscious belief-forming system. If it were discovered, for example, that the perceptual states involved in subliminal perception (or blindsight) caused subjects to form unconscious beliefs about the environment, no one but the most committed first-order theorist would conclude from this alone that these perceptual states were, after all, conscious. But if perceptual states and bodily sensations are conscious only insofar as they effect (or are poised to effect) a subject’sconscious belief-forming system, and conscious beliefs, on the hybrid view, require higher-order thought, then to possess conscious perceptions and bodily sensations, an animal would have to be, as higher-order thought theories maintain, capable of higher-order thought. What appears to be need here in order to save first-order theories from this problem is a first-order account of conscious beliefs and desires. See Lurz (2006) for a sketch of such an account.

3. Other Issues

There are many other important issues in the philosophy of animal minds in addition to those directly related to the nature and scope of animal thought, reason, and consciousness. Due to considerations of length, however, only a brief list of such issues with reference to a few relevant and important sources is provided.

The nature and extent of animal emotions has been, and continues to be, an important issue in the philosophy of animal minds (see Nussbaum 2001; Roberts 1996, 2009: Griffiths 1997), as well as the nature and extent of propositional knowledge in animals (see Korblith 2002). Philosophers have also been particularly interested in the philosophical foundations and the methodological principles, such as Lloyd Morgan’s canon, employed in the various sciences that study animal cognition and consciousness (see Bekoff et al. 2002; Allen and Bekoff 1997; Fitzpatrick 2007, 2009; Sober 1998, 2001a, 2001b, 2005). Philosophers have also been interested in the nature and justification of the practice of anthropomorphism by scientists and lay folk (Mitchell at al.1997; Bekoff & Jamieson 1996; Datson & Mitman 2005). And finally, there is a rich history of philosophical thought on animal minds dating back to the earliest stages of philosophy and, therefore, there has been, and continues to be, philosophical interest and issues related to the history of the philosophy of animal minds (see Sorabji, 1993; Wilson, 1995; DeGrazia, 1994).

4. References and Further Reading

a. References

  • Allen, C. & Bekoff, M. (1997). Species of Mind. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Armstrong, D. (1973). Belief, Truth and Knowledge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Armstrong. D. (1997). What Is Consciousness? In N. Block, O. Flanagan & G. Güzledere (Eds.) The Nature of Consciousness: Philosophical Debates. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
  • Beisecker, D. (2002). Some More Thoughts About Thought and Talk: Davidson and Fellows on Animal Belief. Philosophy 77: 115-124.
  • Bekoff, M. & Jamieson, D. (1996). Readings in Animal Cognition. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
  • Bekoff, M., Allen, C. & Burghardt, G. (2002). The Cognitive Animal: Empirical and Theoretical Perspectives on Animal Cognition. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
  • Bennett, J. (1964/1989). Rationality: An Essay Towards and Analysis. Indianapolis: Hackett.
  • Bennett, J. (1966). Kant’s Analytic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Bennett, J. (1976). Linguistic Behaviour. Indianapolis: Hackett.
  • Bennett, J. (1988). Thoughtful Brutes. Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association 62: 197-210.
  • Bermúdez, J. L. (2003a). Thinking Without Words. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Bermúdez, J. L. (2003b). Ascribing Thoughts to Non-linguistic Creatures. Facta Philosophica 5: 313-334.
  • Boden, M. A. (1984). Animal Perception from an Artificial Intelligence Viewpoint. In C. Hookway (Ed.) Minds, Machines and Evolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Braddon-Mitchell, D. & Jackson, F. (2007). Philosophy of Mind and Cognition: An Introduction (2nd edition). Oxford: Blackwell Publishing.
  • Camp, E. (2009). Putting Thoughts to Work: Concepts, Stimulus Independence, and the Generality Constraint. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 78 (2): 275-311.
  • Carruthers, P. (1992). The Animal Issue: Moral Theory in Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Carruthers, P. (1996). Language, Thought and Consciousness. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Carruthers, P. (2000) Phenomenal Consciousness: A naturalistic Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Carruthers, P. (2004). On Being Simple Minded. American Philosophical Quarterly 41: 205-220.
  • Carruthers, P. (2005). Why the Question of Animal Consciousness Might Not Matter Very Much. Philosophical Psychology 17: 83-102.
  • Carruthers, P. (2006). The Architecture of the Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Carruthers, P. (2008). Meta-Cognition in Animals: A Skeptical Look. Mind and Language 23: 58-89.
  • Carruthers, P. (2009). Invertebrate concepts confront the Generality Constraint (and win). In R. Lurz (Ed.) Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University press.
  • Cottingham, J. (1978). A Brute to the Brutes?: Descartes Treatment of Animals. Philosophy 53: 551-561.
  • Clayton, N., Bussey, N. & Dickinson, A. (2003). Can Animals Recall the Past and Plan for the Future?Nature Reviews of Neuroscience 4: 685-691.
  • Clayton, N., Emery, N. & Dickinson, A. (2006). The Rationality of Animal Memory: Complex Caching Strategies of Western Scrub Jays. In S. Hurley and M. Nudds (Eds.) Rational Animals? Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Daston, L. & Mitman, G. (2005). Thinking With Animals: New Perspectives on Anthropomorphism. New York: Columbia University Press.
  • Davidson, D. (1984). Thought and Talk. In Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation (pp. 155-179). Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Davidson, D. (1985). Rational Animals. In E. Lepore & B. McLaughlin (Eds.) Actions and Events: Perspectives on the Philosophy of Donald Davidson. New York: Basil Blackwell.
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  • Fellows, R. (2000). Animal Belief. Philosophy 75: 587-598.
  • Fitzpatrick, S. (2007). Doing Away with Morgan’s Canon. Mind and Language.
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  • Fodor, J. (1987). Psychosemantics: The Problem of Meaning in Philosophy of Mind. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
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  • Fodor, J. & Lepore, E. (1992). Holism: A Shopper’s Guide. Oxford: Blackwell.
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  • Gennaro, R. (2004). Higher-order thoughts, animal consciousness, and misrepresentation: A reply to Carruthers and Levine. In R. Gennaro (Ed.) Higher-Order Theories of Consciousness. Amsterdam & Philadelphia: John Benjamins.
  • Gennaro, R. (2009). Animals, Consciousness, and I-thoughts. In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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  • Griffin, D. (1976). The Question of Animal Awareness. New York: Rockefeller University Press.
  • Griffin, D. (1984). Animal Thinking. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Griffin, D. (2001). Animal Minds: Beyond Cognition to Consciousness. Chicago: Chicago University Press.
  • Griffin, D. & Speck, G. (2007). New Evidence of Animal Consciousness. Animal Cognition 7:5-18.
  • Griffiths, P. (1997). What Emotions Really Are: The Problem of Psychological Categories.Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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  • Hare, B. Call, J. & Tomasello, M. (2001). Do Chimpanzees Know What Conspecifics Do and Do Not See? Animal Behavior 59:771-785.
  • Hauser, M. (2000). Wild Minds. New York: Henry Holt and Co.
  • Hauser, M., Chomsky, N. & Fitch, W. T. (2002). The Faculty of Language: What Is It, Who Has It, and How Did It Evolve? Science 298: 1569-1579.
  • Hampton, R., Zivin, A., & Murray, E. (2004). Rhesus Monkeys (Macaca mulatta) Discriminate Between Knowing and not Knowing and Collect Information as Needed Before Acting. Animal Cognition, 7, 239-246.
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  • Hume, D. (1739/1978). A Treatise of Human Nature. Edited by P. H. Nidditch, 2nd Ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Humphrey, N. (1976). The Social Function of Intellect. In P. P. G. Bateson & R. A. Hinde (Eds.)Growing Points in Ethology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Hurley, S. & Nudds, M. (2006). Rational Animals? Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Kennedy, J. (1992). The New Anthropomorphism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Köhler, W. (1925). The Mentality of Apes. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
  • Kornblith, H. (2002). Knowledge and its Place in Nature. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Lurz, R. (1998). Animal Minds: The Possibility of Second-Order Beliefs in Non- Linguistic Animals. (Doctoral dissertation Temple University, 1998). Dissertation Abstracts International,59, no. 03A.
  • Lurz, R. (1999). Animal Consciousness. Journal of Philosophical Research 24: 149-168.
  • Lurz, R. (2002a). Reducing Consciousness by Making it HOT: A Commentary on Carruthers’Phenomenal ConsciousnessPsyche 8.
  • Lurz, R. (2002b). Neither HOT nor COLD: An Alternative Account of Consciousness. Psyche 9.
  • Lurz, R. (2003). Advancing the Debate Between HOT and FO Theories of Consciousness. Journal of Philosophical Research 28: 23-44.
  • Lurz, R. (2004). Either FOR or HOR: A False Dichotomy, in R. Gennaro (Ed.) Higher- Order Theories of Consciousness, John Benjamins, Amsterdam, 2004, pp. 226- 54.
  • Lurz, R. (2007). In Defense of Wordless Thoughts about Thoughts. Mind and Language 22 : 270-296.
  • Lurz. R. (2006). Conscious Beliefs and Desires: A Same-Order Approach, in U. Kriegel and K. Williford (Eds.) Self-Representational Approaches to Consciousness, MIT Press.
  • Lurz, R. (2009). Philosophy of Animal Minds : New Essays on Animal Thought and Consciousness. Cambridge : Cambridge University Press.
  • Lurz, R. (2011). Mindreading Animals: The Debate over What Animals Know about Other Minds. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Lycan, W. (1996). Consciousness and Experience. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
  • Malcolm, N. (1977). Thoughtless Brutes. In Thought and Knowledge. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
  • Marcel , A. (1983). Conscious and unconscious perception. Cognitive Psychology, 15: 197-237
  • Menzel, E. (1974). A Group of Chimpanzees in a 1-Acre Field: Leadership and Communication. In A. M. Shrier & F. Stollnitz (Eds.) Behaviour of Nonhuman Primates. New York: Academic Press.
  • McGinn, C. (1982). The Character of Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Mitchell, R., Thompson, N. & Miles, H. (1997). Anthropomorphism, Anecdotes, and Animals. New York: SUNY Press.
  • Moser, P. (1983). Rationality without Surprise: Davidson on Rational Belief. Dialectica 37: 221-226.
  • Nussbaum, M. (2001). Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Panksepp, J. & Burgdorf, J. (2003). “Laughing Rats and the Evolutionary Antecedents of Human Joy?Physiology and Behavior 79:533-547.
  • Parker, S. T., Mitchell, R. & Boccia, M. (1994). Self-Awareness in Animals and Humans: Developmental Perspectives. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Penn, D. & Povinelli, D. (2007). On the Lack of Evidence that Non-Human Animals Possess Anything Remotely Resembling a “Theory of Mind.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B362: 731-744.
  • Pepperberg, E. (1999). The Alex Studies: Cognitive and Communicative Abilities of Grey Parrots.Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Povinelli, D & Vonk, J. (2004). We don’t need a microscope to explore the chimpanzee’s mind.Mind and language 19: 1-28. Reprinted in Hurley and Nudds (Eds.) Rational Animals? 2006. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Premack, D. & Woodruff, G. (1978). Does the Chimpanzee have a Theory of Mind? Behaviorial and Brain Sciences 1: 515-526.
  • Proust, J. (2009). Metacognitive states in non-human animals: a defense. In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Quine, W. V. O. (1995). From Stimulus to Science. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
  • Radner, D. and Radner, M. (1989). Animal Consciousness. Buffalo, NY: Prometheus Books.
  • Rey, G. & Tetzlaff, M. (forthcoming). Systematicity in Honeybee Navigation. In Lurz Ed.) Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Roberts, R. (1996). Propositions and Animal Emotion. Philosophy 71:147-156.
  • Roberts, R. (2009). The Sophistication of Non-Human Emotion. In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Rosenthal, D. (1986). Two Concepts of Consciousness. Philosophical Studies 49: 329-359.
  • Santos, L., Nissen, A., & Ferrugia, J. (2006). Rhesus Monkeys, Macca mulatta, Know What Others Can and Cannot Hear. Animal Behavior 71:1175-1181.
  • Savage-Rumbaugh, S., Shanker, S. and Taylor, T. (1998). Apes, Language, and the Human Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Seager, W. (2004). A Cold Look at HOT Theory. In R. Gennaro (Ed.) Higher-Order Theories of Consciousness. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.
  • Searle, J. (1983). Intentionality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Searle, J. (1992). The Rediscovery of Mind. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
  • Searle, J. (1994). Animal Minds. Midwest Studies in Philosophy 19: 206-219.
  • Searle. J. (2001). Rationality in Action. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Shoemaker, S. (1996). Self-Knowledge and “Inner Sense.” Lecture I: The Object Perception Model. In The First-Person Perspective and Other Essays. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Stich, S. (1978). Belief and Subdoxastic States. Philosophy of Science 45: 499-518.
  • Stich, S. (1979). Do Animals Have Beliefs? Australasian Journal of Philosophy 57: 15- 28.
  • Stalnaker, R. (1999). Mental Content and Linguistic Form. In Context and Content. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Smith, J., Shields, W., & Washburn, D. (2003). The Comparative Psychology of Uncertainty Monitoring and Meta-Cognition. Behavioral and Brain Sciences 26, 317-373.
  • Sober, E. (1998). Morgan’s Canon. In C. Allen and D. Cummins (Eds.) The Evolution of Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Sober, E. (2001a). Simplicity. In W.H. Newton-Smith (Ed.), Companion to the Philosophy of Science. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing.
  • Sober, E. (2001b). The Principle of Conservatism in Cognitive Ethology. In D. Walsh (Ed.)Naturalism, Evolution, and Mind. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Sober, E. (2005). Comparative Psychology Meets Evolutionary Biology: Morgan’s Canon and Cladistic Parsimony. In L. Daston & G. Mitman (Eds.) Thinking With Animals: New Perspectives on Anthropomorphism. New York. Columbia University Press.
  • Sorabji, R. (1993). Animal Minds and Human Morals: The Origins of the Western Debate. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
  • Tetzlaff, M. & Rey, G. (2009). Systematicity in Honeybee Navigation. In R. Lurz (Ed.) Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Tschudin , A.J-P.C. (2001). “Mindreading” mammals? Attribution of belief tasks with dolphins . Animal Welfare , 10 , 119-127 .
  • Tye, M. (1995). Ten Problems of Consciousness. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
  • Tye, M. (1997). The Problem of Simple Minds: Is There Anything it is Like to be a Honey Bee?Philosophical Studies 88: 289-317.
  • Wilson, M. D. (1995). Animal Ideas. Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association 69:7-25.

b. Suggested Further Readings

Recent Volumes of New Essays in the Philosophy of Animal Mind

  • Lurz, R. (2009). The Philosophy of Animal Minds: New Essays on Animal Thought and Consciousness. Cambridge : Cambridge University Press.
  • Hurley, S. & Nudds, M. (2006). Rational Animals? Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Articles and Books on Contemporary Issues in Philosophy of Mind

  • Akins, K. A. (1993) A Bat Without Qualities. In M. Davies and G. Humphreys (Eds.) Consciousness. Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Allen, C. and Hauser, M. (1991). Concept Attribution in Non-Human Animals:Theoretical and Methodological Problems of Ascribing Complex Mental Processes. Philosophy of Science 58: 221-240.
  • Allen, C. (1995) Intentionality: Natural and Artificial. In H. Roitblat and J.-A.Meyer (Eds.)Comparative Approaches to Cognitive Science. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Allen, C. (1999). Animal Concepts Revisted: The Use of Self-Monitoring as An Empirical Approach. Erkenntnis 51: 33-40.
  • Allen, C. (2004). Animal Pain. Noûs 38: 617-643.
  • Allen, C. (2004). Animal Consciousness. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
  • Bennett, J. (1990). How to Read Minds in Behaviour: A Suggestion from a Philosopher. In A. Whiten’s (Ed.) The Emergence of Mindreading. Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Bennett, J. (1996). How is Cognitive Ethology Possible? In C. Ristau (Ed.) Cognitive Ethology: The Minds of Other Animals. New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.
  • Bermúdez, J. (2009). Mindreading in the Animal Kingdom? In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Bishop, J. (1980). More Thought on Thought and Talk. Mind 89:1-16. Browne, D. (2004) “Do Dolphins Know Their Own Minds?” Biology & Philosophy 19: 633-653.
  • Carruthers, P. (1989). Brute Experience. The Journal of Philosophy 86: 258-269.
  • Carruthers, P. (1998). Animal Subjectivity. Psyche 4, .
  • Cherniak, C. (1986). Minimal Rationality. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Dennett, D. (1983). Intentional Systems in Cognitive Ethology: The “Panglossian Paradigm” Defended.Behavioral and Brain Sciences 6:343-390.
  • Dennett, D. (1995). Animal Consciousness: What Matters and Why. Social Research 62: 691-711.
  • DeGrazia, D. (2009). Self-Awareness in Animals. In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Dixon, B. (2001). Animal Emotions. Ethics and the Environment 6.2: 22-30.
  • Dreckmann, F. (1999). Animal Beliefs and Their Contents. Erkenntnis 51:93-111.
  • Dretske, F. (1999). Machines, Plants and Animals: The Origins of Agency. Erkenntnis 51: 19-31.
  • Dummett, M. (1993). Language and Communication. In The Seas of Language. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Dummett, M. (1993). The Origins of Analytic Philosophy. London: Duckworth.
  • Fodor, J. (1986). Why Paramecia Don’t Have Mental Representations. Midwest Studies in Philosophy 10: 3-23.
  • Graham, G. (1993). Belief in Animals. In Philosophy of Mind: An Introduction. Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Griffiths, P. E. (2003). Basic Emotions, Complex Emotions, Machiavellian Emotions. In Philosophy and the Emotions A. Hatzimoysis (Ed.), Cambridge, CUP: 39-67.
  • Griffiths, P and Scarantino, A. (in press). Emotions in the Wild: The situated perspective on emotion. in P. Robbins and M. Aydede (eds.) Cambridge Handbook of Situated Cognition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Heil, J. (1982). Speechless Brutes. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 42: 400-406.
  • Heil, J. (1992). Talk and Thought. In The Nature of True Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Jamieson, D. and Bekoff, M. (1992) Carruthers on Nonconscious Experience. Analysis 52: 23-28.
  • Jamieson, D. (1998). Science, Knowledge, and Animals Minds. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 98: 79-102.
  • Jamieson, D. (2009). What Do Animals Think? In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Kornblith, H. (1999). Knowledge in Humans and Other Animals. Philosophical Perspectives 13: 327-346.
  • Marcus, R. B. (1995). The Anti-Naturalism of Some Language Centered Accounts of Belief.Dialectica 49: 113-129.
  • McAninch, A., Goodrich, G. & Allen, C. (2009). Animal Communication and Neo- Expressivism. In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • McGinn, C. (1995). Animal Minds, Animal Morality. Journal of Social Research 62: 731-747.
  • Millikan, R. G. (1997). Varieties of Purposive Behavior. In R. Mitchell, N. Thompson, and H. L. Miles (Eds.) Anthropomorphism, Anecdotes, and Animals. New York: State University of New York Press.
  • Nagel, T. (1974). What is it Like to be a Bat? Philosophical Review 83: 435-450.
  • Papineau, D. (2001). The Evolution of Means-End Reasoning. Philosophy 49: 145-178.
  • Proust, J. (1999). Mind, Space and Objectivity in Non-Human Animals. Erkenntnis 51: 41-58.
  • Proust, J. (2000). L’animal intentionnel. Terrain 34:23-36.
  • Proust, J. (2000). Can Non-Human Primates Read Minds? Philosophical Topics 27:203-232.
  • Putnam, H. (1992). Intentionality and Lower Animals. In Renewing Philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
  • Radner, D. (1993) Direct Action and Animal Communication. Ratio 6: 135-154.
  • Radner, D. (1994) Heterophenomenology: Learning About the Birds and the Bees. Journal of Phiosophy 91: 389-403.
  • Radner, D. (1999). Mind and function in animal communication. Erkenntnis 51: 129-144.
  • Rescorla, M. (2009). Chrysippus’s Dog as a Case Study in Non-Linguistic Cognition. In R. Lurz (Ed.)The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Ridge, M. (2001). Taking Solipsism Seriously: Nonhuman Animals and Meta-Cognitive Theories of Consciousness. Philosophical Studies 103: 315-340.
  • Rollin, B. E. (1989) The Unheeded Cry: Animal Consciousness, Animal Pain and Science. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
  • Rowlands, M. (2002). Do Animals Have Minds? In Animals Like Us. New York: Verso.
  • Routley, R. (1981). Alleged Problems in Attributing Beliefs and Intentionality to Animals. Inquiry, 24, 385-417.
  • Saidel, E. (2002). Animal Minds, Human Minds. In M. Bekoff, C. Allen, and G. M. Burghardt The Cognitive Animal. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Saidel, E. (2009). Attributing Mental Representations to Animals. In R. Lurz (Ed.) The Philosophy of Animal Minds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Smith, P. (1982). On Animal Beliefs. Southern Journal of Philosophy 20, 503-512.
  • Sober, E. (2001). The Principle of Conservatism in Cognitive Ethology. In Denis M. Walsh (ed.)Naturalism, Evolution, and Mind. Cambridge University Press.
  • Sober, E. (2001). Comparative Psychology Meets Evolutionary Biology: Morgan’s Canon and Cladistic Parsimony. In L. Daston and G. Mitman (Eds.) Thinking With Animals: New Perspective on Anthropomorphism. Columbia University Press.
  • Stephan, A. (1999). Are Animals Capable of Concepts? Erkenntnis 51:79-92.
  • Sterelny, K. (1995). Basic Minds. Philosophical Perspectives 9: 251-270.
  • Sterelny, K. (2000). Primate Worlds. In C. Heyes and L. Huber (Eds.) Evolution and Cognition. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Stich, S. (1983). Animal Beliefs. In From Folk Psychology to Cognitive Science. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
  • Ward, A. (1988). Davidson on Attributions of Beliefs to Animals. Philosophia 18: 97-106.

Historical Works on Animal Minds

  • Arnold, D. G. (1995). Hume on the Moral Difference Between Humans and Other Animals. History of Philosophy Quarterly 12: 303-316.
  • Beauchamp, T. L. (1999). Hume on the Nonhuman Animal. Journal of Medicine and Philosophy 24:322-335.
  • Boyle, D. (2003). Hume on Animal Reason. Hume Studies 29: 3-28.
  • Churchill, J. (1989). If a Lion Could Talk. Philosophical Investigations 12: 308-324.
  • Fuller, B. A. G. (1949). The Messes Animals Make in Metaphysics. The Journal of Philosophy 46: 829—838.
  • Frongia, G. (1995). Wittgenstein and the Diversity of Animals. Monist 78: 534-552.
  • Glock, H. J. (2000). Animals, Thoughts and Concepts. Synthese 123:35-64.
  • Gordon, D. M. (1992). Wittgenstein and Ant-Watching. Biology and Philosophy 7: 13- 25.
  • Harrison, P. (1992). Descartes on Animals. Philosophical Quarterly 42: 219-227.
  • Seidler, M. J. (1977). Hume and the Animals. Southern Journal of Philosophy 15:361- 372.
  • Squadrito, K. (1980). Descartes, Locke and the Soul of Animals. Philosophy Research Archives 6.
  • Squadrito, K. (1991). Thoughtful Brutes: The Ascription of Mental Predicates to Animals in Locke’s EssayDialogos 91: 63-73.
  • Sorabji, R. (1992). Animal Minds. Southern Journal of Philosophy 31: 1-18.
  • Tranoy, K. (1959). Hume on Morals, Animals, and Men. Journal of Philosophy 56: 94- 192.

Author Information

Robert Lurz
Email: Rlurz@brooklyn.cuny.edu
Brooklyn College
U. S. A.

Buddha (c. 500s B.C.E.)

buddhaThe historical Buddha, also known as Gotama Buddha, Siddhārtha Gautama, and Buddha Śākyamuni, was born in Lumbini, in the Nepalese region of Terai, near the Indian border. He is one of the most important Asian thinkers and spiritual masters of all time, and he contributed to many areas of philosophy, including epistemology, metaphysics and ethics. The Buddha’s teaching formed the foundation for Buddhist philosophy, initially developed in South Asia, then later in the rest of Asia. Buddhism and Buddhist philosophy now have a global following.

In epistemology, the Buddha seeks a middle way between the extremes of dogmatism and skepticism, emphasizing personal experience, a pragmatic attitude, and the use of critical thinking toward all types of knowledge. In ethics, the Buddha proposes a threefold understanding of action: mental, verbal, and bodily. In metaphysics, the Buddha argues that there are no self-caused entities, and that everything dependently arises from or upon something else. This allows the Buddha to provide a criticism of souls and personal identity; that criticism forms the foundation for his views about the reality of rebirth and an ultimate liberated state called “Nirvana.” Nirvana is not primarily an absolute reality beyond or behind the universe but rather a special state of mind in which all the causes and conditions responsible for rebirth and suffering have been eliminated. In philosophical anthropology, the Buddha explains human identity without a permanent and substantial self. The doctrine of non-self, however, does not imply the absolute inexistence of any type of self whatsoever, but is compatible with a conventional self composed of five psycho-physical aggregates, although all of them are unsubstantial and impermanent. Selves are thus conceived as evolving processes causally constrained by their past.

Table of Contents

  1. Interpreting the Historical Buddha
    1. Dates
    2. Sources
    3. Life
    4. Significance
  2. The Buddha’s Epistemology
    1. The Extremes of Dogmatism and Skepticism
    2. The Role of Personal Experience and the Buddha’s Wager
    3. Interpretations of the Buddha’s Advice to the Kālāma People
    4. Higher Knowledge and the Question of Empiricism
  3. The Buddha’s Cosmology and Metaphysics
    1. The Universe and the Role of Gods
    2. The Four Noble Truths or Realities
    3. Ontology of Suffering: the Five Aggregates
    4. Arguments for the Doctrine of Non-self
    5. Human Identity and the Meaning of Non-self
    6. Causality and the Principle of Dependent Arising
  4. Nirvana and the Silence of the Buddha
    1. Two Kinds of Nirvana and the Undetermined Questions
    2. Eternalism, Nihilism, and the Middle Way
  5. Buddhist Ethics
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Primary Sources
    2. Secondary Sources

1. Interpreting the Historical Buddha

a. Dates

There is no complete agreement among scholars and Buddhist traditions regarding the dates of the historical Buddha. The most common dates among Buddhists are those of the Theravāda school, 623-543 B.C.E. From the middle of the 19th century until the late 20th century, Western scholars had believed the dates of the Buddha to be ca. 560-480 B.C.E. However, after the publication in 1991-2 of the proceedings of the international symposium on the date of the historical Buddha held in Göttingen in 1988, the original consensus on these dates no longer exists.

Although there is no conclusive evidence for any specific date, most current scholars locate the Buddha’s life one hundred years earlier, around the fifth century B.C.E. Some of the new dates for the Buddha’s “death” or more accurately, for his parinirvāṇa are: ca. 404 B.C.E. (R. Gombrich), between 410-390 B.C.E. (K.R. Norman), ca. 400 B.C.E. (R. Hikata), ca. 397 B.C.E. (K.T.S. Sarao), between ca.400-350 B.C.E. (H. Bechert), 383 B.C.E. (H. Nakamura), 368 B.C.E. (A. Hirakawa), between 420-380 B.C.E. (A. Bareau).

b. Sources

The historical Buddha did not write down any of his teachings, they were passed down orally from generation to generation for at least three centuries. Some scholars have attempted to distinguish the Buddha’s original teachings from those developed by his early disciples. Unfortunately, the contradictory conclusions have led most scholars to be skeptical about the possibility of knowing what the Buddha really taught. This however, does not mean that all Buddhist texts that attribute teachings to the Buddha are equally valuable to reconstruct his thought. The early sūtras in Pāli and other Middle Indo-Aryan languages are historically and linguistically closer to the cultural context of the Buddha than Mahāyāna sūtras in Sanskrit, Tibetan, and Chinese. This does not imply that later translations of the early sūtras in Chinese (there are no Tibetan translations of the early sūtras) are less authentic or useless in reconstructing the philosophy of the Buddha. On the contrary, the comparative study of Pāli and Chinese versions of the early sūtras can help to infer what might have been the Buddha’s position on a number of issues.

Following what seems to be a growing scholarly tendency, I will reconstruct the philosophy of the historical Buddha by drawing on the Sutta Piṭaka of the Pāli canon. More specifically, our main sources are the first four Pāli Nikāyas (Dīgha, Majjhima, Saṃyutta, Aṅguttara) and some texts of the fifth Pāli Nikāya (Dhammapada, Udāna, Itivuttaka, and Sutta Nipāta). I do not identify these sources with the Buddha’s “ipsissima verba,” that is, with “the very words” of the Buddha, even less with his “actual” thought. Whether these sources are faithful to the actual thought and teachings of the historical Buddha is an unanswerable question; I can only say that to my knowledge there are not better sources to reconstruct the philosophy of the Buddha.

According to the traditional Buddhist account, shortly after the Buddha’s death five hundred disciples gathered to compile his teachings. The Buddha’s personal assistant, Ānanda, recited the first part of the Buddhist canon, the Sūtra Piṭaka, which contains discourses in dialogue form between the Buddha, his disciples, and his contemporaries on a variety of doctrinal and spiritual questions. Ānanda is reported to have recited the sutras just as he had heard them from the Buddha; that is why Buddhist sutras begin with the words “Thus have I heard.” Another disciple, Upāli, recited the second part of the Buddhist canon, the Vinaya Piṭaka, which also contains sutras, but primarily addresses the rules that govern a monastic community. After the recitation of Ānanda and Upāli, the other disciples approved what they had heard and communally recited the teachings as a sign of agreement. The third part of the Buddhist canon or Abhidharma Piṭaka, was not recited at that moment. The Theravāda tradition claims that the Buddha taught the Abhidharma while visiting the heaven where his mother was residing.

From a scholarly perspective, the former account is questionable. It might be the case that a large collection of Buddhist texts was written down for the first time in Sri Lanka during the first century B.C.E. However, the extant Pāli canon shows clear signs of historical development in terms of both content and language. The three parts of the Pāli canon are not as contemporary as the traditional Buddhist account seems to suggest: the Sūtra Piṭaka is older than the Vinaya Piṭaka, and the Abhidharma Piṭaka represents scholastic developments originated at least two centuries after the other two parts of the canon. The Vinaya Piṭaka appears to have grown gradually as a commentary and justification of the monastic code (Prātimokṣa), which presupposes a transition from a community of wandering mendicants (the Sūtra Piṭaka period ) to a more sedentary monastic community (the Vinaya Piṭaka period). Even within the Sūtra Piṭaka it is possible to detect older and later texts.

Neither the Sūtra Piṭaka nor the Vinaya Piṭaka of the Pāli canon could have been recited at once by one person and repeated by the entire Buddhist community. Nevertheless, the Sūtra Piṭaka of the Pāli canon is of particular importance in reconstructing the philosophy of Buddha for four main reasons. First, it contains the oldest texts of the only complete canon of early Indian Buddhism, which belong to the only surviving school of that period, namely, the Theravāda school, prevalent in Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia. Second, it has been preserved in a Middle Indo-Aryan language closely related to various Prakrit dialects spoken in North of India during the third century B.C.E., including the area where the Buddha spent most of his teaching years (Magadha). Third, it expresses a fairly consistent set of doctrines and practices. Fourth, it is strikingly similar to another version of the early Sūtra Piṭaka extant in Chinese (Āgamas). This similarity seems to indicate that a great part of the Sūtra Piṭaka in Pāli does not contain exclusively Theravāda texts, and belongs to a common textual tradition probably prior to the existence of Buddhist schools.

c. Life

Since the Pāli Nikāyas contain much more information about the teachings of the Buddha than about his life, it seems safe to postulate that the early disciples of the Buddha were more interested in preserving his teachings than in transmitting all the details of his life. The first complete biographies of the Buddha as well as the Jātaka stories about his former lives appeared centuries later, even after, and arguably as a reaction against, the dry lists and categorizations of early Abhidharma literature. The first complete biography of the Buddha in Pāli is the Nidānakathā, which serves as an introduction to the Jātaka verses found in the fifth Pāli Nikāya. In Sanskrit, the most popular biographies of the Buddha are the Buddhacarita attributed to the Indian poet Aśvaghoṣa (second century C.E), the Mahāvastu, and the Lalitavistara, both composed in the first century C.E.

The first four Pāli Nikāyas contain only fragmented information about the Buddha’s life. Especially important are the Mahāpadāna-suttanta, the Ariyapariyesanā-suttanta, the Mahāsaccaka-suttanta, and the Mahāparinibbāna-suttanta. According to the Mahāpadāna-suttanta, the lives of all Buddhas or perfectly enlightened beings follow a similar pattern. Like all Buddhas of the past, the Buddha of this cosmic era, also known as Gautama (Gotama in Pāli), was born into a noble family. The Buddha’s parents were King Śuddhodana and Queen Māyā. He was a member of the Śakya clan and his name was Siddhartha Gautama. Even though he was born in Lumbinī while his mother was traveling to her parents’ home, he spent the first twenty-nine years of his life in the royal capital, Kapilavastu, in the Nepalese region of Terai, close to the Indian border.

Like all past Buddhas, the conception and birth of Gautama Buddha are considered miraculous events. For instance, when all Buddhas descend into their mothers’ wombs from a heaven named Tuṣita, a splendid light shines forth and the entire universe quakes; their mothers are immaculate, healthy, and without pain of any sort during their ten months of pregnancy, but they die a week after giving birth. Buddha babies are born clean, though they are ritually bathed with two streams of water that fall from the sky; they all take seven steps toward the north and solemnly announce that this is their last rebirth.

Like former Buddhas, prince Siddhartha enjoyed all types of luxuries and sensual pleasures during his youth. Unsatisfied with this type of life, he had a crisis when he realized that everything was ephemeral and that his existence was subject to old age, sickness, and death. After seeing the serene joy of a monk and out of compassion for all living beings, he renounced his promising future as prince in order to start a long quest for a higher purpose, nirvāṇa (Pali nibbāna), which entails the cessation of old age, sickness and death. Later traditions speak of the Buddha as abandoning his wife Yaśodharā immediately after she gave birth to Rāhula, the Buddha’s only son. The Pāli Nikāyas, however, do not mention this story, and refer to Rāhula only as a young monk.

According to the Ariyapariyesanā-suttanta and the Mahāsaccaka-suttanta, the Buddha tried different spiritual paths for six years. First, he practiced yogic meditation under the guidance of Ālāra Kālāma and Uddaka Rāmaputta. After experiencing the states of concentration called base of nothingness and base of neither-perception-nor-non-perception, he realized that these lofty states did not lead to nirvana. Then the Buddha began to practice breathing exercises and fasting. The deterioration of his health led the Buddha to conclude that extreme asceticism was equally ineffective in attaining nirvana. He thus resumed eating solid food; after recovering his health, he began to practice a more moderate spiritual path, the middle path, which avoids the extremes of sensual self-indulgence and self-mortification. Soon after, the Buddha experienced enlightenment, or awakening, under a bodhi-tree. First he was inclined to inaction rather than to teaching what he had discovered. However, he changed his mind after the god Brahmā Sahampati asked him to teach. Out of compassion for all living beings, he decided to start a successful teaching career that lasted forty-five years.

d. Significance

It would be simplistic to dismiss all supernatural aspects of the Buddha’s life as false and consider historically true only those elements that are consistent with our contemporary scientific worldview. However, this approach towards the Buddha’s life was prevalent in the nineteenth century and a great part of the twentieth century. Today it is seen as problematic because it imposes modern western ideals of rationality onto non-western texts. Here I set aside the question of historical truth and speak exclusively of significance. The significance of all the biographies of Buddha does not lie in their historical accuracy, but rather in their effectiveness to convey basic Buddhist ideas and values throughout history. Even today, narratives about the many deeds of Buddha are successfully used to introduce Buddhists of all latitudes into the main values and teachings of Buddhism.

The supernatural elements of the Buddha’s life are as historically significant as the natural ones because they help to understand the way Buddhists conceived – and in many places continue to conceive – the Buddha. Like followers of other religious leaders, Buddhist scribes tended to glorify the sanctity of their foundational figure with extraordinary events and spectacular accomplishments. In this sense, the narratives of the Buddha are perhaps better understood as hagiographies rather than as biographies. The historical truth behind hagiographies is impossible to determine: how can we tell whether or not the Buddha was conceived without sexual intercourse; whether or not he was able to talk and walk right after his birth; whether or not he could walk over water, levitate, fly, and ascend into heaven at will? How do we know whether the Buddha was really tempted by Māra the evil one; whether there was an earthquake at the moment of his birth and death? The answers to these questions are a matter of faith. If the interpreter does not believe in the supernatural, then many narratives will be dismissed as historically false. However, for some Buddhists the supernatural events that appear in the life of Buddha did take place and are historically true.

The significance of the hagiographies of the Buddha is primarily ethical and spiritual. In fact, even if the life of Buddha did not take place as the hagiographies claim, the ethical values and the spiritual path they illustrate remain significant. Unlike other religions, the truth of Buddhism does not depend on the historicity of certain events in the life of the Buddha. Rather, the truth of Buddhism depends on the efficacy of the Buddhist path exemplified by the life of the Buddha and his disciples. In other words, if the different Buddhist paths inspired by the Buddha are useful to overcome existential dissatisfaction and suffering, then Buddhism is true regardless of the existence of the historical Buddha.

The fundamental ethical and spiritual point behind the Buddha’s life is that impermanent, conditioned, and contingent things such as wealth, social position, power, sensual pleasures, and even lofty meditative states, cannot generate a state of ultimate happiness. In order to overcome the profound existential dissatisfaction that all ephemeral and contingent things eventually generate, one needs to follow a comprehensive path of ethical and mental training conducive to the state of ultimate happiness called nirvana.

2. The Buddha’s Epistemology

a. The Extremes of Dogmatism and Skepticism

While the Buddha’s view of the spiritual path is traditionally described as a middle way between the extremes of self-indulgence and self-mortification, the Buddha’s epistemology can be interpreted as a middle way between the extremes of dogmatism and skepticism.

The extreme of dogmatism is primarily represented in the Pāli Nikāyas by Brahmanism. Brahmanism was a ritualistic religion that believed in the divine revelation of the Vedas, thought that belonging to a caste was determined by birth, and focused on the performance of sacrifice. Sacrifices involved the recitation of hymns taken from the Vedas and in many cases the ritual killing of animals.

Ritual sacrifices were offered to the Gods (gods for Buddhism) in exchange for prosperity, health, protection, sons, long life, and immortality. Only the male members of the highest caste, the priestly caste of Brahmins, could afford the professional space to seriously study the three Vedas (the Atharva Veda did not exist, or if it existed, it was not part yet of the Brahmanic tradition). Since only Brahmins knew the three Vedas, only they could recite the hymns necessary to properly perform the ritual sacrifice. Both ritual sacrifice and the social ethics of the caste system were seen as an expression of the cosmic order (Dharma) and as necessary to preserve that order.

Epistemologically speaking, Brahmanism emphasized the triple knowledge of the Vedas, and dogmatic faith in their content: “in regard to the ancient Brahmanic hymns that have come down through oral transmission and in the scriptural collections, the Brahmins come to the definite conclusion: ‘Only this is true, anything else is wrong’ ” (M.II.169).

The extreme of skepticism is represented in the Pāli Nikāyas by some members of the Śramanic movement, which consisted of numerous groups of spiritual seekers and wandering philosophers. The Sanskrit word “śramana” means “those who make an effort,” and probably refers to those who practice a spiritual discipline requiring individual effort, not just rituals performed by others. In order to become a śramana it was necessary to renounce one’s life as householder and enter into an itinerant life, which entailed the observance of celibacy and a simple life devoted to spiritual cultivation. Most śramanas lived in forests or in secluded places wandering from village to village where they preached and received alms in exchange.

The Śramanic movement was extremely diverse in terms of doctrines and practices. Most śramanas believed in free will as well as the efficacy of moral conduct and spiritual practices in order to attain liberation from the cycle of reincarnations. However, there was a minority of śramanas who denied the existence of the after life, free will, and the usefulness of ethical conduct and other spiritual practices. Probably as a reaction to these two opposite standpoints, some śramanas adopted a skeptic attitude denying the possibility of knowledge about such matters. Skeptics are described by the Buddha as replying questions by evasion (D.I.58-9), and as engaging in verbal wriggling, in eel-wriggling (amarāvikkhepa): “I don’t say it is like this. And I don’t say it is like that. And I don’t say it is otherwise. And I don’t say it is not so. And I don’t say it is not not so” (M.I. 521).

b. The Role of Personal Experience and the Buddha’s Wager

In contrast to Brahmanic dogmatism, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas did not claim to be omniscient (M.I.482); in fact, he proposed a critical attitude toward all sources of knowledge. In the Majjhima Nikāya (II.170-1), the Buddha challenges Brahmins who accept Vedic scriptures out of faith (saddhā) and oral tradition (anussava); he compares those who blindly follow scripture and tradition without having direct knowledge of what they believe with “a file of blind men each in touch with the next: the first one does not see, the middle one does not see, and the last one does not see.” The Buddha also warns Brahmins against knowledge based on likeability or emotional inclination (ruci), reflection on reasons (ākāraparivitakka), and consideration of theories (diṭṭhinijjhānakkhanti). These five sources of knowledge may be either true or false; that is, they do not provide conclusive grounds to claim dogmatically that “only this is true, anything else is wrong.”

Dogmatic claims of truth were not the monopoly of Brahmins. In the Majjhima Nikāya (I.178), the Buddha uses the simile of the elephant footprint to question dogmatic statements about him, his teachings, and his disciples: he invites his followers to critically investigate all the available evidence (different types of elephant footprints and marks) until they know and see for themselves (direct perception of the elephant in the open). The Pāli Nikāyas also refer to many śramanas who hold dogmatic views and as a consequence are involved in heated doctrinal disputes. The conflict of dogmatic views is often described as “a thicket of views, a wilderness of views, a contortion of views, a vacillation of views, a fetter of views. It is beset by suffering, by vexation, by despair, and by fever, and it does not lead to disenchantment, to dispassion, to cessation, to peace, to higher knowledge, to enlightentment, to Nibbāna” (M.I.485).

Public debates were common and probably a good way to gain prestige and converts. Any reputed Brahmin or śramana had to have not only the ability to speak persuasively but also the capacity to argue well. Rational argument played an important role in justifying doctrines and avoiding defeat in debate, which implied conversion to the other’s teaching. At the time of the Buddha many of these debates seem to have degenerated into dialectical battles that diverted from spiritual practice and led to disorientation, anger, and frustration. Although the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas utilizes reasoning to justify his positions in debates and conversations with others, he discourages dogmatic attachment to doctrines including his own (see the simile of the raft, M.I.135), and the use of his teachings for the sake of criticizing others and for winning debates (M.I.132).

Unlike the skepticism of some śramanas, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas takes clear stances on ethical and spiritual issues, and rejects neither the existence of right views (M.I.46-63) nor the possibility of knowing certain things as they are (yathābhūtaṃ). In order to counteract skepticism, the Buddha advises to the Kālāma people “not go by oral tradition, by succession of disciples, by hearsay, by the content of sacred scripture, by logical consistency, by inference, by reflection on reasons, by consideration of theories, by appearance, by respect to a teacher.” Instead, the Buddha recommends knowing things for oneself as the ultimate criterion to adjudicate between conflicting claims of truth (A.I.189).

When personal experience is not available to someone, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas proposes taking into account what is praised or censored by the wise, as well as a method to calculate the benefits of following certain opinions called the incontrovertible teaching (apaṇṇakadhamma), which, in some ways, resembles Pascal’s wager. According to the incontrovertible teaching, it would be better to believe in certain doctrines because they produce more benefits than others. For instance, even if there is no life after death and if good actions do not produce good consequences, still a moral person is praised in this life by the wise, whereas the immoral person is censured by society. However, if there is life after death and good action produce happy consequences, a moral person is praised in this life, and after death he or she goes to heaven. On the contrary, the immoral person is censured in this life, and after death he or she goes to hell (M.I.403). Therefore, it is better to believe that moral actions produce good consequences even if we do not have personal experience of karma and rebirth.

c. Interpretations of the Buddha’s Advice to the Kālāma People

Some have interpreted the Buddha’s advice to the Kālāma people as an iconoclast rejection of tradition and faith. This, however, does little justice to the Pāli Nikāyas, where the Buddha is said to be part of a long and respectable tradition of past Buddhas, and where the first Brahmins are sometimes commended by their holiness. The Buddha shows respect for many traditional beliefs and practices of his time, and rejects only those that are unjustified, useless, or conducive to suffering for oneself and others.

Faith in the Buddha, his teachings, and his disciples, is highly regarded in the Pāli Nikāyas: it is the first of the five factors of striving (M.II.95-6), and a necessary condition to practice the spiritual path (M.III.33). Buddhist faith, however, is not unconditional or an end in and of itself but rather a means towards direct knowledge that must be based on critical examination, supported by reasons, and eventually verified or rooted in vision (dassanamūlikā) (M.I.320).

Another common interpretation of the advice to the Kālāmas is that for the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas only personal experience provides reliable knowledge. However, this is misleading because analogical and inferential reasoning are widely used by the Buddha and his disciples to teach others as well as in debates with non-Buddhists. Similarly, analytical or philosophical meditation is a common practice for the attainment of liberation through wisdom. Personal experience, like any other means of knowledge is to be critically examined. Except in the case of Buddhas and liberated beings, personal experience is always tainted by affective and cognitive prejudices.

The Pāli Nikāyas might give the first impression of endorsing a form of naïve or direct realism: that is, the Buddha and his disciples seem to think that the world is exactly as we perceive it to be. While it is true that the Pāli Nikāyas do not question the common sense connection between objects of knowledge and the external world, there are some texts that might support a phenomenalist reading. For instance, the Buddha defines the world as the six senses (five ordinary senses plus the mind) and their respective objects (S.IV.95), or as the six senses, the six objects, and the six types of consciousness that arise in dependence on them (S.IV.39-40).

Here, the epistemology of the Buddha is a special form of realism that allows both for the direct perception of reality and the constructions of those less realized. Only Buddhas and liberated beings perceive the world directly; that is, they see the Dharma, whose regularity and stability remains independent of the existence of Buddhas (S.II.25). Unenlightened beings, on the other hand, see the world indirectly through a veil of negative emotions and erroneous views. Some texts go so far as to suggest that the world is not simply seen indirectly, but rather that it is literally constructed by our emotional dispositions. For instance, in the Majjhima Nikāya (I.111), the Buddha explicitly states that “what one feels, one perceives” (Yaṃ vedeti, taṃ sañjānāti). That is, our knowledge is formed by our feelings. The influence of feelings in our ways of knowing can also be inferred from the twelve-link chain of dependent arising, which explains the arising and cessation of suffering. The second link, saṅkhāra, or formations, conditions the arising of the third link, consciousness. The term saṅkhāra literally means “put together,” connoting the constructive role of the mental factors that fall into this category, many of them affective in nature.

Similarly, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas says that “with what one has mentally constructed as the root cause (Yaṃ papañceti tato nidānaṃ), perceptions, concepts, and [further] mental constructions (papañcasaññāsaṅkhā) beset a man with respect to past, future, and present forms…sounds…odours…flavors…tangibles…mind-objects cognizable by the eye…ear… nose…tongue…body…mind” (M.I.111-112). That is, the knowledge of unenlightened beings has papañca, or mental constructions, as its root cause. The word papañca is a technical term that literally means diversification or proliferation; it refers to the tendency of unenlightened minds to construct or fabricate concepts conducive to suffering, especially essentialist and ego-related concepts such as “I” and “mine,” concepts which lead to a variety of negative mental states such as craving, conceit, and dogmatic views about the self (Ñāṇananda 1971).

It is precisely because our experiences are affectively and cognitively conditioned that the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas advocates a critical approach toward all sources of knowledge, including personal experience. Even the lofty experiences derived from meditation are to be analyzed carefully because they might lead to false opinions about the nature of the self, the world, and the after life. The epistemological ideal is to know things directly beyond mental constructions (papañca), which presupposes the “tranquilization of all mental formations” (sabbasaṅkhārasamatha).

d. Higher Knowledge and the Question of Empiricism

Contemplative experiences are of two main types: meditative absorptions or abstractions (jhāna), and higher or direct knowledge (abhiññā). There are six classes of higher or direct knowledge: the first one refers to a variety of supernatural powers including levitation and walking on water; in this sense, it is better understood as a know-how type of knowledge. The second higher knowledge is literally called “divine ear element” or clairaudience. The third higher knowledge is usually translated as telepathy, though it means simply the ability to know the underlying mental state of others, not the reading of their minds and thoughts.

The next three types of higher knowledge are especially important because they were experienced by the Buddha the night of his enlightenment, and because they are the Buddhist counterparts to the triple knowledge of the Vedas. The fourth higher knowledge is retrocognition or knowledge of past lives, which entails a direct experience of the process of rebirth. The fifth is the divine eye or clairvoyance; that is, direct experience of the process of karma, or as the texts put it, the passing away and reappearing of beings in accordance with their past actions. The sixth is knowledge of the destruction of taints, which implies experiential knowledge of the four noble truths and the process of liberation.

Some scholars have interpreted the Buddha’s emphasis on direct experience and the verifiable nature of Buddhist faith as a form of radical empiricism (Kalupahana 1992), and logical empiricism (Jayatilleke 1963). According to the empiricist interpretation, Buddhist faith is always subsequent to critically verifying the available empirical evidence. All doctrines taught by the Buddha are empirically verifiable if one takes the time and effort to attain higher or direct knowledge, interpreted as extraordinary sense experience. For instance, the triple knowledge of enlightenment implies a direct experience of the processes of karma, rebirth, and the four noble truths. Critiques of the empiricist interpretation point out that, at least at the beginning of the path, Buddhist faith is not always based on empirical evidence, and that the purpose of extraordinary knowledge is not to verify the doctrines of karma, rebirth, and the four noble truths (Hoffman 1982, 1987).

Whether or not the Buddha’s epistemology can be considered empiricist depends on what we mean by empiricism and experience. The opposition between rationalism and empiricism and the sharp distinction between senses and reason is foreign to Buddhism. Nowhere in the Pāli Nikāyas does the Buddha say that all knowledge begins in or is acquired from sense experience. In this sense, the Buddha is not an empiricist.

3. The Buddha’s Cosmology and Metaphysics

a. The Universe and the Role of Gods

The Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas accepts the cosmology characteristic of his cultural context: a universe with several realms of existence, where people are reborn and die again and again (saṃsāra) depending on their past actions (karma) until they attain salvation (mokṣa). However, the Buddha substantially modifies the cosmology of his time. Against the Brahmanic tendency to understand karma as ritual action, and the Jain claim that all activities including involuntary actions constitute karma, the Buddha defines karma in terms of volition, or free will, which is expressed through thoughts, words, and behavior. That is, for the Buddha, only voluntary actions produce karma.

Another important modification is that for the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas, saṃsāra refers primarily to a psychophysical process that takes place within the physical universe. For instance, when the Buddha speaks about the end of the world, he says that it cannot be reached by traveling through the physical universe, but only by putting an end to suffering (saṃsāra), where “one is not born, does not age, does not die, does not pass away, and is not reborn” Accordingly, salvation is not understood in world-denying terms or as an escape from the physical universe, but rather as an inner transformation that takes place within one’s own psychophysical organism: “It is, friend, in just this fathom-high carcass endowed with perception and mind that I make known the world, the origin of the world, the cessation of the world, and the way leading to the cessation of the world.” (S.I.62; A.II.47-9).

There are five kinds of destinations within saṃsāra: hell, animal kingdom, realm of ghosts, humankind, and realm of devas or radiant beings, commonly translated as gods (M.I.73). There are many hells and heavens and life there is transitory, just as in other destinations. In some traditions there is another destination, the realm of asuras or demigods, who are jealous of the gods and who are always in conflict with them.

The Pāli Nikāyas further divide the universe of saṃsāra into three main planes of existence, each one subdivided into several realms. The three planes of existence are sensorial, fine-material, and immaterial (M.I.50). Most destinations belong to the sensorial realm. Only a minority of heavens belong to the fine-material and immaterial realms. Rebirth in a particular realm depends on past actions: good actions lead to good destinations and bad actions to bad rebirths. Rebirth as a human or in heaven is considered a good destination; rebirth in the realm of ghosts, hell, and the animal realm are bad. Human rebirth is extremely difficult to attain (S.V.455-6; M.III.169), and it is highly regarded because of its unique combination of pain and pleasure, as well as its unique conductivity for attaining enlightenment. In this last sense human rebirth is said to be even better than rebirth as a god.

Rebirth also depends on the prevalent mental states of a person during life, and especially at the moment of death. That is, there is a correlation between mental states and realms of rebirth, between cosmology and psychology. For instance, a mind where hatred and anger prevails is likely to be reborn in hell; deluded and uncultivated minds are headed toward the animal kingdom; someone obsessed with sex and food will probably become bound to earth as a ghost; loving and caring persons will be reborn in heaven; someone who frequently dwells in meditative absorptions will be reborn in the fine-material and immaterial realms. Human rebirth might be the consequence of any of the aforementioned mental states.

Perhaps the most important modification the Buddha introduces into the traditional cosmology of his time was a new view of Gods (gods within Buddhism). In the Pāli Nikāyas, gods do not play any significant cosmological role. For the Buddha, the universe has not been created by an all-knowing, all-powerful god that is the lord of the universe and father of all beings (M.I.326-7). Rather, the universe evolves following certain cyclic patterns of contraction and expansion (D.III.84-5).

Similarly, the cosmic order, or Dharma, does not depend on the will of gods, and there are many good deeds far more effective than ritual sacrifices offered to the gods (D.I144ff). Gods for the Buddha are unenlightened beings subject to birth and death that require further learning and spiritual practice in order to attain liberation; they are more powerful and spiritually more developed than humans and other living beings, but Buddhas excel them in all regards: spiritual development, wisdom, and power. Even the supreme type of god, Brahmā, offers his respects to the Buddha, praises him, and asks him to preach the Dharma for those with little dust in their eyes (M.I.168-9).

Since the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas does not deny the existence of gods, only their cosmological and soteriological functions, it is inaccurate to define early Buddhism as atheistic or as non-theistic. The word atheistic is usually associated with anti-religious attitudes absent in the Buddha, and the term non-theistic seems to imply that rejecting the theistic concept of God is one of the main concerns of the Buddha, when in fact it is a marginal question in the Pāli Nikāyas.

b. The Four Noble Truths or Realities

One the most common frameworks to explain the basic teachings of early Buddhism is the four noble truths (ariyasacca, Sanskrit āryasatya). The word sacca means both truth and reality. The word ariya refers primarily to the ideal type of person the Buddhist path is supposed to generate, a noble person in the ethical and spiritual sense. Translating ariyasacca by ‘noble truths’ is somehow misleading because it gives the wrong impression of being a set of beliefs, a creed that Buddhists accept as noble and true. The four noble truths are primarily four realities whose contemplation leads to sainthood or the state of the noble ones (ariya). Other possible translations of ariyasacca are “ennobling truths” or “truths of the noble ones.”

Each noble truth requires a particular practice from the disciple; in this sense the four noble truths can be understood as four types of practice. The first noble truth, or the reality of suffering, assigns to the disciple the practice of cultivating understanding. Such understanding takes place gradually through reflection, analytical meditation, and eventually direct experience. What needs to be understood is the nature of suffering, and the different types of suffering and happiness within saṃsāra.

A common misconception about the first noble truth is to think that it presupposes a pessimistic outlook on life. This interpretation would be correct only if the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas had not taught the existence of different types of happiness and the third noble truth, or cessation of suffering; that is, the good news about the reality of nirvana, defined as the highest happiness (Dhp.203; M.I.505). Since the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas teaches the reality of both suffering and the highest happiness, perhaps it is more accurate to speak of his attitude as realist: there is a problem but there is also a solution to that problem.

The second noble truth, or reality of the origin of suffering, calls for the practice of renunciation to all mental states that generate suffering for oneself and others. The mental state that appears in the second noble truth is taṇhā, literally “thirst.” It was customary in the first Western translations of Buddhist texts (Burnouf, Fausboll, Muller, Oldenberg, Warren) to translate taṇhā by desire. This translation has misled many to think that the ultimate goal of Buddhists is the cessation of all desires. However, as Damien Keown puts it, “it is an oversimplification of the Buddhist position to assume that it seeks an end to all desire.” (1992: 222).

In fact, there are many terms in the Pāli Nikāyas that can be translated as desire, not all of them related to mental states conducive to suffering. On the contrary, there are many texts in the Pāli Nikāyas that demonstrate the positive role of certain types of desire in the Buddha’s path (Webster, 2005: 90-142). Nonetheless, the term taṇhā in the Pāli Nikāyas designates always a harmful type of desire that leads to “repeated existence” (ponobhavikā), is “associated with delight and lust” (nandirāgasahagatā), and “delights here and there” (tatra tatrābhinandinī) (M.I.48; D.II.308; etc). There is only one text (Nettipakaraṇa 87) that speaks about a wholesome type of taṇhā that leads to its own relinquishment, but this text is extra-canonical except in Myanmar.

The most common translation of taṇhā nowadays is craving. Unlike the loaded, vast, and ambivalent term desire, the term craving refers more specifically to a particular type of desire, and cannot be misinterpreted as conveying any want and aspiration whatsoever. Rather, like taṇhā in the Pāli Nikāyas, craving refers to intense (rāga can be translated by both lust and passion), obsessive, and addictive desires (the idiom tatra tatra can also be interpreted as connoting the idea of repetition or tendency to repeat itself).

Since craving, or taṇhā, does not include all possible types of desires, there is no “paradox of desire” in the Pāli Nikāyas. In other words, the Buddha of the the Pāli Nikāyas does not teach that in order to attain liberation from suffering one has to paradoxically desire to stop all desires. There is no contradiction in willing the cessation of craving. That is, for the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas it is possible to want, like, or strive for something without simultaneously craving for it.

The Pāli Nikāyas distinguish between three kinds of taṇhā: craving for sensual pleasures (kāmataṇhā), craving for existence (bhavataṇhā), and craving for non-existence (vibhavataṇhā). Following Webster, I understand the last two types of craving as “predicated on two extreme (wrong) views, those of eternalism and annihilationism” (2005:130-1). In other words, craving for existence longs for continued existence of one’s self within saṃsāra, and craving for non-existence is a reversed type of desire or aversion to one’s own destruction at the moment of death.

The underlying root of all suffering, however, is not craving but spiritual ignorance (avijjā). In the Pāli Nikāyas spiritual ignorance does not connote a mere lack of information but rather a misconception, a distorted perception of things under the influence of conceptual fabrications and affective prejudices. More specifically, ignorance refers to not knowing things as they are, the Dharma, and the four noble truths. The relinquishing of spiritual ignorance, craving, and the three roots of the unwholesome (greed or lobha, aversion or dosa, delusion or moha) entails the cultivation of many positive mental states, some of the most prominent in the Pāli Nikāyas being: wisdom or understanding (paññā), letting go (anupādāna), selflessness (alobha), love (avera, adosa, avyāpāda), friendliness (mettā), compassion (karuṇā), altruistic joy (muditā), equanimity (upekkhā), calm (samatha, passaddhi), mindfulness (sati), diligence (appamāda).

The third noble truth, or reality of the cessation of suffering, asks us to directly realize the destruction of suffering, usually expressed with a variety of cognitive and affective terms: peace, higher knowledge, the tranquilization of mental formations, the abandonment of all grasping, cessation, the destruction of craving, absence of lust, nirvana (Pali nibbāna). The most popular of all the terms that express the cessation of suffering and rebirth is nirvana, which literally means blowing out or extinguishing.

Metaphorically, the extinction of nirvana designates a mental event, namely, the extinguishing of the fires of craving, aversion, and delusion (S.IV.251). That nirvana primarily denotes a mental event, a psychological process, is also confirmed by many texts that describe the person who experiences nirvana with intransitive verbs such as to nirvanize (nibbāyati) or to parinirvanize (parinibbāyati). However, there are a few texts that seem to indicate that nirvana might also be a domain of perception (āyatana), element (dhātu), or reality (dhamma) known at the moment of enlightenment, and in special meditative absorptions after enlightenment. This domain is usually defined as having the opposite qualities of saṃsāra (Ud 8.1), or with metaphoric expressions (S.IV.369ff).

What is important to point out is that the concern of the Pāli Nikāyas is not to describe nirvana, which, strictly speaking, is beyond logic and language (It 37), but rather to provide a systematic explanation of the arising and cessation of suffering. The goal of Buddhism as it appears in the Pāli Nikāyas does not consist in believing that suffering arises and ceases like the Buddha says, but in realizing that what he teaches about suffering and its cessation is the case; that is, the Buddha’s teaching, or Dharma, is intended to be experienced by the wise for themselves (M.I.265).

The fourth noble truth, or reality of the path leading to the cessation of suffering, imposes on us the practice of developing the eightfold ennobling path. This path can be understood either as eight mental factors that are cultivated by ennobled disciples at the moment of liberation, or as different parts of the entire Buddhist path whose practice ennoble the disciple gradually. The eight parts of the Buddhist path are usually divided into three kinds of training: training in wisdom (right view and right intention), ethical training (right speech, right bodily conduct, and right livelihood), and training in concentration (right effort, right mindfulness and right concentration).

c. Ontology of Suffering: the Five Aggregates

A prominent concern of the Buddha in the Pāli Nikāyas is to provide a solution to the problem of suffering. When asked about his teachings, the Buddha answers that he only teaches suffering and its cessation (M.I.140). The first noble truth describes what the Buddha means by suffering: birth, aging, illness, death, union with what is displeasing, separation from what is pleasing, not getting what one wants, the five aggregates of grasping (S.V.421).

The original Pali term for suffering is dukkha, a word that ordinarily means physical and mental pain, but that in the first noble truth designates diverse kinds of frustration, and the existential angst generated by the impermanence of life and the unavoidability of old age, disease, and death. However, when the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas mentions birth and the five aggregates of grasping, he seems to be referring to the fact that our psychophysical components are conditioned by grasping, and consequently, within saṃsāra, the cycle of births and deaths. This interpretation is consistent with later Buddhist tradition, which speaks about three types of dukkha: ordinary suffering (mental and physical pain), suffering due to change (derived from the impermanence of things), and suffering due to conditions (derived from being part of saṃsāra).

When the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas speaks about personal identity and the human predicament, he uses the technical expression “five aggregates of grasping” (pañcupādānakkhandhā). That is, the Buddha describes human existence in terms of five groups of constituents. The five aggregates are: material form (rūpa), sensations (vedanā), perceptions (saññā), mental formations (saṃkhāra), consciousness (viññāṇa). While the first aggregate refers to material components, the other four designate a variety of mental functions.

The aggregate material form is explained as the four great elements and the shape or figure of our physical body. The four great elements are earth, water, fire, and air. The earth element is further defined as whatever is solid in our body, and water as whatever is liquid. The fire element refers to “that by which one is warmed, ages, and is consumed,” and the process of digestion. The air element denotes the breathing process and movements of gas throughout the body (M.I.185ff).

The aggregate sensations denote pleasant, unpleasant and neutral feelings experienced after there is contact between the six sense organs (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind) and their six objects (forms, sounds, odors, tastes, tangible objects, and mental phenomena). The aggregate perceptions express the mental function by which someone is able to identify objects. There are six types of perceptions corresponding to the six objects of the senses. The aggregate formations express emotional and intellectual dispositions, literally volitions (sañcetanâ), towards the six objects of the senses. These dispositions are the result of past cognitive and affective conditioning, that is, past karma or past voluntary actions. The aggregate consciousness connotes the ability to know and to be aware of the six objects of the senses (S.III.59ff).

d. Arguments for the Doctrine of Non-self

The Buddha reiterates again and again throughout the Pāli Nikāyas that any of the five aggregates “whether past, future or present, internal or external, gross or subtle, inferior or superior, far or near, ought to be seen as it actually is with right wisdom thus: ‘this is not mine, this I am not, this is not my self.’ ” When the disciple contemplates the five aggregates in this way, he or she becomes disenchanted (nibbindati), lust fades away (virajjati), and he or she attains liberation due to the absence of lust (virāgā vimuccati) (M.I.138-9).

The Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas justifies this view of the five aggregates as non-self with three main arguments, which are used as a method of analytical meditation, and in polemics with members of other schools. The assumption underlying the Buddha’s arguments is that something might be considered a self only if it were permanent, not leading to suffering, not dependently arisen, and subject to one’s own will. Since none of the five aggregates fulfill any of these conditions, it is wrong to see them as belonging to us or as our self.

In the first and most common argument for non-self the Buddha asks someone the following questions: “What do you think, monks, is material form permanent or impermanent?” – “Impermanent, venerable sir.” – “Is what is impermanent suffering or happiness?” – “Suffering, venerable sir.” –Is what is impermanent, suffering, and subject to change, fit to be regarded as: “this is mine, this I am, this is my self?” – “No, venerable sir” (M.I.138, etc). The same reasoning is applied to the other aggregates.

The first argument is also applied to the six sensual organs, the six objects, the six types of consciousness, perceptions, sensations, and formations that arise dependent on the contact between the senses and their objects (M.III.278ff). Sometimes the first argument for non-self is applied to the six senses and their objects without questions and answers: “Monks, the visual organ is impermanent. What is impermanent is suffering. What is suffering is non-self. What is non-self ought to be seen as it really is with right wisdom thus: ‘this is not mine, this I am not, this is not my self’ ” (S.IV.1ff).

The second argument for non-self is much less frequent: “Monks, material form is non-self. If it were self, it would not lead to affliction. It would be possible [to say] with regard to material form: ‘Let my material form be thus. Let my material form not be thus.’ But precisely because it is non-self, it leads to affliction. And it is not possible [to say] with regard to material form: ‘Let my material form be thus. Let my material form not be thus’ ”(S.III.66-7). The same reasoning is applied to the other four aggregates.

The third argument deduces non-self from that fact that physical and mental phenomena depend on certain causes to exist. For instance, in (M.III.280ff), the Buddha first analyzes the dependent arising of physical and mental phenomena. Then he argues: “If anyone says: ‘the visual organ is self,’ that is unacceptable. The rising and falling of the visual organ are fully known (paññāyati). Since the rising and falling of the visual organ are fully known, it would follow that: ‘my self arises and falls.’ Therefore, it is unacceptable to say: ‘the visual organ is self.’ Thus the visual organ is non-self.” The same reasoning is applied to the other senses, their objects, and the six types of consciousness, contacts (meeting of sense, object and consciousness), sensations, and cravings derived from them.

The third argument also appears combined with the first one without questions and answers. For instance, in (A.V.188), it is said that “whatever becomes, that is conditioned, volitionally formed, dependently arisen, that is impermanent. What is impermanent, that is suffering. What is suffering, that is [to be regarded thus]: ‘this is not mine, this I am not, this is not my self.’ ”

If something can be inferred from these three arguments, it is that the target of the doctrine of non-self is not all concepts of self but specifically views of the self as permanent and not dependently arisen. That is, the doctrine of non-self opposes what is technically called “views of personal identity” or more commonly translated “personality views” (sakkāyadiṭṭhi). Views of personal identity relate the five aggregates to a permanent and independent self in four ways: as being identical, as being possession of the self, as being in the self, or as the self being in them (M.I.300ff). All these views of personal identity are said to be the product of spiritual ignorance, that is, of not seeing with right wisdom the true nature of the five aggregates, their origin, their cessation, and the way leading to their cessation.

e. Human Identity and the Meaning of Non-self

Since the Pāli Nikāyas accept the common sense usages of the word “self” (attan, Skt. ātman), primarily in idiomatic expressions and as a reflexive pronoun meaning “oneself,” the doctrine of non-self does not imply a literal negation of the self. Similarly, since the Buddha explicitly criticizes views that reject karma and moral responsibility (M.I.404ff), the doctrine of non-self should not be understood as the absolute rejection of moral agency and any concept of personal identity. In fact, the Buddha explicitly defines “personal identity” (sakkāya) as the five aggregates (M.I.299).

Since the sixth sense, or mind, includes the four mental aggregates, and since the ordinary five senses and their objects fall under the aggregate of material form, it can be said that for the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas personal identity is defined not only in terms of the five aggregates, but also in terms of the six senses and their six objects.

If the meaning of non-self were that there is literally no self whatsoever, no personal identity and no moral agency whatsoever, then the only logical conclusion would be to state that the Buddha taught nonsense and that the Pāli Nikāyas are contradictory, sometimes accepting the existence of a self and other times rejecting it. Even though no current scholar of Buddhism would endorse such an interpretation of non-self, it is still popular in some missionary circles and apologetic literature.

A more sympathetic interpretation of non-self distinguishes between two main levels of discourse (Collins 1982). The first level of discourse does not question the concept of self and freely uses personal terms and expressions in accordance with ordinary language and social conventions. The second level of discourse is philosophically more sophisticated and rejects views of self and personal identity as permanent and not dependently arisen. Behind the second level of discourse there is a technical understanding of the self and personal identity as the five aggregates, that is, as a combination of psychophysical processes, all of them impermanent and dependently originated.

This concept of the self as permanent and not dependently arisen is problematic because it is based on a misperception of the aggregates. This misperception of the five aggregates is associated with what is technically called “the conceit I am” (asmimāna) and “the underlying tendency to the conceits ‘I’ and ‘mine’ ” (ahaṃkāra-mamaṅkāra-mānānusaya). This combination of conceit and ignorance fosters different types of cravings, especially craving for immortal existence, and subsequently, speculations about the past, present, and future nature of the self and personal identity. For instance, in (D.I.30ff), the Buddha speaks of different ascetics and Brahmins who claim that the self after death is “material, immaterial, both material and immaterial, neither material nor immaterial, finite, infinite, both, neither, of uniform perception, of varied perception, of limited perception, of unlimited perception, wholly happy, wholly miserable, both, neither.” The doctrine of non-self is primarily intended to counteract views of the self and personal identity rooted in ignorance regarding the nature of the five aggregates, the conceit “I am,” and craving for immortal existence.

A minority of scholars reject the notion that the Buddha’s doctrine of non-self implies the negation of the true self, which for them is permanent and independent of causes and conditions. Accordingly, the purpose of the doctrine of non-self is simply to deny that the five aggregates are the true self. The main reason for this interpretation is that the Buddha does not say anywhere in the Pāli Nikāyas that the self does not exist; he only states that a self and what belongs to a self are not apprehended (M.I.138). Therefore, for these interpreters the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas only claims that impermanent and conditioned things like the five aggregates are not the true self. For these scholars, the Buddha does talk about the true self when he speaks about the consciousness of liberated beings (M.I.140), and the unconditioned, unborn and deathless nirvana (Bhattacarya 1973; Pérez Remón 1981).

However, the majority of Buddhist scholars agree with the traditional Buddhist self-understanding: they think that the doctrine of non-self is incompatible with any doctrine about a permanent and independent self, not just with views that mistakenly identify an alleged true self with the five aggregates. The main reason for this interpretation relates to the doctrine of dependent arising.

f. Causality and the Principle of Dependent Arising

The importance of dependent arising (paṭiccasamuppāda) cannot be underestimated: the Buddha realized its workings during the night of his enlightenment (M.I.167). Preaching the doctrine of dependent arising amounts to preaching the Dharma (M.II.32), and whoever sees it sees the Dharma (M.I.191). The Dharma of dependent arising remains valid whether or not there are Buddhas in the world (S.II.25), and it is through not understanding it that people are trapped into the cycle of birth and death (D.II.55).

The doctrine of dependent arising can be formulated in two ways that usually appear together: as a general principle or as a chain of causal links to explain the arising and ceasing of suffering and the process of rebirth. The general principle of dependent arising states that “when this exists, that comes to be; with the arising of this, that arises. When this does not exist, that does not come to be; with the cessation of this, that ceases” (M.II.32; S.II.28).

Unlike the logical principle of conditionality, the principle of dependent arising does not designate a connection between two ideas but rather an ontological relationship between two things or events within a particular timeframe. Dependent arising expresses not only the Buddha’s understanding of causality but also his view of things as interrelated. The point behind dependent arising is that things are dependent on specific conditions (paṭicca), and that they arise together with other things (samuppāda). In other words, the principle of dependent arising conveys both ontological conditionality and the constitutive relativity of things. This relativity, however, does not mean that for the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas everything is interdependent or that something is related to everything else. This is a later development of Buddhist thought, not a characteristic of early Indian Buddhism.

The most comprehensive chain of dependent arising contains twelve causal links: (1) ignorance, (2) formations, (3) consciousness, (4) mentality-materiality, (5) the six senses, (6) contact, (7) sensations, (8) craving (9) grasping, (10) becoming, (11) birth, (12) old age and death. The most common formulation is as follows: with 1 as a condition 2 [comes to be]; with 2 as a condition 3 [comes to be], and so forth. Conversely, with the cessation of 1 comes the cessation of 2; with the cessation of 2 comes the cessation of 3, and so forth.

It is important to keep in mind that this chain does not imply a linear understanding of causality where the antecedent link disappears once the subsequent link has come to be. Similarly, each of the causal links is not to be understood as the one and only cause that produces the next link but rather as the most necessary condition for its arising. For instance, ignorance, the first link, is not the only cause of the process of suffering but rather the cause most necessary for the continuation of such a process. For the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas, as well as for later Buddhist tradition, there is always a multiplicity of causes and conditions at play.

The traditional interpretation divides the twelve link chain of dependent arising into three lives. The first two links (ignorance and formations) belong to the past life: due to a misperception of the nature of the five aggregates, a person (the five aggregates) performs voluntary actions: mental, verbal, and bodily actions, with wholesome, unwholesome, and neutral karmic effects. The next ten factors correspond to the present life: the karmic effects of past voluntary formations are stored in consciousness and transferred to the next life. Consciousness together with the other mental aggregates combines with a new physical body to constitute a new psychophysical organism (mentality-materiality). This new stage of the five aggregates develops the six senses and the ability to establish contact with their six objects. Contacts with objects of the senses produce pleasant, unpleasant and neutral sensations. If the sensations are pleasant, the person usually responds with cravings for more pleasant experiences, and if the sensations are unpleasant, with aversion. Craving and aversion, as well as the underlying ignorance of the nature of the five aggregates are fundamental causes of suffering and rebirth: the three roots of the unwholesome according to the Pāli Nikāyas, or the three mental poisons according to later Buddhist traditions.

By repeating the affective responses of craving and aversion, the person becomes more and more dependent on whatever leads to more pleasant sensations and less unpleasant ones. This creates a variety of emotional dependencies and a tendency to grasp or hold onto what causes pleasure and avoids pain. The Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas speaks about four types of grasping: towards sensual pleasures, views, rites-and-observances, and especially towards doctrines of a [permanent and independent] self (D.II.57-8).

The original term for grasping is upādāna, which also designates the fuel or supply necessary to maintain a fire. In this sense, grasping is the psychological fuel that maintains the fires of craving, aversion, and delusion, the fires whose extinction is called nirvana. The Buddha’s ideal of letting go and detachment should not be misunderstood as the absence of any emotions whatsoever including love and compassion, but specifically as the absence of emotions associated with craving, aversion, and delusion. Motivated by grasping and the three mental fires, the five aggregates perform further voluntary actions, whose karmic effects perpetuate existence within the cycle of rebirth and subsequent suffering. The last two links (birth, aging and death) refer to the future life. At the end of this present existence, a new birth of the five aggregates will take place followed by old age, death, and other kinds of suffering.

The twelve-link chain of dependent arising explains the processes of rebirth and suffering without presupposing a permanent and independent self. The Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas makes this point explicit in his passionate rebuttal of the monk Sāti, who claimed that it is the same consciousness that wanders through the cycle of rebirth. For the Buddha, consciousness, like the other eleven causal links, is dependent on specific conditions (M.I.258ff), which entails that consciousness is impermanent, suffering, and non-self.

Instead of a permanent and independent self behind suffering and the cycle of rebirth, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas presupposes five psychophysical sets of processes, namely, the five aggregates, which imply an impermanent and dependently-arisen concept of ‘self’ and ‘personal identity.’ In other words, the Buddha rejects substance-selves but accepts process-selves (Gowans 2003). Yet, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas explicitly refuses to use personal terms such as ‘self’ in technical explanations of rebirth and suffering, and he prefers to speak in terms of causes and conditions that produce other causes and conditions (S.II.13-4; S.II.62; M.III.19). But what happens to consciousness and the other aggregates when grasping no longer exists and the three mental fires have been extinguished? What happens when suffering ceases and the cycle of rebirth stops?

4. Nirvana and the Silence of the Buddha

a. Two Kinds of Nirvana and the Undetermined Questions

When the fires of craving, aversion, and ignorance are extinguished at the moment of enlightenment, the aggregates are liberated due to the lack of grasping. This is technically called nirvana with remainder of grasping (saupādisesa-nibbāna), or as later tradition puts it, nirvana of mental defilements (kilesa-parinibbāna). The expression ‘remainder of grasping’ refers to the five aggregates of liberated beings, which continue to live after enlightenment but without negative mental states.

The aggregates of the liberated beings perform their respective functions and, like the aggregates of anybody else, they grow old, get sick, and are subject to pleasant and unpleasant sensations until death. The difference between unenlightened and enlightened beings is that enlightened beings respond to sensations without craving or aversion, and with higher knowledge of the true nature of the five aggregates.

The definition of nirvana without remainder (anupādisesa-nibbāna) that appears in (It 38) only says that for the liberated being “all that is experienced here and now, without enchantment [another term for grasping], will be cooled (sīta).” Since “all” is defined in the Pāli Nikāyas as the six senses and their six objects (S.IV.15), which is another way of describing the individual psychophysical experience or the five aggregates, the expression “all that is experienced” refers to what happens to the aggregates of liberated beings. Since (It 38) explicitly uses the expression “here and now” (idheva), it seems impossible to conclude that the definition of nirvana without remainder is intended to say anything about nirvana or the aggregates beyond death. Rather (It 38) describes nirvana and the aggregates at the moment of death: they will be no longer subject to rebirth and they will become cooled, tranquil, at peace. The question is: what does this peace or coolness entail? What happens after the nirvana of the aggregates? Does the mind of enlightened beings survive happily ever after? Does the liberated being exist beyond death or not?

These questions are left undetermined (avyākata) by the Buddha of the the Pāli Nikāyas. The ten questions in the the Pāli Nikāyas ask whether (1) The world is eternal; (2) The world is not eternal; (3) The world is infinite; (4) The world is finite; (5) Body and soul are one thing; (6) Body and soul are two different things; (7) A liberated being (tathāgata) exists after death; (8) A liberated being (tathāgata) does not exist after death; (9) A liberated being (tathāgata) both exists and does not exist after death; (10) A liberated being (tathāgata) neither exists nor does not exist after death. In Sanskrit Buddhist texts the ten views become fourteen by adding the last two possibilities of the tetralema (both A and B, neither A nor B) to the questions about the world.

Unfortunately for those looking for quick answers, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas does not provide a straightforward yes or no response to any of these questions. When the Buddha is asked whether the liberated being exists, does not exist, both, or neither, he sets aside these questions by saying that (1) he does not hold such views, (2) he has left the questions undetermined, and (3) the questions do not apply (na upeti). The first two answers are also used to respond to questions about the temporal and spatial finitude or infinitude of the world, and the identity or difference between the soul and the body. Only the third type of answer is given to the questions about liberated beings after death.

Most presentations of early Buddhism interpret these three answers of the Buddha as an eloquent silence about metaphysical questions due primarily to pragmatic reasons, namely, the questions divert from spiritual practice and are not conducive to liberation from suffering. While the pragmatic reasons for the answers of the Buddha are undeniable, it is inaccurate to understand them as silence about metaphysical questions. In fact, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas does address many metaphysical issues with his teachings of non-self and dependent arising.

The answers of the Buddha to the undetermined questions are due not only to pragmatic reasons but also to metaphysical reasons: the questions are inconsistent with the doctrines of non-self and dependent arising because they assume the existence of a permanent and independent self, a self that is either finite or infinite, identical or different from the body, existing or not existing after death. Besides pragmatic and metaphysical reasons, there are cognitive and affective reasons for the answers of the Buddha: the undetermined questions are based on ignorance about the nature of the five aggregates and craving for either immortal existence or inexistence. The questions are expressions of ‘identity views,’ that is, they are part of the problem of suffering. Answering the questions directly would have not done any good: a yes answer would have fostered more craving for immortal existence and led to eternalist views, and a no answer would have fostered further confusion and led to nihilist views (S.IV.400-1).

In the case of the undetermined questions about the liberated being, there are also apophatic reasons for answering “it does not apply.” The Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas illustrates the inapplicability of the questions with the simile of the fire extinct: just as it does not make sense to ask about the direction in which an extinct fire has gone, it is inappropriate to ask about the status of the liberated being beyond death: “The fire burned in dependence on its fuel of grass and sticks. When that is used up, if it does not get any more fuel, being without fuel, it is reckoned as extinguished. Similarly, the enlightened being has abandoned the five aggregates by which one might describe him…he is liberated from reckoning in terms of the five aggregates, he is profound, immeasurable, unfathomable like the ocean” (M.I.487-8).

b. Eternalism, Nihilism, and the Middle Way

There are three possible interpretations of the simile of the extinct fire: (1) liberated beings no longer exist beyond death (2) liberated beings exist in a mysterious unfathomable way beyond death (3) the Buddha is silent about both the liberated being and nirvana after death. The first interpretation seems the most logical conclusion given the Buddha’s ontology of suffering and the doctrine of non-self. However, the nihilist interpretation makes Buddhist practice meaningless and contradicts texts where the Buddha criticizes teachings not conducive to spiritual practice such as materialism and determinism (M.I.401ff). But more importantly, the nihilist interpretation is vehemently rejected in the Pāli Nikāyas: “As I am not, as I do not proclaim, so have I been baselessly, vainly, falsely, and wrongly misrepresented by some ascetics and brahmins thus: ‘the ascetic Gotama [Buddha] is one who leads astray; he teaches the annihilation, the destruction, the extermination of an existing being’ ”(M.I.140).

The second interpretation appears to some as following from the Buddha’s incontrovertible response to the nihilist reading of his teachings: since the Buddha rejects nihilism, he must somehow accept the eternal existence of liberated beings, or at least the eternal existence of nirvana. For eternalist interpreters, the texts in the Pāli Nikāyas that speak about the transcendence and ineffability of liberated beings and nirvana can be understood as implying their existence after or beyond death.

There are several eternalist readings of the Buddha’s thought. We have already mentioned the most common: the doctrine of non-self merely states that the five aggregates are not the true self, which is the transcendent and ineffable domain of nirvana. However, there are eternalist interpretations within Buddhism too. That is, interpretations that are nominally consistent with the doctrine of non-self but that nevertheless speak of something as eternally existing: either the mind of liberated beings or nirvana. For instance, Theravāda Buddhists usually see nirvana as non-self, but at the same time as an unconditioned (asaṃkhata) and deathless (amata) reality. The assumption, though rarely stated, is that liberated beings dwell eternally in nirvana without a sense of “I” and “mine,” which is a transcendent state beyond the comprehension of unenlightened beings. Another eternalist interpretation is that of the Dalai Lama who, following the standard interpretation of Tibetan Buddhists, claims that the Buddha did not teach the cessation of all aggregates but only of contaminated aggregates. That is, the uncontaminated aggregates of liberated beings continue to exist individually beyond death, though they are seen as impermanent, dependently arisen, non-self, and empty of inherent existence (Dalai Lama 1975:27). Similarly, Peter Harvey understands nirvana as a selfless and objectless state of consciousness different from the five aggregates that exists temporarily during life and eternally beyond death (1995: 186-7).

The problem with eternalist interpretations is that they contradict what the Pāli Nikāyas say explicitly about the way to consider liberated beings, the limits of language, the content of the Buddha’s teachings, and dependent arising as a middle way between the extremes of eternalism and annihilationism. In (S.III.110ff), Sāriputta, the Buddha’s leading disciple in doctrinal matters, explains that liberated beings should be considered neither as annihilated after death nor as existing without the five aggregates.

In (D.II.63-4) the Buddha makes clear that consciousness and mentality-materiality, that is, the five aggregates, are the limits of designation (adhivacana), language (nirutti), cognitions (viññatti), and understanding (paññā). Accordingly, in (D.II.68) the Buddha says it is inadequate to state that the liberated being exists after death, does not exist, both, or neither. This reading is confirmed by (Sn 1076): “There is not measure (pamāṇa) of one who has gone out, that by which [others] might speak (vajju) of him does not exist. When all things have been removed, then all ways of speech (vādapathā) are also removed.”

Given the Buddha’s understanding of the limits of language and understanding in the Pāli Nikāyas, it is not surprising that he responded to the accusation of teaching the annihilation of beings, by saying that “formerly and now I only teach suffering and the cessation of suffering.” Since the Buddha does not teach anything beyond the cessation of suffering at the moment of death, that is, beyond the limits of language and understanding, it is inaccurate to accuse him of teaching the annihilation of beings. Similarly, stating that liberated beings exist after death in a mysterious way beyond the four logical possibilities of existence, non-existence, both or neither, is explicitly rejected in (S.III.118-9) and (S.IV.384), where once again the Buddha concludes that he only makes known suffering and the cessation of suffering.

If the eternalist interpretation were correct, it would have been unnecessary for the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas to put so much emphasis on the teaching of dependent arising. Why would dependent arising be defined in (S.II.17) as right view and as the middle way between the extremes of eternalism and annihilationism if the truth were that the consciousness of liberated beings or the unconditioned nirvana exist eternally? If knowing and seeing dependent arising precludes someone from speculating about a permanent self in the past and the future (M.I.265), why would the Buddha teach anything about the eternal existence of liberated beings and nirvana?

In order to avoid the aforementioned contradictions entailed by eternalist readings of the Pāli Nikāyas, all texts about nirvana and the consciousness of liberated beings are to be understood as referring to this life or the moment of death, never to some mysterious consciousness or domain that exists beyond death. Since none of the texts about nirvana and liberated beings found in the Pāli Nikāyas refer unambiguously to their eternal existence beyond death, I interpret the Buddha as being absolutely silent about nirvana and liberated beings beyond death (Vélez de Cea 2004a). In other words, nothing of what the Pāli Nikāyas say goes beyond the limits of language and understanding, beyond the content of the Buddha’s teachings, and beyond dependent arising as the middle way between eternalism and annihilationism.

Instead of focusing on nirvana and liberated beings beyond death, the Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas emphasizes dependent arising and the practice of the four foundations of mindfulness. Dependent arising is intended to avoid views about a permanent and independent self in the past and the future (M.I.265; M.III.196ff), and the four foundations of mindfulness are said to be taught precisely to destroy such views (D.III.141). That is, the Buddha’s fundamental concern is to address the problem of suffering in the present without being distracted by views about the past or the future: “Let not a person revive the past, or on the future build his hopes; for the past has been left behind and the future has not been reached. Instead with insight let him see each presently arising state (paccuppannañca yo dhammaṃ tattha tattha vipassati); let him know that and be sure of it, invincibly, unshakeably. Today the effort must be made, tomorrow death may come, who knows?” (Bhikkhu Bodhi’s translation. M.III.193).

5. Buddhist Ethics

Early Buddhist ethics includes more than lists of precepts and more than the section on ethical training of the eightfold noble path; that is, Buddhist ethics cannot be reduced to right action (abstaining from killing, stealing, lying), right speech (abstaining from false, divisive, harsh, and useless speech), and right livelihood (abstaining from professions that harm living beings). Besides bodily and verbal actions, the Pāli Nikāyas discuss a variety of mental actions including thoughts, motivations, emotions, and perspectives. In fact, it is the ethics of mental actions that constitutes the main concern of the Buddha’s teaching.

Early Buddhist ethics encompasses the entire spiritual path, that is, bodily, verbal, and mental actions. The factors of the eightfold noble path dealing with wisdom and concentration (right view, right intentions, rights effort, right concentration, right mindfulness) relate to different types of mental actions. The term “right” (sammā) in this context does not mean the opposite of “wrong,” but rather “perfect” or “complete;” that is, it denotes the best or the most effective actions to attain liberation. This, however, does not imply that the Buddha advocates the most perfect form of ethical conduct for all his disciples.

Early Buddhist ethics is gradualist in the sense that there are diverse ways of practicing the path with several degrees of commitment; not all disciples are expected to practice Buddhist ethics with the same intensity. Monks and nuns take more precepts and are supposed to devote more time to spiritual practices than householders. However, a complete monastic code (prātimoka) like those found in later Vinaya literature does not appear in the Pāli Nikāyas. The most comprehensive formulation of early Buddhist ethics, probably common to monastic disciples and lay people, is the list of ten dark or unwholesome actions and their opposite, the ten bright or wholesome actions: three bodily actions (abstaining from killing, stealing, sexual misconduct), four verbal actions (abstaining from false, divisive, harsh, and useless speech), and tree mental actions (abstaining from covetousness, ill-will, and dogmatic views).

The Buddha of the Pāli Nikāyas defines action in terms of intention or choice (cetanā): “It is intention, monks, what I call action. Having intended, someone acts through body, speech, and mind” (A.III.415). The Pāli Nikāyas define the roots of unwholesome (akusala) actions as greed (lobha), aversion (dosa), and delusion (moha). Conversely, the roots of wholesome actions are defined as the opposite mental states (M.I.47). Some scholars infer from these two definitions that Buddhist ethics is an ethics of intention or an agent-based form of virtue ethics. That is, according to these scholars, for the Buddha of the the Pāli Nikāyas, only the agent’s intention or motivation determine the goodness of actions. This interpretation, however, is disproved by many texts of the Pāli Nikāyas where good and evil actions are discussed without any reference to the underlying intention or motivation of the agent. Consequently, the more comprehensive account understands intention not as the only factor that determines the goodness of actions, but rather as the condition of possibility, the necessary condition for speaking about action in the moral sense. Without intention or choice, there is no ethical action. Similarly, motivation, while a central moral factor in Buddhist ethics, is neither the only factor nor always the most important factor to determine the goodness of actions. Understanding Buddhist ethics as concerned exclusively with the three roots of the wholesome does not fully capture the breath of moral concern of the Pāli Nikāyas (Vélez de Cea 2004b).

The fundamental moral law of the universe according to early Buddhism is what is popularly called the “law of karma”: good actions produce good consequences, and bad actions lead to bad consequences. The consequences of volitional actions can be experienced in this life or in subsequent lives. Although not everything we experience is due to past actions, physical appearance, character, lifespan, prosperity, and rebirth destination are believed to be influenced by past actions. This influence however, is not to be confused with fatalism, a position rejected in the Pāli Nikāyas. There is always room for mitigating and even eradicating the negative consequences of past actions with new volitions in the present. That is, past karma does not dictate our situation: the existence of freewill and the possibility of changing our predicament is always assumed. There is conditioning of the will and other mental factors, but no hard determinism.

A common objection to early Buddhist ethics is how there can be freewill and responsibility without a permanent self that transmigrates through lives. If there is no self, who is the agent of actions? Who experiences the consequences of actions? Is the person who performs an action in this life the same person that experiences the consequences of that action in a future life? Is it a different person? The Buddha considers these questions improper of his disciples, who are trained to explain things in terms of causes and condition (S.II.61ff; S.II.13ff)). In other words, since the Buddha’s disciples explain processes with the doctrine of dependent arising, they should avoid explanations that use personal terms and presuppose the extremes of eternalism and nihilism. The moral agent is not a substance-self but rather the five aggregates, a dynamic and dependently-arisen process-self who, like a flame or the water of a river, changes all the time and yet has some degree of continuity.

The most common interpretations of early Buddhist ethics view its nature as either a form of agent-based virtue ethics or as a sophisticated kind of consequentialism. The concern for virtue cultivation is certainly prevalent in early Buddhism, and evidently the internal mental state or motivation underlying actions is extremely important to determine the overall goodness of actions, which is the most important factor for advanced practitioners. Similarly, the concern for the consequences of actions, whether or not they lead to the happiness or the suffering of oneself and others, also pervades the Pāli Nikāyas. However, the goodness of actions in the Pāli Nikāyas does not depend exclusively on either the goodness of motivations or the goodness of consequences. Respect to status and duty, observance of rules and precepts, as well as the intrinsic goodness of certain external bodily and verbal actions are equally necessary to assess the goodness of at least certain actions. Since the foundations of right action in the Pāli Nikāyas are irreducible to one overarching principle, value or criterion of goodness, early Buddhist ethics is pluralistic in a metaethical sense. Given the unique combination of deontological, consequentialist, and virtue ethical trends found in the Pāli Nikāyas, early Buddhist ethics should be understood in its own terms as a sui generis normative theory inassimilable to Western ethical traditions.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Primary Sources

All references to the Pāli Nikāyas are to the edition of The Pāli Text Society, Oxford. References to the Aṅguttara, Dīgha, Majjhima, and Saṃyutta Nikāyas are to the volume and page number. References to Udāna and Itivuttaka are to the page number and to Dhammapada and Sutta Nipāta to the verse number.

A. Aṅguttara Nikāya

D. Dīgha Nikāya

M. Majjhima Nikāya

S. Saṃyutta Nikāya

Ud. Udāna

It. Itivuttaka

Dhp. Dhammapada

Sn. Sutta Nipāta

b. Secondary Sources

  • Bechert, H. (Ed) 1995. When Did the Buddha Live? The Controversy on the Dating of the Historical Buddha. Selected Papers Based on a Symposium Held under the Auspices of the Academy of Sciences in Göttingen. Delhi: Sri Satguru Publications. 1995.
  • Bhattacharya, K. 1973. L´Ātman-Brahman dans le Bouddhisme Ancien. París: EFEO.
  • Bhikkhu Ñānamoli and Bhikkhu Bodhi. 1995. The Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha. A New Translation of the Majjhima Nikāya. Kandy: Buddhist Publication Society.
  • Bhikkhu Ñāṇananda. 1971. Concept and Reality in Early Buddhist Thought. Kandy: Buddhist Publication Society.
  • Cousins, L.S. 1996. “Good or Skillful? Kusala in Canon and Commentary.” Journal of Buddhist Ethics.Vol. 3: 133-164.
  • Collins, S. 1982. Selfless Persons. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Collins, S. 1994. “What are Buddhists Doing When They Deny the Self?” In Religion and Practical Reason, edited by Frank E. Reynolds and David Tracy. Albany: SUNY.
  • Collins, S. 1998. Nirvana and other Buddhist Felicities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press
  • Dalai Lama. 1994. The Way to Freedom. San Francisco: Harper.
  • Dharmasiri, G. 1996. Fundamentals of Buddhist Ethics. Singapore: Buddhist Research Society.
  • Fuller, P. 2005. The Notion of Diṭṭhi in Theravāda Buddhism. London: RoutledgeCurzon.
  • Gombrich, R. 1988. Theravāda Buddhism: A Social History from Ancient Benares to Modern Colombo. London: Routledge.
  • Gombrich, R. 1996. How Buddhism Began. London: Athlone.
  • Gethin, R. 2001. The Buddhist Path to Awakening. Richmon Surrey: Curzon Press.
  • Gowans, C. W. 2003. Philosophy of the Buddha. London: Routledge.
  • Hallisey, C. 1996. “Ethical Particularism in Theravāda Buddhism.” Journal of Buddhist Ethics. Vol. 3: 32-34.
  • Hamilton, S. 2000. Early Buddhism: A New Approach. Richmon Surrey: Curzon Press.
  • Harvey, P. 1995. The Selfless Mind: Personality, Consciousness, and Nirvana in Early Buddhism. Richmon Surrey: Curzon Press.
  • Harvey, P. 1995. “Criteria for Judging the Unwholesomeness of Actions in the Texts of Theravāda Buddhism.” Journal of Buddhist Ethics. Vol. 2: 140-151.
  • Harvey, P. 2000. An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Hoffman, F. J. 1987. Rationality and Mind in Early Buddhism. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
  • Hwang, S. 2006. Metaphor and Literalism in Buddhism: The Doctrinal History of Nirvana. London: RoutledgeCurzon.
  • Jayatilleke, K. N. 1963. Early Buddhist Theory of Knowledge. London: Allen & Unwin.
  • Johansson, R. 1969. The Psychology of Nirvana. London: Allen and Unwin Ltd.
  • Kalupahana, D. 1976. Buddhist Philosophy: A Historical Analysis. Honolulu: University Press of Hawai’i.
  • Kalupahana, D. 1992. A History of Buddhist Philosophy: Continuities and Discontinuities. Honolulu: University Press of Hawai’i.
  • Keown, D. 1992. The Nature of Buddhist Ethics. New York: Palgrave.
  • Norman, K. R. 1983. Pāli Literature: Including the Canonical Literature in Prakrit and Sanskrit of all the Hīnayāna schools of Buddhism. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz.
  • Norman, K. R. 1990-6. Collected Papers. Oxford: The Pāli Text Society.
  • Pande, G.C. 1995. Studies in the Origins of Buddhism. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
  • Pérez-Remón, J. 1980. Self and Non-Self in Early Buddhism. New York: Mouton.
  • Perret, R. 1986. “Egoism, Altruism, and Intentionalism in Buddhist Ethics.” Journal of IndianPhilosophy. Vol. 15: 71-85.
  • Premasiri, P. D. 1987. “Early Buddhist Concept of Ethical Knowledge: A Philosophical Analysis.” Kalupahana, D.J. and Weeraratne, W.G. eds. Buddhist Philosophy and Culture: Essays in Honor of N.A. Jayawickrema. Colombo: N.A. Jayawickrema Felicitation Volume Committee. Pp. 37-70.
  • Ronkin, N. 2005. Early Buddhist Metaphysics: The Making of a Philosophical Tradition. London: RoutledgeCurzon.
  • Tilakaratne, A. 1993. Nirvana and Ineffability: A Study of the Buddhist Theory of Reality and Languague. Colombo: Karunaratne and Sons.
  • Vélez de Cea , A. 2004 a. “The Silence of the Buddha and the Questions about the Tathāgata after Death.” The Indian International Journal of Buddhist Studies, no 5.
  • Vélez de Cea , A. 2004 b. “The Early Buddhist Criteria of Goodness and the Nature of Buddhist Ethics.”Journal of Buddhist Ethics 11, pp.123-142.
  • Vélez de Cea , A. 2005. “Emptiness in the Pāli Suttas and the Question of Nāgārjuna’s Orthodoxy.”Philosophy East and West. Vol. 55: 4.
  • Webster, D. 2005. The Philosophy of Desire in the Pali Canon. London: RoutledgeCurzon.

See also the Encylopedia articles on Madhyamaka Buddhism and Pudgalavada Buddhism.

Author Information

Abraham Velez
Email: abraham.velez@eku.edu
Eastern Kentucky University
U. S. A.

Evolutionary Psychology

In its broad sense, the term “evolutionary psychology” stands for any attempt to adopt an evolutionary perspective on human behavior by supplementing psychology with the central tenets of evolutionary biology. The underlying idea is that since our mind is the way it is at least in part because of our evolutionary past, evolutionary theory can aid our understanding not only of the human body, but also of the human mind. In this broad sense, evolutionary psychology is a general field of inquiry that includes such diverse approaches as human behavioral ecology, memetics, dual-inheritance theory, and Evolutionary Psychology in the narrow sense.

The latter is a narrowly circumscribed adaptationist research program which regards the human mind as an integrated collection of cognitive mechanisms that guide our behavior and form our universal human nature. These cognitive mechanisms are supposed to be adaptations—the result of evolution by natural selection, that is, heritable variation in fitness. Adaptations are traits present today because in the past they helped our ancestors to solve recurrent adaptive problems. In particular, Evolutionary Psychology is interested in those adaptations that have evolved in response to characteristically human adaptive problems that have shaped our ancestors’ lifestyle as hunter-gatherers during our evolutionary past in the Pleistocence, like choosing and securing a mate, recognizing emotional expressions, acquiring a language, distinguishing kin from non-kin, detecting cheaters or remembering the location of edible plants. The purpose of Evolutionary Psychology is to discover and explain these cognitive mechanisms that guide current human behavior because they have been selected for as solutions to the recurrent adaptive problems prevalent in the evolutionary environment of our ancestors.

Evolutionary Psychology thus rests on a couple of key arguments and ideas: (1) The claim that the cognitive mechanisms that are underlying our behavior are adaptations. (2) The idea that they cannot be studied directly, for example, through observation of the brain or our overt behavior, but have to be discovered by means of a method known as “functional analysis,” where one starts with hypotheses about the adaptive problems faced by our ancestors, and then tries to infer the cognitive adaptations that must have evolved to solve them. (3) The claim that these cognitive mechanisms are adaptations not for solving problems prevalent in our modern environment, but for solving recurrent adaptive problems in the evolutionary environment of our ancestors. (4) The idea that our mind is a complex set of such cognitive mechanisms, or domain-specific modules. (5) The claim that these modules define who we are, in the sense that they define our universal human nature and ultimately trump any individual, cultural or societal differences.

Table of Contents

  1. Historic and Systematic Roots
    1. The Computational Model of the Mind
    2. The Modularity of Mind
    3. Adaptationism
  2. Key Concepts and Arguments
    1. Adaptation and Adaptivity
    2. Functional Analysis
    3. The Environment of Evolutionary Adaptedness
    4. Domain-specificity and Modularity
    5. Human Nature
  3. Examples of Empirical Research
  4. Problems and Objections
    1. Genetic Determinism
    2. Moral and Societal Issues
    3. Untestability and Story Telling
    4. Psychological Inadequacy
  5. Evolutionary Approaches to Mind, Culture, and Behavior: Alternatives to Evolutionary Psychology
    1. Human Behavioral Ecology
    2. Memetics
    3. Gene-Culture Coevolution
  6. References and Further Reading
    1. Suggested Further Reading
    2. Other Referenced Works

1. Historic and Systematic Roots

Modern Evolutionary Psychology has its roots in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when psychologist Leda Cosmides and anthropologist John Tooby from Harvard joined the anthropologist Donald Symons at The University of California, Santa Barbara (UCSB) where they currently co-direct the Center for Evolutionary Psychology. It gained wide attention in 1992 with the publication of the landmark volume The Adapted Mind by Jerome Barkow, Leda Cosmides and John Tooby, and since then numerous textbooks (for example, Buss 1999) and popular presentations (for example, Pinker 1997, 2002; Wright 1994) have appeared. These days, Evolutionary Psychology is a powerful research program that has generated some interesting research, but it has also sparked a heated debate about its aspirations and limitations (see, for example, Rose and Rose 2000).

Evolutionary Psychology is effectively a theory about How the Mind Works (Pinker 1997). The human mind is not an all-purpose problem solver relying on a limited number of general principles that are universally applied to all problems—a view that dominated early artificial intelligence (AI) and behaviorism (for example, Skinner 1938, 1957). (For the idea of an all-purpose problem solver see, for example, Newell and Simon 1972; for some of the earliest AI work related to this idea see, for example, Newell and Simon 1961, Newell et al. 1958.) Rather, the human mind is a collection of independent, task-specific cognitive mechanisms, a collection of instincts adapted for solving evolutionary significant problems. The human mind is sort of a Swiss Army knife (Pinker 1994). This conception of the mind is based on three important ideas adopted from other disciplines (Cosmides and Tooby 2003, 54; Samuels 1998, 577): the computational model of the mind, the assumption of modularity, and the thesis of adaptationism.

a. The Computational Model of the Mind

Following the development of modern logic (Boole 1847; Frege 1879) and the formalization of the notion of computation (Turing 1936), early AI construed logical operations as mechanically executable information processing routines. Eventually, this led to the idea that mental processes (for example, reasoning) and mental states (for example, beliefs and desires) may themselves also be analyzable in purely syntactic terms. The “Computational Theory of Mind,” developed by philosophers like Hilary Putnam (1963) and Jerry Fodor (1975, 1981), for instance, conceives of mental states as relations between a thinker and symbolic representations of the content of the states, and of mental processes as formal operations on the syntactic features of those representations.

Evolutionary Psychology endorses the computational model of the mind as an information processing system or a formal symbol manipulator and thus treats the mind as a collection of “computational machines” (Cosmides and Tooby 2003, 54) or “information-processing mechanisms” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990a, 21) that receive input from the environment and produce behavior or physiological changes as output. To this, it adds an evolutionary perspective: “The evolutionary function of the human brain is to process information in ways that lead to adaptive behavior; the mind is a description of the operation of a brain that maps informational input onto behavioral output” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 282). The brain is thus not just like a computer. “It is a computer—that is, a physical system that was designed to process information” (Tooby and Cosmides 2005, 16; italics added).

The Computational Model of the Mind: The human mind is an information processing system, physically realized in the brain, and can be described at a computational level as a device whose evolutionary function is to process information by mapping informational input onto behavioral output.

b. The Modularity of Mind

Early attempts at simulating human intelligence revealed that artificial cognitive systems that are not already equipped with a fair amount of “innate knowledge” about a particular problem domain are unable to solve even the easiest problems (see, for example, the idea of “scripts” in Schank and Abelson 1977). In the 1970s and 1980s, the work of scientists like Noam Chomsky, Jerry Fodor, or David Marr further undermined the idea of the mind as a “blank slate” which acquires knowledge about the world by means of only a couple of general learning mechanisms. Their findings suggested instead that the mind incorporates a number of cognitive subsystems that are triggered only by a certain kind of input. While Marr (1982) was working on the neuroscience of vision, Chomsky famously criticized the behaviorist idea that language acquisition is just an ordinary kind of learning that follows the stimulus-response model by proving the intractability of some learning algorithms (see, for example, his 1959 review of Skinner’s Verbal Behavior or Chomsky 1957; for a later statement of similar ideas see Chomsky 1975). According to his “Poverty of the Stimulus” argument, a child cannot learn her first language through observation because the available stimuli (that is, the utterances of adult speakers) neither enable her to produce grammatically correct nor prevent her from producing grammatically incorrect sentences. Instead, Chomsky argued, we possess a “language acquisition device” which, rather than extracting all information from the world through some general mechanism, comes already equipped with a certain amount of “innate knowledge.” Just as our body contains a number of innate, genetically predisposed organs that serve a specific function, our mind also contains a number of information processing systems (like the language acquisition device), so called mental organs or modules in Fodor’s (1983) terminology, that are designed to perform a particular cognitive function.

The model of the mind as a general learning mechanism that is indiscriminately applied to any problem domain was also disconfirmed in other areas of cognitive science. Garcia and Koelling (1966) showed that while rats can learn some associations by means of stimulus-response mechanisms, others, albeit structurally similar, cannot be learned at all, or only much slower: rats that are given food that makes them nauseous subsequently avoid that kind of food, but they are unable to learn an association between a sound or a light and feeling nauseous. Galef (1990) demonstrated that rats readily eat a new kind of food if they smell it at another rat’s mouth, but not if they smell it at another part of the body. Mineka and Cook (1988) showed that a laboratory raised monkey that initially did not show fear of snakes started to do so once he observed another monkey exhibiting fear of snakes; yet, he didn’t start to show fear of flowers when observing the other doing so. Comparable “learning biases” have been found for humans in various areas (for example, Cook et al. 1986; Marks and Nesse 1994; Seligman and Hagar 1972).

Evolutionary Psychologists conclude that the assumption that the human mind is composed mainly of a few content-free cognitive processes that are “thought to govern how one acquires a language and a gender identity, an aversion to incest and an appreciation for vistas, a desire for friends and a fear of spiders—indeed, nearly every thought and feeling of which humans are capable” (Ermer et al. 2007, 155) is inadequate. Such mechanisms would be “limited to knowing what can be validly derived by general processes from perceptual information” (Cosmides and Tooby 1994, 92) and thus incapable of efficiently solving adaptive problems (see section 2d). Instead, Evolutionary Psychologists claim, “our cognitive architecture resembles a confederation of hundreds or thousands of functionally dedicated computers” (Tooby and Cosmides 1995, xiii), the so-called “modules”:

Modularity: The mind consists of a (possibly large) number of domain-specific, innately specified cognitive subsystems, called “modules.”

c. Adaptationism

Since cognitive mechanisms are not directly observable, studying them requires some indirect way of discovering them (see section 2b). Evolutionary Psychologists adopt the kind of adaptationist reasoning well known from evolutionary biology that also characterizes many works in sociobiology (Wilson 1975). Ever since Charles Darwin (1859/1964) proposed his theory of evolution by natural selection, evolutionary biologists quite successfully offer adaptationist explanations of physiological features of living things that explain the presence of a trait by claiming that it is an adaptation, that is, a trait current organisms possess because it enhanced their ancestors’ fitness. During the 1970s, sociobiologists argued that “social behaviors [too] are shaped by natural selection” (Lumsden and Wilson 1981, 99; for the original manifesto of sociobiology see Wilson 1975) and started to seek adaptationist explanations for cognitive, cultural, and social traits, like the ability to behave altruistically, different mating preferences in males and females, or the frequently observed parent-offspring conflicts.

Evolutionary Psychologists have inherited sociobiology’s adaptationist program: “The core idea … is that many psychological characteristics are adaptations—just as many physical characteristics are—and that the principles of evolutionary biology that are used to explain our bodies are equally applicable to our minds” (Durrant and Ellis 2003, 5). Our mind, they argue, is a complex, functionally integrated collection of cognitive mechanisms, and since the only known natural process that can bring about such functional complexity is evolution by natural selection (Cosmides and Tooby 1991, 493; Symons 1987, 126; Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 382), these cognitive mechanisms are likely to be adaptations to the adaptive problems of our ancestors. This, Evolutionary Psychologists hold, intimately links psychology with evolutionary theory: “Because the architecture of the human mind acquired its functional organization through the evolutionary process, theories of adaptive function are the logical foundation on which to build theories of the design of cognitive mechanisms” (Ermer et al. 2007, 153–4). While evolutionary theory is used to describe the relevant ancestral problems and to make educated guesses about the information processing cognitive mechanisms that have been shaped by natural selection in response, the task of psychology is to establish that current humans actually possess these mechanisms (see section 2b).

Adaptationism: The human mind, like any other complex feature, was shaped by a process of evolution through natural selection. Its subsystems, the modules, are adaptations for solving recurrent information processing problems that arose in our ancestors’ evolutionary environment.

2. Key Concepts and Arguments

According to Evolutionary Psychology, the human mind is a set of cognitive adaptations designed by natural selection. Since such design takes time, the adaptive problems that shaped our mind are not the ones we know from our life as industrialists during the past 200 years, or from our life as agriculturalists during the past 10,000 years, but those characteristic of our past life as hunter-gatherers. Since these problems varied considerably, the human mind contains many problem-specific adaptations. The task of Evolutionary Psychology is to discover these modules by means of what is called a “functional analysis,” where one starts with hypotheses about the adaptive problems faced by our ancestors, and then tries to infer the cognitive adaptations that must have evolved to solve them.

This theoretical framework of Evolutionary Psychology centers on a couple of key ideas which will be explained in this section: (1) The cognitive mechanisms that underlie our behavior are adaptations. (2) They have to be discovered by means of functional analysis. (3) They are adaptations for solving recurrent adaptive problems in the evolutionary environment of our ancestors. (4) Our mind is a complex set of such mechanisms, or domain-specific modules. (5) These modules define our universal human nature.

a. Adaptation and Adaptivity

That our evolutionary history influenced not only our bodies, but also our brains, and thus our minds, is not very controversial. But how exactly has evolution affected the way we are, mind-wise? How exactly can evolutionary theory elucidate the structure and function of the human mind?

It may seem that “behavioral traits are like any other class of characters” (Futuyama 1998, 579), so that they can be subject to natural selection in the same way as physiological traits. In that case, an evolutionary study of human behavior could then proceed by studying behavioral variants and see which of them are adaptive and which selectively neutral or detrimental. However, since natural selection is heritable variation in fitness, it can act only on entities that are transmitted between generations, and behavior as such is not directly transmitted between generations, but only via the genes that code for the proximal cognitive mechanisms that trigger it. Hence, “[t]o speak of natural selection as selecting for ‘behaviors’ is a convenient shorthand, but it is misleading usage. … Natural selection cannot select for behavior per se; it can only select for mechanisms that produce behavior” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 281).

Hence, an evolutionary approach to human psychology must proceed by studying the cognitive mechanisms that underlie our behavior: “In the rush to apply evolutionary insights to a science of human behavior, many researchers have made a conceptual ‘wrong turn,’ … [which] has consisted of attempting to apply evolutionary theory directly to the level of manifest behavior, rather than using it as a heuristic guide for the discovery of innate psychological mechanisms” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 278–9). By sharply distinguishing between adaptive behavior and the cognitive mechanisms that are adaptations for producing adaptive behavior, Evolutionary Psychologists provide “the missing link between evolutionary theory and manifest behavior” (Tooby and Cosmides 1989, 37). [The drawback is that things become more complicated since “it is less easy to sustain claims that a trait is a product of natural selection than claims that it confers reproductive benefits on individuals in contemporary populations” (Caro and Borgerhoff Mulder 1987, 66). Section 2b shows how Evolutionary Psychologists try to cope with this difficulty, and section 5a discusses a version of evolutionary psychology that focuses on adaptive behavior.]

We quite often do things detrimental to survival and reproduction (we use contraceptives, consume unhealthy doses of fatty food, and blow ourselves up in the middle of crowded market places). We also willfully refrain from doing things that would be conducive to survival (buy some healthy food, exercise) or boost our potential for reproduction (donate our sperm or eggs to cryobanks). If Evolutionary Psychology is right that our mind contains cognitive mechanisms that are adaptations for producing adaptive behavior, then why are we behaving maladaptively so often?

The claim that the brain is an adaptation for producing adaptive behavior does not entail that it is currently producing adaptive behavior. Adaptations are traits that are present today because of the selective advantage they offered in the past, and the past environment arguably differed notably from the current one. The modern metropolis in which we live in unprecedented large groups, consume fast food and use contraceptives is not even 100 years old, and even agriculture arose only some 10,000 years ago. Compared to this, our ancestors spent an unimaginably long time in Pleistocene conditions (roughly, the period spanning 1.8 million years ago to 10,000 years ago) living in small nomadic hunter-gatherer bands. The cognitive mechanisms produced by natural selection are adaptations for producing adaptive behavior in these circumstances, not for playing chess, passing logic exams, navigating through lower Manhattan, or keeping ideal weight in an environment full of fast food restaurants. [Which is why we are so bad at these things: “it is highly unlikely that the cognitive architecture of the human mind includes procedures that are dedicated to solving any of these problems: The ability to solve them would not have enhanced the survival or reproduction of the average Pleistocene hunter-gatherer” and hence “the performance of modern humans on such tasks is generally poor and uneven” (Cosmides and Tooby 1994, 95).]

Among the day-to-day problems of our ancestors that shaped the human mind are: “giving birth, winning social support from band members, remembering the locations of edible plants, hitting game animals with projectiles, …, recognizing emotional expressions, protecting family members, maintaining mating relationships, …, assessing the character of self and others, causing impregnation, acquiring language, maintaining friendships, thwarting antagonists, and so on” (Cosmides and Tooby 2003, 59). In these areas, we still behave the way we do because our behavior is guided by cognitive mechanisms that have been selected for because they produced behavior that was adaptive in our ancestors’ evolutionary environment. As Evolutionary Psychologists colorfully put it: “Our modern skulls house a Stone Age mind” (Cosmides and Tooby 1997, 85).

It is thus crucial to distinguish between a trait’s being an adaptation and its being adaptive. A trait is an adaptation if it was “designed” by natural selection to solve the specific problems posed by the regularities of the physical, chemical, ecological, informational, and social environments encountered by the ancestors of a species during the course of its evolution” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 383), while a trait is adaptive if it currently enhances its bearer’s fitness. Since the environment in which a trait was selected for may differ from the current one, “[t]he hypothesis that a trait is an adaptation does not imply that the trait is currently adaptive” (Symons 1990, 430). But if cognitive adaptations can neither be discovered in the brain, nor by observing current human behavior, how can they be studied?

b. Functional Analysis

Verifying the claim that a trait is an adaptation is difficult because this is essentially a historical claim. A trait is an adaptation because it was adaptive in the past, and it is unclear what the past was like, let alone what would have been adaptive under past conditions. According to Evolutionary Psychology, however, it is possible to verify adaptationist claims:

Researchers can identify an aspect of an organism’s physical, developmental, or psychological structure … as an adaptation by showing that (1) it has many design features that are improbably well suited to solving an ancestral adaptive problem, (2) these phenotypic properties are unlikely to have arisen by chance alone, and (3) they are not better explained as the by-product of mechanisms designed to solve some alternative adaptive problem or some more inclusive class of adaptive problem. Finding that a reliably developing feature of the species’ architecture solves an adaptive problem with reliability, precision, efficiency, and economy is prima facie evidence that an adaptation has been located. (Tooby and Cosmides 2005, 28)

What Tooby and Cosmides suggest is a procedure known as functional analysis. One uses evolutionary reasoning to identify the adaptive problems our ancestors presumably awaited in their evolutionary environment, infers from this the cognitive mechanisms that one thinks must have evolved to solve these problems, conducts psychological experiments to show that they are actually found in current human beings, and rules out alternative explanations.

A bit more precisely, identifying adaptations by means of functional analysis proceeds in six steps (Tooby and Cosmides 1989, 40–1):

Step 1 uses evolutionary considerations to formulate a model of the past adaptive problems the human mind had to solve.

Step 2 generates hypotheses about exactly how these problems would have manifested themselves under the selection pressures present in the evolutionary environment of our ancestors.

Step 3 formulates a “computational theory” that specifies “a catalog of the specific information processing problems” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 289) that had to be solved to overcome the adaptive problems identified in step 2.

Step 4 uses the computational theory “as a heuristic for generating testable hypotheses about the structure of the cognitive programs that solve the adaptive problems in question” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 302).

Step 5 rules out alternative accounts of the cognitive mechanisms in question that do not treat them as the result of evolution by natural selection.

Step 6 tests the adaptationist hypotheses by checking whether modern Homo sapiens indeed possess the cognitive mechanisms postulated in step 4. If this test is successful, Evolutionary Psychologists contend, it is quite likely that the cognitive mechanisms are indeed adaptations for solving the problems identified in step 1. (For examples of empirical research that, by and large, follow this theoretical framework, see section 3.)

(One may add a seventh step which tries to discover the neural basis of the cognitive mechanisms, so that eventually theories of adaptive problems guide the search for the cognitive mechanisms that solve them, while knowing what cognitive mechanisms exist in turn guides the search for their neural basis.)

The procedure of functional analysis shows what sort of evidence would support the claim that a cognitive mechanism is an adaptation for solving a given adaptive problem. However, since functional analysis itself relies on hypotheses about the adaptive problems prevalent in our ancestors’ past, the obvious question is: How can we today know with any certainty which adaptive problems our ancestors faced?

c. The Environment of Evolutionary Adaptedness

Since the “description of ancestral conditions is one indispensable aspect of characterizing an adaptation” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 387), discovering the mind’s modules requires knowing what exactly the environment that Bowlby (1969) calls the environment of evolutionary adaptedness (EEA) looked like. The human EEA consists in the set of environmental conditions encountered by human populations during the Pleistocene (from 1.8 million years ago to 10,000 years ago), when early hominids lived on the savannahs of eastern Africa as hunter-gatherers. Yet, the EEA “is not a place or a habitat, or even a time period. Rather, it is a statistical composite of the adaptation-relevant properties of the ancestral environments encountered by members of ancestral populations, weighted by their frequency and fitness consequences” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 386–7). More specifically, it is a “composite of environmental properties of the most recent segment of a species’ evolution that encompasses the period during which its modern collection of adaptations assumed their present form” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 388). Importantly, “different adaptations will have different EEAs. Some, like language, are firmly anchored in approximately the last two million years; others, such as infant attachment, reflect a much lengthier evolutionary history” (Durrant and Ellis 2003, 10). Speaking about the EEA is thus at least misleading, since strictly speaking one has to distinguish between the EEA of a species and the EEA of particular cognitive adaptations.

There are two crucial questions with regard to the EEA: First, why suppose that our cognitive mechanisms, even if they are adaptations, are adaptations to exactly the problems faced by our ancestors in the EEA? Second, how can we today determine the EEA of a particular adaptation in enough detail?

Evolutionary Psychologists offer two related arguments in response to the first question. The first draws attention to the large amount of time our ancestors spent in Pleistocene conditions compared to the brief stretch of time that has passed since the advent of agriculture or industrialization: “Our species spent over 99% of its evolutionary history as hunter-gatherers in Pleistocene environments. Human psychological mechanisms should be adapted to those environments, not necessarily to the twentieth-century industrialized world” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 280). The second argument maintains that since natural selection is a slow process, there just have not been enough generations for it to design new cognitive mechanisms that are well-adapted to our post-agricultural industrial life: “It is no more plausible to believe that whole new mental organs could evolve since the Pleistocene … than it is to believe that whole new physical organs such as eyes would evolve over brief spans. … [and] major and intricate changes in innately specified information-processing procedures present in human psychological mechanisms do not seem likely to have taken place over brief spans of historical time” (Tooby and Cosmides 1989, 34).

Both arguments seem to suffer from the same difficulty. The 10,000 years that have passed since the Pleistocene correspond to roughly 400 generations, and if the selection pressure and the heritability (roughly, a measure of the response to selection) are high enough, quite a lot can happen in 400 generations. In particular, no one needs to hold that “whole new mental organs could evolve since the Pleistocene.” In order to undermine the claim that we are walking fossils with Stone Age minds in our heads, it is sufficient to show that significant changes can occur within 400 generations. The same observation threatens the first argument: How much time our ancestors spent in one environment as compared to another is completely irrelevant, if the selection pressures in one differ radically from those in the other.

In response to the second question, Evolutionary Psychologists point out that, first, we can be relatively sure that the physical conditions were comparable to the ones today—”an enormous number of factors, from the properties of light to chemical laws to the existence of parasites, have stably endured” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 390)—and, second, we can be relatively certain on paleontological grounds that a great deal of our ancestors spend a great deal of their time on African savannahs as hunter-gatherers. Yet, since it is in response to the social problems faced by our ancestors that our cognitive adaptations are said to have evolved, what matters is not so much the physical environment (which may have stayed constant, by and large) but the social environment, and the question is what we can know with any certainty about the social life of our ancestors, given that social traits do not fossilize.

Evolutionary Psychologists contend that with regard to the social environment little has changed, too: our ancestors arguably had to attract and retain mates, provide care for their children, understand the intentions and emotions of those with whom they engaged in social exchange, and so forth, just as we do. However, such general knowledge about the EEA seems to be of little use, for discovering cognitive adaptations requires formulating a computational theory that provides “a catalog of the specific information processing problems” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 289; italics added), and that goes significantly beyond being told that our ancestors had to find mates, care for children, find food and so forth (for more on this see section 4c).

d. Domain-specificity and Modularity

Empiricism in philosophy, behaviorism in psychology and the rules and representation approach to artificial cognitive systems characteristic of GOFAI (“good old fashioned artificial intelligence”), roughly speaking, shared the belief that our mind contains only a few domain-general cognitive mechanisms that account for everything we can learn, be it speaking and understanding a language, solving algebra equations, playing chess or driving a bike. In contrast, Evolutionary Psychologists insist that “[f]rom an evolutionary perspective, the human cognitive architecture is far more likely to resemble a confederation of hundreds or thousands of functionally dedicated computers … than it is to resemble a single general purpose computer equipped with a small number of domain-general procedures” (Tooby and Cosmides 2000, 1171).

Evolutionary Psychologists have advanced three arguments for this modularity, or massive modularity, hypothesis. In short, a domain-general psychological architecture cannot guide behavior in ways that promote fitness for at least three related reasons:

  1. What counts as fit behavior differs from domain to domain, so there is no domain-general criterion of success or failure that correlates with fitness.
  2. Adaptive courses of action can be neither deduced nor learned by general criteria, because they depend on statistical relationships between features of the environment, behavior, and fitness that emerge over many generations and are, therefore, not observable during a single lifetime.
  3. Combinatorial explosion paralyzes any truly domain-general system when encountering real-world complexity. (Cosmides and Tooby 1994, 91)

Simply put, the idea behind the first argument is that “[t]here is no such thing as a ‘general problem solver’ because there is no such thing as a general problem” (Symons 1992, 142). Our ancestors faced a host of different adaptive problems, and “different adaptive problems frequently have different optimal solutions” (Cosmides and Tooby 1991, 500): what counts as a successful solution to one, say choosing a mate, arguably differs from what counts as a successful solution to another, say choosing nutritious food. Hence, there is no domain-general criterion of success or failure: “A woman who used the same taste preference mechanisms in choosing a mate that she used to choose nutritious foods would choose a very strange mate indeed, and such a design would rapidly select itself out” (Cosmides and Tooby 1994, 90). Hence, because different solutions can be implemented only by different, functionally distinct mechanisms, there must be as many domain-specific subsystems as there are domains in which the definitions of successful behavior differ. “The human mind … is composed of many different programs for the same reason that a carpenter’s toolbox contains many different tools: Different problems require different solutions” (Tooby and Cosmides 2000, 1168). In response to this argument, the critics have pointed out that there is no reason why a cognitive system that relies on a few domain-general mechanisms that are fed with innate domain-specific information should not be as good as a modular cognitive architecture (see, for example, Samuels 1998, 587).

According to the second argument, a domain general decision rule such as “Do that which maximizes your inclusive fitness” cannot efficiently guide behavior because whether or not a behavior is fitness enhancing is something an individual often cannot find out within its own lifetime, given that the fitness impact of a design feature relative to alternative designs “is inherently unobservable at the time the design alternative actually impacts the world, and therefore cannot function as a cue for a decision rule” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990b, 417). As Buss has put it: “the relevant fitness information only becomes known generations later and hence is not accessible to individual actors” (Buss 1995, 10). For instance, whether one should prefer fatty food over vegetables, or whether one should decide to have children with potential partner A or with rival B are behavioral decisions whose impact on one’s fitness clearly cannot be learned empirically at the time these decisions have to be made. While in the former case, it may help to have a look at what others are doing, that strategy is of no avail in the latter case. And even in the former case the appeal to the possibility of learning from others only pushes the problem one step further because “[i]mitation is useless unless those imitated have themselves solved the problem of the adaptive regulation of behavior” (Cosmides and Tooby 1987, 295).

As Ermer et al. (2007) have put the point, the problem for domain-general cognitive architectures is that we are living in “clueless environments”:

Content-free architectures are limited to knowing what can be validly derived by general processes from perceptual information available during an individual’s lifetime. This sharply limits the range of problems they can solve: When the environment is clueless, the mechanism will be, too. Domain-specific mechanisms are not limited in this way. They can be constructed to embody clues that fill in the blanks when perceptual evidence is lacking or difficult to obtain (Ermer et al. 2007, 157).

At this point, a natural question to ask for the critic would be how natural selection is supposed to operate if “relevant fitness information” is indeed not available. As Buss puts it: would the result of a really “clueless environment” not be extinction, rather than adaptation?

Cosmides and Tooby’s third argument for the claim that domain-general systems could not live up to the tasks our mind regularly solves concerns the general computational problems faced by such systems. As they put it, a domain-general architecture “is defined by what it lacks: It lacks any content, either in the form of domain-specific knowledge or domain-specific procedures, that can guide it toward the solution of an adaptive problem” (Cosmides and Tooby 1994, 94). Therefore, they argue, a domain-general system must evaluate all alternatives it can define, and this raises an obvious problem: “Permutations being what they are, alternatives increase exponentially as the problem complexity increases. By the time you analyze any biological problem of routine complexity, a mechanism that contains no domain-specific rules of relevance, procedural knowledge, or privileged hypotheses could not solve the problem in the amount of time the organism has to solve it” (Cosmides and Tooby 1994, 94). Given that a specialization-free architecture contains no rules of relevance, or domain-specialized procedural knowledge, to restrict its search of a problem space, it could not solve any biological problem of routine complexity in time.

These theoretical considerations (see Samuels 1998 and Buller 2005, ch. 4 for criticism), together with the empirical support for the modularity hypothesis that comes from cognitive science (see section 1b), have led Evolutionary Psychologists to the conclusion that “the mind is organized into modules or mental organs, each with a specialized design that makes it an expert in one area of interaction with the world” (Pinker 1997, 21). The mind is a Swiss Army knife containing evolved, functionally specialized computational devices like, for example, “face recognition systems, a language acquisition device, mindreading systems, navigation specializations, animate motion recognition, cheater detection mechanisms, and mechanisms that govern sexual attraction” (Cosmides and Tooby 2003, 63).

Although there can be little doubt that the mind is modular to some extent, it is currently a hotly debated question exactly how modular it is. Is it really massively modular in the sense that it is a collection of hundreds or thousands of modules, or is it modular in a weaker sense (see, for example, the debate between Carruthers 2006, Prinz 2006, and Samuels 2006)? Interestingly, even the most ardent advocates of Evolutionary Psychology have recently acknowledged that “[t]he mind presumably does contain a number of functionally specialized programs that are relatively content-free and domain-general,” but they have insisted that “these can regulate behavior adaptively only if they work in tandem with a bevy of content-rich, domain-specialized ones …” (Ermer et al. 2007, 156; see also Tooby and Cosmides 1998, 200).

e. Human Nature

According to Evolutionary Psychologists, since the modules of which the human mind is made up have been constantly selected for during a vast stretch of time there is ample reason to think that “human universals … exist at the level of the functionally described psychological mechanism” (Tooby and Cosmides 1989, 36; italics added). That is, the modules discovered by functional analysis constitute “an array of psychological mechanisms that is universal among Homo sapiens” (Symons 1992, 139), they are “the psychological universals that constitute human nature” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990a, 19). As a consequence, Evolutionary Psychology has the potential to discover a “human nature [that] is everywhere the same” (Tooby and Cosmides 1992, 38).

Apart from the observation that enough time has passed with constant selection pressures for our cognitive modules virtually being driven to fixation, Cosmides and Tooby have offered two arguments for the universality of our psychological adaptations (see also Buller 2005, 73–4). The first argument is more or less a plausibility argument, according to which since our bodies and our minds are both the result of evolution by natural selection, and our bodies are universal, so should be our minds:

[T]he fact that any given page out of Gray’s Anatomy describes in precise anatomical detail individual humans from around the world demonstrates the pronounced monomorphism present in complex human physiological adaptations. Although we cannot directly ‘see’ psychological adaptations …, no less could be true of them. (Tooby and Cosmides 1992, 38)

The second argument first appeared in Tooby and Cosmides (1990a), has been repeated in Tooby and Cosmides (1992) and is treated by Evolutionary Psychologists as a definite proof of universal panhuman design. In a nutshell, the argument is that since in sexual reproduction a child’s genome is a mixture of its father’s and its mother’s genes, and since cognitive adaptations are complex and thus not coded for by a single gene but require hundreds or thousands of genes to work in concert for their development, “it is improbable that all of the genes necessary for a complex adaptation would be together in the same individual if the genes coding for the components of complex adaptations varied substantially between individuals” (Tooby and Cosmides 1992, 78–9).

If there is a complex series of interdependent adaptations required to produce a sex, a behavioral strategy, or a personality type, there is only one way to ensure the necessary coordination. All of the parts of the genetic programs necessary to build the integrated design must be present when needed in every individual of a given type. The only way that the 50 genes, or 100 genes, or 1,000 genes that may be required to assemble all of the features defining a given type can rely on each other’s mutual presence is that they are all present in every individual. (Tooby and Cosmides 1990a, 45)

Evolutionary Psychologists are thus not claiming that human behavior or culture is the same everywhere. Quite obviously, there is significant behavioral and cultural diversity throughout the world. What they claim is that the genes that are required for our cognitive adaptations to develop, and thus the cognitive adaptations themselves, must be the same all over the world, although, of course, the behavior that results from them may differ (for more on this, see section 4a).

3. Examples of Empirical Research

Evolutionary Psychology has sparked an enormous amount of empirical research covering nearly any imaginable topic, including issues as diverse as language, morality, emotions, parental investment, homicide, social coercion, rape, psychopathologies, landscape preferences, spatial abilities, or pregnancy sickness (see, for example, Buss 1999, 2005; Barkow et al. 1992 for an overview).

For instance, Margie Profet (1992) has argued that pregnancy sickness—a set of symptoms like food aversion, nausea, and vomiting that some women experience during the first three months of pregnancy—is an adaptation for protecting the embryo against maternal ingestion of toxins abundant in natural foods by lowering the typical human threshold of tolerance to toxins during the period of the embryo’s maximum susceptibility to toxins. Irwin Silverman and Marion Eals (1992) have argued that from an evolutionary point of view the male advantage in spatial abilities usually found in psychological experiments does not make sense. Although hunting, the primary task of our male ancestors, clearly required spatial abilities, no less is true of gathering plants, the primary task of our female ancestors. In order to be efficient foragers, our female ancestors must have been able to encode and remember the locations of thousands of different plants. When Silverman and Eals designed spatial tests that measured subjects’ ability to recall the location of items in a complex array or objects in a room, they found that women indeed consistently recalled more objects than men did, and recalled their location more accurately.

David Buss has argued that there are major differences between males and females regarding mate choice and jealousy that are evolved responses to different selection pressures (see, for example, Buss 1992, 1994, 2000; Buss and Schmitt 1993). For instance, he reasoned that because men need to guard against cuckoldry, while women need to guard against losing their mate’s economic resources, men should be concerned more by signs of sexual infidelity than about the loss of their partner’s emotional attachment, while women should be troubled more by cues that signal emotional infidelity than by signs of sexual infidelity. Buss et al. (1992) asked males and females from the USA, Europe and Asia whether they would be more distressed by sexual or emotional infidelity:

Please think of a serious committed romantic relationship that you have had in the past, that you currently have, or that you would like to have. Imagine that you discover that the person with whom you’ve been seriously involved became interested in someone else. What would distress or upset you more (please circle only one):

(A) Imagining your partner forming a deep emotional attachment to that person.

(B) Imagining your partner enjoying passionate sexual intercourse with that other person.

(Buss et al. 1992, 252)

Nowhere did women report sexual infidelity to be more upsetting than men, and on average, 51% of the men, but only 22% of the women chose option B above (for data and critical discussion, see Buller 2005, 316–45). These results have been taken to confirm Buss’ evolutionary hypothesis about sex differences with regard to jealousy (for a dissenting view see, for example, DeSteno and Salovey 1996; Harris and Christenfeld 1996).

The flagship example of Evolutionary Psychology is still Cosmides and Tooby’s work on cheater detection. In the 1960s, the Swedish psychologist Peter Wason devised the so-called “Wason Selection Task” in order to investigate how good subjects are at checking conditional rules (Wason 1966). He gave subjects a rule of the form “If P, then Q” (for example, “If a person goes to Boston, then that person takes the subway”), and showed them four cards. Two of the cards exemplified the P– and not-P-option, respectively (for example, “Boston” and “New York”), and two of them exemplified the Q and not-Q-option, respectively (for example, “subway” and “cab”). The subjects were told that the unseen sides of the P and not-P-cards could contain an instance of either Q or not-Q, and vice versa, and that they should indicate all and only the cards that would definitely have to be turned over in order to determine whether they violated the rule. Since a material conditional is false if and only if its antecedent is true and its consequent is false, the logically correct response would be to pick the P– and the not-Q-card. However, Wason discovered that most subjects choose either only the P-card or the P– and the Q-card, while few choose the P– and the not-Q-card. More importantly, subjects’ performance was apparently influenced by the content of the rules. While 48% correctly solved the Boston/transportation problem, successful performance dropped to less then 25% for the rule “If a person has a ‘D’ rating, then his documents must be marked code ‘3’” (with the options ‘D’, ‘F’, ‘3’, ‘7’), and increased to nearly 75% for the rule “If a person is drinking beer, then he must be over 21 years old” (with the options “drinking beer,” “drinking coke,” “25 years old,” “16 years old”) (Cosmides and Tooby 1992, 182–3). By the 1980s, the psychological literature was full with reports of such “content effects,” but there was no satisfying theory to explain them.

Evolutionary biologists had long been puzzled by our ability to engage in altruistic behavior—behavior an individual A performs for the benefit of another individual B, associated with some significant cost for A (like warning calls, help in raising offspring, saving a drowning child, and so forth). How could a tendency to behave in a way that increases another individual’s fitness at some non-negligible cost to oneself be produced and retained by natural selection? Robert Trivers (1971) argued that altruistic behavior can evolve if it is reciprocal, that is, if A‘s act a has benefit bB for B and cost cA for A, B reciprocates with some act a* with benefit bA for A and cost cB for B, where bA outweighs cA and bB outweighs cB. Interactions that satisfy this cost-benefit structure constitute what is called a “social exchange.” Since in social exchanges both A and B incur a net-benefit, Trivers reasoned, altruistic behavior can evolve. Yet, the problem is that once a propensity for altruistic behavior has evolved, it is obviously better for an individual to cheat by accepting the benefit of an altruistic act without paying the cost of reciprocation. In the long run, this would lead to an increase in the number of cheaters until altruism was driven to extinction. In order for altruism to evolve, Trivers (1971, 48) concluded, natural selection must “favor more acute abilities to detect cheating.”

Cosmides and Tooby saw a connection between the need to detect cheaters in acts of social exchange and the content effect discovered by Wason (Cosmides 1989; Cosmides and Tooby 1989, 1992). Since the ability to test abstract logical rules would not have had any adaptive value in the EEA, we should not expect natural selection to have endowed the human mind with some general conditional reasoning capacity. Rather, natural selection should have designed a module that allows us to detect those who accept the benefit without reciprocating accordingly in situations of social exchange. Consequently, we should be better at testing social contract rules that say “If person A provides the requested benefit to or meets the requirement of person or group B, then B will provide the rationed benefit to A” (Cosmides and Tooby 2000, 1260) than at testing conditional rules that do not describe such conditions.

When Cosmides and Tooby categorized “content effects according to whether they conformed to social contracts, a striking pattern emerged. Robust and replicable content effects were found only for rules that related terms that are recognizable as benefits and cost/requirements in the format of a standard social contract” (Cosmides and Tooby 1992, 183). They argued that the content effect found in Wason Selection Tasks is due to the fact that some tasks involve a social contract rule.

In order to substantiate this hypothesis, they conducted a series of experiments designed to rule out alternative explanations of the content effects. One plausible explanation, for instance, would be that our cognitive system is able to deal better and more effectively with familiar problems (like the drinking/age problem) than with unfamiliar problems (like the letter/number problem). They therefore compared performance on unfamiliar social rules with performance on unfamiliar non-social rules. If familiarity is the issue, then subjects should perform equally bad on both unfamiliar rules. If, however, the increased performance in the drinking/age problem is due to the fact that here the subjects are dealing with a social contract rule, then performance should be better on the unfamiliar social than on the unfamiliar non-social rule.

Cosmides designed two unfamiliar Wason Selection Tasks. One rule read “If a man eats cassava root, then he must have a tattoo on his face” (with the options “eats cassava root,” “eats molo nuts,” “tattoo,” “no tattoo”). The other read “If you eat duiker meat, then you have found an ostrich eggshell” (with the options “duiker,” “weasel,” “ostrich eggshell,” “quail eggshell”). The first was accompanied by a story according to which the inhabitants of a Polynesian island have strict sexual mores that prohibit sex between unmarried people and thus mark married men with a facial tattoo and do not permit unmarried men to eat cassava root, which is a very powerful aphrodisiac. The second story said that anthropologists who notice that the natives frequently say that if someone eats duiker meat, then he has found an ostrich shell hypothesize that this is because duikers often feed on ostrich shells. Thus, the first rule clearly represents a social contract—having a tattoo is the requirement one has to meet if one is being permitted the benefit of eating cassava root—while the second is a non-social rule which simply expresses the hypothesis that duikers and ostrich eggs are frequently found in close proximity.

The results confirmed the cheater detection prediction (Cosmides and Tooby 1992, 186–7): 75% correctly answered the unfamiliar social problem, but only 21% the unfamiliar non-social problem.

Cosmides also hypothesized that if there is a cheater detection module, then subjects should pick the cards that represent cheating even if they correspond to the logically incorrect answer. She thus switched the logical role of the P/not-P– and the Q/not-Q-cards in both the cassava root/tattoo and the duiker meat/ostrich shell problem. The switched rules read “If a man has a tattoo on his face, then he eats cassava root” and “If you have found an ostrich eggshell, then you eat duiker meat.” Since the not-P– and the Q-card (“no tattoo” and “eats cassava root”) still represent accepting a benefit without meeting the requirement, the cheater detection hypothesis predicts that subjects should pick the logically incorrect cards in the first case, whereas performance in the ostrich shell/duiker meat case should be unaffected. Again, the prediction was confirmed (Cosmides and Tooby 1992, 188–9): 67% of the subjects chose the logically incorrect not-P– and Q-cards in response to the switched social problem, but only 4% did so for the switched non-social problem. (For a criticism of Cosmides and Tooby’s work on cheater detection and for further references see Buller 2005, 163–90.)

4. Problems and Objections

Evolutionary Psychology is a successful research program, but it has its problems. Some difficulties have already been mentioned in section 2 in connection with the theoretical underpinnings of Evolutionary Psychology (for a recent critique of Evolutionary Psychology at a methodological and conceptual level see Panksepp and Panksepp 2000). These and a couple of others will be briefly reviewed in this section.

a. Genetic Determinism

One of the most often heard criticisms is also one of the least convincing. The charge is that Evolutionary Psychology is committed to, or at least willfully embraces, a genetic determinism according to which our behavior is determined by our genetic make-up, which, since it is a human universal, cannot be influenced by means of social learning, education, and so forth, Dorothy Nelkin (2000, 27), for instance, claims that Evolutionary Psychology implies “genetic destiny,” and Robin Dunbar maintains that it seems “to be looking for genetically determined characters that are universally valid for all humans,” observing that this makes little sense because the “number of genuinely universal traits are … likely to run to single figures at most” (Dunbar 1988, 168).

It is true that Evolutionary Psychologists are looking for human universals, and it is also true that they think that if humans were not genetically very similar, there could be no cognitive adaptations (see section 2e). Yet, they are not committed to “a form of ‘genetic determinism,’ if by that one means the idea that genes determine everything, immune from an environmental influence” (Tooby and Cosmides 1990a, 19). Their claim is that the cognitive mechanisms underlying behavior are human universals, and that does not entail that our behavior is genetically determined, or the same all over the world. Quite the contrary: It is universally agreed among Evolutionary Psychologists that behavior, like any other human trait, is the result of the complex interplay between genetic and environmental factors. Genetic determinism is false because “every feature of every phenotype is fully and equally codetermined by the interaction of the organism’s genes … and its ontogenetic environments” (Tooby and Cosmides 1992, 83; italics added), as is nicely illustrated by the fact that not even genetic clones, monozygotic twins, are phenotypically identical. In fact, work in Evolutionary Psychology has emphasized the highly flexible and contingent nature of cognitive adaptations. For instance, Martin Daly and Margo Wilson’s often cited work on violence toward children by stepparents (for example, Daly and Wilson 1988a, 1988b) is in fact entirely concerned with contextual factors—the presence of a stepparent in a household, they argue, is one of the primary predictors of fatal violence toward children.

b. Moral and Societal Issues

A related charge is that Evolutionary Psychology is defending the status quo regarding sex, race, intelligence differences, and so forth, by arguing that, first, there is nothing we can do, given that these differences are the result of our hard-wired cognitive mechanisms, and, second, there is no need to do something, because these differences, being the result of natural selection, are optimal solutions to longstanding adaptive problems.

The first claim is just wrong. As seen in section 4a, it is not “all in our genes” because the environment heavily influences what behavior issues forth from cognitive mechanisms, even if the latter are evolutionarily hard-wired.

The second claim is an instance of what many scholars would regard as the fallacious inference from “is” to “ought” (see Naturalistic Fallacy). As Robert Kurzban (2002) has pointed out, Evolutionary Psychologists are well aware that it is illegitimate to move from the first to the second, that there is a difference “between science, which can help us to understand what is, and morality, which concerns questions about what ought to be.” Regarding cognitive adaptations, one cannot infer “ought” from “is” because (1) there is no guarantee that natural selection always finds an optimal solution, (2) since the environment has changed, something that was good for our ancestors may no longer be good for us, and (3) the sense in which it was “good” for our ancestors that, say, they possessed a cognitive mechanism that pre-disposed them to kill children of their mating partners that were not their own (“good” in the sense of “fitness increasing”) is definitely not the sense of “good” that is relevant to ethical discourse (“good” in the sense of “morally praiseworthy/obligatory”).

c. Untestability and Story Telling

One of the key problems for Evolutionary Psychologists is to show that the adaptationist explanations they offer are indeed explanations properly so called and not mere “just-so-stories” that feature plausible scenarios without its being certain that they are historical fact. Stephen Jay Gould, for instance, who famously criticized evolutionary biology for its unreflected and widespread adaptationism that tends to ignore other plausible evolutionary explanations (Gould and Lewontin 1979), has argued that the sole task of Evolutionary Psychology has become “a speculative search for reasons why a behavior that harms us now must once have originated for adaptive purposes” (Gould 2000, 119).

There is something to this charge, but things are more difficult. Evolutionary Psychologists stress that “[i]t is difficult to reconcile such claims with the actual practice of EP, since in evolutionary psychology the evolutionary model or prediction typically precedes and causes the discovery of new facts, rather than being constructed post hoc to fit some known fact” (Sell et al. 2003, 52). The discussion of functional analysis in section 2b has shown that there is a clear sense in which adaptationist hypotheses can be tested: functional analysis predicts the existence of yet unknown cognitive mechanisms on the grounds of evolutionary reasoning about potential adaptive problems in the EEA, and these predictions are then empirically tested. The hypotheses Evolutionary Psychologists derive from their computational theory thus allow them “to devise experiments that make possible the detection and mapping of mechanisms that no one would otherwise have thought to test for in the absence of such theories” (Sell et al. 2003, 48). It is therefore not true that “claims about an EEA usually cannot be tested in principle but only subjected to speculation” (Gould 1997, 51) because if the purported cognitive mechanisms fail to show up in psychological experiments, the adapationist explanation is falsified.

First, however, this holds only for research that conforms to Cosmides and Tooby’s theoretical model (arguably, Cosmides and Tooby’s work on cheater detection, Buss’ work on sex differences with regard to jealousy, and Silverman and Eals’ work on differences in spatial abilities belong to this category). It does not apply to research that does not generate a prediction based on a putative problem, but tries to infer the historical function of an organism’s traits from its current structure. Profet’s work on pregnancy sickness would be a case in point: here, one already knows the trait (pregnancy sickness) and merely speculates about its historic function, in contrast to the other cases, where the existence of the trait (an ability to detect cheaters, sex specific responses to jealousy, or sex specific spatial abilities) is inferred from evolutionary considerations about the problems prevalent in the EEA.

Second, the controversial claim is not that our psychological faculties have evolved. It is that they are adaptations, and, more specifically, adaptations for solving particular adaptive problems. Successful psychological tests that show that current Homo sapiens indeed possesses the hypothesized cognitive mechanisms establish that these traits have evolved, but they fail to establish that they are adaptations, let alone adaptations for, say, detecting cheaters or remembering the location of edible plants. For all these tests tell us, the traits in question could still be exaptations, or even spandrels. In order to show that they are indeed adaptations, a point that is forcefully made by Richardson (2008), additional information would be needed, and it is not clear that this additional information can be had (for a sketch of Richardson’s argument see Walter 2009).

Third, there seems to be a sense in which adaptationist explanations are still “just-so-stories.” Functional analysis relies on claims about the nature of the EEA which cannot be directly verified because there is very little we can know with any confidence about the conditions that obtained in the EEA. As Evolutionary Psychologists like to point out, there are some things which have arguably stayed constant since the EEA:

[R]esearchers know with certainty of high confidence thousands of important things about our ancestors, many of which can be used to derive falsifiable predictions about our psychological architecture: our ancestors had two sexes; contracted infections by contact, collected plant foods; inhabited a world where the motions of objects conformed to the principles of kinematic geometry; had color vision; were predated upon; had faces; lived in a biotic environment with a hierarchical taxonomic structure, and so forth (Sell et al. 2003, 52–3).

The problem is that knowing that our ancestors inhabited a world with two sexes where the motions of objects conformed to the principles of kinematic geometry does not enable us to formulate the adaptive problems our ancestors putatively faced in enough detail. Both our male and female ancestors lived in such a world (as, by the way, did the ancestors of apes, spiders and flies), and yet they evolved different mating strategies, different responses to emotional versus sexual infidelity, different spatial abilities, and so forth. The descriptions of the past adaptive problems that Evolutionary Psychologists rely on in order to explain these differences are much more specific than the platitudes of which we can be relatively certain, and it is unclear how we could ever be confident that we got the specific details right. As Stephen Jay Gould puts it vividly:

But how can we possibly know in detail what small bands of hunter-gatherers did in Africa two million years ago? These ancestors left some tools and bones, and paleoanthropologists can make some ingenious inferences from such evidence. But how can we possibly obtain the key information that would be required to show the validity of adaptive tales about an EEA: relations of kinship, social structures and sizes of groups, different activities of males and females, the roles of religion, symbolizing, storytelling, and a hundred other central aspects of human life that cannot be traced in fossils? (Gould 1997, §31; see also Gould 2000, 120)

In the case of Buss’ research on the evolution of sex differences with regard to jealousy, for instance, we can only hypothesize about such things as group structure and size, mating structures, similarities between ancestral and current group structures, or the alleged differences in mating behavior in ancestral groups that are appealed to or presupposed in the formulation of the adaptive problem (again, a point made convincingly by Richardson 2008).

Of course, as Sell et al. (2003) point out, if our assumptions about our ancestors’ problems are wrong, our computational theory is wrong, too, and should thus predict the existence of cognitive mechanisms that will not be found when checked for empirically. Yet, even if this is so, the two qualifications above apply to this move mutatis mutandis. (For more on the role of historical evidence in the search for adaptations and the kinds of problems that may arise, see Kaplan 2002.)

d. Psychological Inadequacy

In Adapting Minds: Evolutionary Psychology and the Persistent Quest for Human Nature, David Buller argues “not only that the theoretical and methodological doctrines of Evolutionary Psychology are problematic, but that Evolutionary Psychology has not, in fact, produced any solid empirical results” (Buller 2005, 15). What is wrong with Evolutionary Psychology is that the psychological experiments used to establish the existence of the hypothesized cognitive mechanisms in current Homo sapiens are flawed because the data are exiguous, inconclusive and do not support the claims made by Evolutionary Psychologists, as Buller tries to show in detail for the classical studies of Cosmides and Tooby, Buss, and Daly and Wilson on cheater detection, mating strategies, jealousy, and discriminative parenthood. Whereas Richardson (2008) claims that Evolutionary Psychology is problematic as Evolutionary Psychology, Buller challenges the psychological credentials of evolutionary psychology, arguing that Evolutionary Psychology fails as Evolutionary Psychology.

5. Evolutionary Approaches to Mind, Culture, and Behavior: Alternatives to Evolutionary Psychology

In its broad sense, evolutionary psychology attempts to adopt “an evolutionary perspective on human behavior and psychology” (Barrett et al. 2002, 1) by applying Darwinian reasoning to behavioral, cognitive, social, or cultural characteristics of humans. Evolutionary Psychology is one strand of evolutionary psychology, but there are others, and the literature is full of different labels: “sociobiology,” “evolutionary anthropology,” “human behavioral ecology,” “Darwinian psychology,” “gene-culture coevolution,” to name just a few. These approaches share the idea that evolutionary reasoning can enhance our understanding of mind, culture, and society, but they disagree about exactly how Darwinian thinking ought to enter the picture. This is not the place to go into the details, but a brief survey of the theoretical landscape (see Laland and Brown 2002 for a book-length overview) may help to understand the difference between evolutionary psychology as a general field of inquiry and Evolutionary Psychology as a narrowly circumscribed research paradigm.

a. Human Behavioral Ecology

Evolutionary Psychologists insist that an evolutionary approach to human psychology must ask whether a trait is an adaptation, not whether it is currently adaptive. They thereby separate themselves sharply from an approach Symons (1989) dubbed “Darwinian anthropology” that instead focuses on the current adaptiveness of our behavior (for a more reconciliatory approach see, for example, Downes 2001). Human behavioral ecology, as it is nowadays called (Borgerhoff Mulder 1991), originated in the late 1970s when, after the upheaval caused by Wilson’s Sociobiology, some anthropologists decided to go out and test the controversial hypotheses of Wilson and others by means of real data from hunter-gatherer populations (Chagnon and Irons 1979; Hinde 1974). Using quantitative ethnographic information and optimality models, human behavioral ecologists investigate whether and how the current adaptiveness of an individual’s behavior is influenced by its ecological and cultural environment and in which way the different behaviors individuals develop to cope with environmental challenges lead to and account for cultural differences between them.

Natural selection, human behavioral ecologists argue, has created an extraordinary flexibility—known as phenotypic plasticity—that allows our “behavior to assume the form that maximizes inclusive fitness” (Irons 1979, 33) across a wide variety of widely diverse habitats. Since there has been selection for a general phenotypic plasticity, we are not so much “adaptation executers” as rather “fitness maximizers”: “Modern Darwinian theory predicts that human behavior will be … designed to promote maximum reproductive success” (Turke and Betzig 1985, 79; italics added). As a consequence, human behavioral ecologists are less interested in discovering proximal cognitive mechanisms than in checking whether the behavior they trigger is actually adaptive (a strategy known as phenotypic gambit).

b. Memetics

A rather different approach is adopted by memetics (Blackmore 1999; Distin 2005). Memetics tries to explain cultural characteristics and processes and the way they influence our behavior by postulating a process of cultural evolution that is analogous to the process of biological evolution, but largely independent of it. Dawkins (1976) introduced the idea that evolution by natural selection is a substrate neutral process that can act on what he called a “replicator,” that is, any heritable entity for which there is variation in a population and that is associated with different degrees of fitness. The gene, Dawkins said, is the replicator in biological evolution, but the cultural realm also has a replicator, which he famously dubbed a meme: a meme is “a unit of cultural inheritance, hypothesized as analogous to the particulate gene, and as naturally selected in virtue of its phenotypic consequences on its own survival and replication in the cultural environment” (Dawkins 1982, 290). Memes form the substrate of cultural evolution, a process in which different memes are differentially transmitted from individual to individual. One of the key challenges for memetics is to spell out exactly what memes are, and although suggestions abound, there is no agreed consensus [for instance, according to Dawkins “examples of memes are tunes, ideas, catch-phrases, clothes fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches” (Dawkins 1976, 206), while Dennett (1995, 347–8) cites the ideas of the wheel, of wearing clothes, the vendetta, the right triangle, the alphabet, chess, perspective drawing, Impressionism, Greensleeves, and deconstructionism as examples]. Importantly, whatever memes are, they must be sufficiently similar to genes to warrant the claim that cultural evolution is more or less analogous to biological evolution, and critics of memetics argue that this constraint is unlikely to be met (for example, Boyd and Richerson 2000; for a more optimistic view, see Blackmore 1999, ch. 5).

c. Gene-Culture Coevolution

Defenders of what is known as “gene-culture coevolution” or “dual inheritance theory” (Boyd and Richerson 1985, 2005a, 2005b; Cavalli-Sforza and Feldmann 1981; Durham 1991) agree with memetics that transmitted cultural information is too important a factor to be ignored by an evolutionary approach to human culture and behavior. After all, one of the most striking facts about humans is that there are important and persistent differences between human groups that are due to culturally transmitted ideas, and not to genetic, biological, or ecological factors. Yet, although culture is a Darwinian force in its own right, they argue, there is no substantial analogy between cultural and biological evolution. In both processes information is transmitted between individuals and both create patterns of heritable variation, but the differences are much more salient: culture is not based on direct replication but upon teaching, imitation, and other forms of social learning, the transmission of culture is temporally extended and not restricted to parents and their offspring, cultural evolution is not necessarily particulate, and not necessarily random (Boyd and Richerson 2000).

Culture is part of human biology, gene-culture coevolutionists argue, but accounts concerned solely with genetic factors are inadequate because they ignore the fact that culture itself shapes the adaptive environment in which biological evolution takes place by creating a culturally constructed environment in which human genes must evolve. Conversely, accounts aimed solely at explaining cultural replication are also inadequate because they ignore the fact that genes affect cultural evolution, for instance by forming psychological predispositions that bias what people imitate, teach, or are able to learn. Hence, a truly evolutionary approach to culture must acknowledge that genesand culture coevolve, and try to investigate the circumstances under which the cultural habits adopted by individuals are influenced by their genes, and how the natural selection pressures that guide biological evolution may be generated by culture.

6. References and Further Reading

a. Suggested Further Reading

  • Barkow, Jerome, Leda Cosmides, and John Tooby, eds. (1992). The Adapted Mind: Evolutionary Psychology and the Generation of Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • The manifesto of Evolutionary Psychology.
  • Barrett, Louise, Robin Dunbar, and John Lycett, eds. (2002). Human Evolutionary Psychology. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
    • A very useful textbook of evolutionary psychology in the broad sense, covering both Evolutionary Psychology and Human Behavioral Ecology.
  • Buller, David (2005). Adapting Minds: Evolutionary Psychology and the Persistent Quest for Human Nature. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
    • A philosophical critique of Evolutionary Psychology, arguing that the empirical tests Evolutionary Psychologists rely on to establish that current Homo sapiens possesses the postulated cognitive adaptations in the areas of cheater detection, mating, marriage, and parenthood are flawed.
  • Buss, David (1999). Evolutionary Psychology: The New Science of the Mind. Boston: Allyn and Bacon.
    • The textbook of Evolutionary Psychology, written by one of its most ardent advocates.
  • Cosmides, Leda, and John Tooby (1992). “Cognitive Adaptations for Social Exchange.” In: The Adapted Mind: Evolutionary Psychology and the Generation of Culture. Eds. Jerome Barkow, Leda Cosmides, and John Tooby. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 163–228.
    • The classic paper on cheater detection.
  • Dawkins, Richard (1976). The Selfish Gene. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • A must-read for anyone interested in evolutionary biology in general, in which Dawkins introduces the concept of the meme and defends his theory of evolution from the gene’s eye point of view (also known as the “selfish gene theory”) according to which the ultimate beneficiary of the evolutionary process is neither the species, nor the individual, nor a particular trait, but the gene.
  • Laland, Kevin, and Gillian Brown (2002). Sense or Nonsense: Evolutionary Perspectives on Human Behavior. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
    • A highly laudable introduction to sociobiology, Evolutionary Psychology, human behavioral ecology, memetics, and gene-culture coevolution.
  • Pinker, Steven (1997). How the Mind Works. New York: Norton.
    • A very accessible introduction to Evolutionary Psychology and to the kinds of issues discussed in cognitive science in general.
  • Pinker, Steven (2002). The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature. New York: Penguin.
    • Another very accessible introduction to the ideas of Evolutionary Psychology, written by one of the most gifted writers in academia.
  • Richardson, Robert (2008). Evolutionary Psychology as Maladapted Psychology. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
    • A philosophical critique of Evolutionary Psychology from the perspective of evolutionary biology.
  • Samuels, Richard (1998). “Evolutionary Psychology and the Massive Modularity Hypothesis.” British Journal for the Philosophy of Science, 49, 575–602.
    • Criticizes Evolutionary Psychology’s insistence on the domain-specificity of cognitive mechanisms, arguing that a domain-general architecture that uses domain-specific information would be equally good.
  • Tooby, John, and Leda Cosmides (1990a). “On the Universality of Human Nature and the Uniqueness of the Individual: The Role of Genetics and Adaptation.” Journal of Personality, 58, 17–67.
    • Contains Cosmides and Tooby’s genetic argument (discussed in section 2e) for the claim that our cognitive adaptations are human universals.
  • Tooby, John, and Leda Cosmides (2005). “Conceptual Foundations of Evolutionary Psychology.” In: The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology. Ed. David Buss. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 5–67.
    • A brief, but very valuable overview over the theoretical background of Evolutionary Psychology.
  • Wright, Robert (1994). The Moral Animal. The New Science of Evolutionary Psychology. New York: Pantheon Books.
    • A simplifying introduction to Evolutionary Psychology, written for a general audience, included here under “Suggested Readings” only to stress that it is not to be recommended at all for anyone with a serious interest in Evolutionary Psychology.

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Author Information

Author Information

Sven Walter
Email: s.walter@philosophy-online.de
University of Osnabrueck
Germany

Humor

The philosophical study of humor has been focused on the development of a satisfactory definition of humor, which until recently has been treated as roughly co-extensive with laughter. The main task is to develop an adequate theory of just what humor is.

According to the standard analysis, humor theories can be classified into three neatly identifiable groups:incongruity, superiority, and relief theories. Incongruity theory is the leading approach and includes historical figures such as Immanuel Kant, Søren Kierkegaard, and perhaps has its origins in comments made by Aristotle in the Rhetoric. Primarily focusing on the object of humor, this school sees humor as a response to an incongruity, a term broadly used to include ambiguity, logical impossibility, irrelevance, and inappropriateness. The paradigmatic Superiority theorist is Thomas Hobbes, who said that humor arises from a “sudden glory” felt when we recognize our supremacy over others. Plato and Aristotle are generally considered superiority theorists, who emphasize the aggressive feelings that fuel humor. The third group, Relief theory, is typically associated with Sigmund Freud and Herbert Spencer, who saw humor as fundamentally a way to release or save energy generated by repression. In addition, this article will explore a fourth group of theories of humor: play theory. Play theorists are not so much listing necessary conditions for something’s counting as humor, as they are asking us to look at humor as an extension of animal play.

While the task of defining humor is a seemingly simple one, it has proven quite difficult. Each theory attempts to provide a characterization of what is at least at the core of humor. However, these theories are not necessarily competing; they may be seen as simply focusing on different aspects of humor, treating certain aspects as more fundamental than others.

Table of Contents

  1. What Is Humor?
    1. Humor, Laughter, and the Holy Grail
    2. Problems Classifying Theorists
  2. Theories of Humor
    1. Superiority Theory
    2. Relief Theory
    3. Incongruity Theory
    4. Play Theory
    5. Summary of Humor Theories
  3. Reference and Further Reading

1. What is Humor?

Almost every major figure in the history of philosophy has proposed a theory, but after 2500 years of discussion there has been little consensus about what constitutes humor. Despite the number of thinkers who have participated in the debate, the topic of humor is currently understudied in the discipline of philosophy. There are only a few philosophers currently focused on humor-related research, which is most likely due to two factors: the problems in the field have proved incredibly difficult, inviting repeated failures, and the subject is erroneously dismissed as an insignificant concern. Nevertheless, scope and significance of the study of humor is reflected in the interdisciplinary nature of the filed, which draws insights from philosophy, psychology, sociology, anthropology, film, and literature. It is rare to find a philosophical topic that bares such direct relevance to our daily lives, our social interactions, and our nature as humans.

a. Humor, Laughter, Comedy, and the Holy Grail

The majority of the work on humor has been occupied with the following foundational question: What is humor? The word “humor” itself is of relatively recent origin. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, it arose during the 17th century out of psycho-physiological scientific speculation on the effects of various humors that might affect a person’s temperament. Much of the earlier humor research is riddled with equivocations between humor and laughter, and the problem continues into recent discussions. John Dewey states one reason to make the distinction: “The laugh is by no means to be viewed from the standpoint of humor; its connection with humor is only secondary. It marks the ending [. . .] of a period of suspense, or expectation, all ending which is sharp and secondary” (John Dewey, 558). We laugh for a variety of reasons—hearing a funny joke, inhaling laughing gas, being tickled—not all of which result from what we think of as humor. Attempting to offer a general theory of laughter and humor, John Morreall (manuscript) makes a finer distinction: laughter results from a pleasant psychological shift, whereas, humor arises from a pleasant cognitive shift. Noting the predominance of non-humorous laughter, researcher Robert Provine (2000) argues that laughter is most often found in non-humorous social interactions, deployed as some sort of tension relief mechanism. If humor is not a necessary condition of laughter, then we might ask if it is sufficient. Often humor will produce laughter, but sometimes it results in only a smile. Obviously, these relatively distinct phenomena are intimately connected in some manner, but to understand the relationship we need clearer notions of both laugher and humor.

Laughter is a fairly well described physiological process that results in a limited range of characteristic vocal patterns that are only physiologically possible, as Provine suggests, for bi-pedal creatures with breath control. If we describe humorous laughter as laughter in response to humor, then we must answer the question, What is humor? This topic will be explored in the next few sections, but for starters, we can say that humor or amusement is widely regarded as a response to a certain kind of stimulus. The comic, on the other hand, is best described as a professionally produced source of humor, a generic element of various artforms. In distinguishing between humorous and non-humorous laughter we presuppose a working definition of humor, based partly on the character of our response and partly on the properties of humorous objects. This is not necessarily to beg the question about what is humor, but to enter into the real world process of correctively developing a definition. The first goal of a humor theory is to look for the basis of our practical ability to identify humor.

Most definitions of humor are essentialist in that they try to list the necessary and sufficient conditions something must meet in order to be counted as humor. Some theories isolate a common element supposedly found in all humor, but hold back from making claims about the sufficient conditions. Many theorists seem to confuse offering the necessary conditions for a response to count as humor with explaining why we find one thing funny rather than another. This second question, what would be sufficient for an object to be found funny, is the Holy Grail of humor studies, and must be kept distinct from the goals of a definition of the humor response. The Holy Grail is often confused with a question regarding the sufficient conditions for our response to count as humorous amusement, but a crucial distinction needs to be made: identifying the conditions of a response is different from the isolating the features something must possess in order to provoke such a response. The first task is much different from suggesting what features are sufficient to provoke a response of humorous amusement. What amounts to a humor response is different from what makes something humorous. The noun (humor) and adjectival (humorous) senses of the term are difficult to keep distinct due to the imprecision of our language in this area. Much of the dissatisfaction with traditional humor theories can be traced back to an equivocation between these two senses of the term.

b. Problems Classifying Theorists

The standard analysis, developed by D. H. Monro, that classifies humor theories into superiority, incongruity, and relief theories sets up a false expectation of genuine competition between the views. Rarely do any of the historical theorists in any of these schools state their theories as listing necessary of sufficient conditions for something to count as humor, much less put their views in competition with others. A further problem concerns just what the something is that might be called humor. Some theories address the object of humor, whereas others are concerned primarily with the characteristics of the response, and other theories discuss both.

The popular reduction of humor theories into three groups—Incongruity, Relief, and Superiority theories—is an over simplification. Several scholars have identified over 100 types of humor theories, and Patricia Keith-Spiegel’s classification of humor theories into 8 major types (biological, superiority, incongruity, surprise, ambivalence, release, configuration, and psychoanalytic theories) has been fairly influential. Jim Lyttle suggests that, based on the question they are primarily addressing humor, theories can be classified into 3 different groups. He argues that, depending on their focus, humor theories can be grouped under these categories: functional, stimuli, and response theories. (1) Functional theories of humor ask what purpose humor has in human life. (2) Stimuli theories ask what makes a particular thing funny. (3)Response theorists ask why we find things funny. A better way to phrase this concern is to say that response theorists ask what is particular about feelings of humor.

A little probing shows that Lyttle’s grouping is strained, since many of the humor theories address more than one of these questions, and an answer to one often involves an answer to the other questions. For instance, though focused on the function of humor, relief theories often have something to say about all three questions: humor serves as a tension release mechanism, the content often concerns the subject of repressed desires, and finding these funny involves a feeling of relief.

Regardless of the classificatory scheme, when analyzing the tradition of humor theories we need to consider how each of the traditionally defined schools answers the major questions that occupy the bulk of the discussion. The primary questions of humor theory include:

1. Humor question: What is humor?

(An answer to this question often entails answers to questions regarding the object and the response. This is the central question of any humor theory.)

2. Object Feature Questions:

  1. Are there any features frequently found in what is found funny?
  2. Are there any features necessary for something to have in order to be found funny?
  3. Are there any features that by themselves or considered jointly are sufficient for something to be found funny? (Answering this question affirmatively would amount to discovering the holy grail of humor theory.)

3. Response Question: Is there anything psychologically or cognitively distinctive or characteristic about finding something funny?

4. Laughter Question: How is humor related to laughter?

Given this list, we may ask what would a theory of humor amount to? To count as a humor theory and not just an approach to humor, a theory must attempt an answer to Question 1—What is humor? Like the relief theories, most humor theorists do not attempt to answer this question head on, but discuss some important or necessary characteristics of humor. Since the various theories of humor are addressing different sets of questions within this cluster as well as related question in the general study of humor, it is often difficult to put them in competition with each other. Accepting this limitation, we can proceed to explore a few of the major humor theories listed in the widely influential standard analysis.

2. Theories of Humor

a. Superiority Theory

We can give two forms to the claims of the superiority theory of humor: (1) the strong claim holds that all humor involves a feeling of superiority, and (2) the weak claim suggests that feelings of superiority are frequently found in many cases of humor. It is not clear that many superiority theorists would hold to the strong claim if pressed, but we will evaluate as a necessary condition nonetheless.

Neither Plato nor Aristotle makes clear pronouncements about the essence of humor, though their comments are preoccupied with the role of feelings of superiority in our finding something funny. In the “Philebus,” Plato tries to expose the “mixture of pleasure and pain that lies in the malice of amusement.” He argues that ignorance is a misfortune that when found in the weak is considered ridiculous. In comedy, we take malicious pleasure from the ridiculous, mixing pleasure with a pain of the soul. Some of Aristotle’s brief comments in the Poetics corroborate Plato’s view of the pleasure had from comedy. Tragedy deals with subjects who are average or better than average; however, in comedy we look down upon the characters, since it presents subjects of lesser virtue than, or “who are inferior to,” the audience. The “ludicrous,” according to Aristotle, is “that is a failing or a piece of ugliness which causes no pain of destruction” (Poetics, sections 3 and 7). Going beyond the subject of comedy, in the Rhetoric (II, 12) Aristotle defines wit as “educated insolence,” and in the Nicomachean Ethics (IV, 8) he describes jokes as “a kind of abuse” which should ideally be told without producing pain. Rather than clearly offering a superiority theory of humor, Plato and Aristotle focus on this common comic feature, bringing it to our attention for ethical considerations.

Thomas Hobbes developed the most well known version of the Superiority theory. Giving emphatic expression to the idea, Hobbes says “that the passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from some sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or with our own formerly” (Human Nature, ch. 8). Motivated by the literary conceit of the laugh of triumph, Hobbes’s expression the superiority theory looks like more of a theory of laughter than a theory of humor. Charles Baudelaire (1956) offers an interesting variation on Hobbes’ superiority theory, mixing it with mortal inferiority. He argues that that “laughter is satanic”—an expression of dominance over animals and a frustrated complaint against our being merely mortal.

Critically reversing the superiority theory, Robert Solomon (2002) offers an inferiority theory of humor. He thinks that self-recognition in the silly antics and self-deprecating behavior of the Three Stooges is characteristic of a source of humor based in inferiority or modesty. Rather than comparing our current with our former inferior selves, Solomon sees the ability to not take yourself seriously, or to see yourself as less than ideal, as a source of virtuous modesty and compassion. Solomon’s analysis of the Three Stooges is not a full-blown theory of humor, in that it does not make any pronouncements about the necessary or sufficient conditions of humor; however, it is a theory of humor in the sense that it suggests a possible source of humor or what humor can be and how it might function.

Solomon’s inferiority theory of humor raises a central objection against the Superiority theory, namely, that a feeling of superiority is not a necessary condition of humor. Morreall offers several examples, such as finding a bowling ball in his refrigerator, that could be found funny, but do not clearly involve superiority. If feelings of superiority are not necessary for humor, are they sufficient? Undoubtedly, this is not the case. As an 18th century critic of Hobbes, Francis Hutcheson, points out, we can feel superior to lots of things, dogs, cats, trees, etc, without being amused: “some ingenuity in dogs and monkeys, which comes near to some of our own arts, very often makes us merry; whereas their duller actions, in which the are much below us, are no matter of jest at all” (p. 29). However, if we evaluate the weaker version of the superiority theory—that humor is often fueled by feelings of superiority—then we have a fairly well supported empirical claim, easily confirmable by first hand observation.

b. Relief Theory

Relief theories attempt to describe humor along the lines of a tension-release model. Rather than defining humor, they discuss the essential structures and psychological processes that produce laughter. The two most prominent relief theorists are Herbert Spencer and Sigmund Freud. We can consider two version of the relief theory: (1) the strong version holds that all laughter results from a release of excessive energy; (2) the weak version claims that it is often the case that humorous laughter involves a release of tension or energy. Freud develops a more specific description of the energy transfer mechanism, but the process he describes is not essential to the basic claims of the relief theory of humor.

In “The Physiology of Laughter” (1860), Spencer develops a theory of laughter that is intimately related to his “hydraulic” theory of nervous energy, whereby excitement and mental agitation produces energy that “must expend itself in some way or another.” He argues that “nervous excitation always tends to beget muscular motion.” As a form of physical movement, laughter can serve as the expressive route of various forms of nervous energy. Spencer did not see his theory as a competitor to the incongruity theory of humor; rather, he tried to explain why it is that a certain mental agitation arising from a “descending incongruity” results in this characteristically purposeless physical movement. Spencer never satisfactorily answers this specific question, but he presents the basic idea that laughter serves to release pent up energy.

One criticism of Spencer’s theory of energy relief is that it does not seem to describe most cases of humor that occur quickly. Many instances of jokes, witticisms, and cartoons do not seem to involve a build up of energy that is then released. Perhaps Spencer thinks that the best explanation for laughter, an otherwise purposeless expenditure of energy, must be that it relieves energy produced from humor. However, since most of our experiences of humor do not seem to involve an energy build up, and humor does not seem forthcoming when we are generally agitated, a better explanation might be that laughter is not as purposeless as it seems or that all expenditures of energy, purposeful or not, need involve a build up.

Spencer might reply that everyone is continuously building up energy simply through the process of managing everyday stress. As such, most people have excess energy, a form of energy potential, waiting to be released by humor. For example, one often hears it said that humor allows one to “blow off steam” after a stressful day at work. The problem with this line of argument is that those who are most “stressed out” seem the least receptive to humor. Not only do attempts at humor frequently fall flat on the hurried, the amusement that results is typically minimal. Perhaps Spencer could argue that at a certain threshold the pent up energy jams the gates such that humor is unable to provide a release. This line of defense might be plausible, but the tension release theory starts to look a bit ad hoc when you have to posit things such as jammed energy release gates and the like.

In Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious (1905), Freud develops a more fine grained version of the relief theory of laughter, that amounts to a restatement of Spencer’s theory with the addition of a new process. He describes three different sources of laughter—joking, the comic, and humor—which all involve the saving of some psychic energy that is then discharged through laughter. In joking, the energy that would have been used to repress sexual and hostile feelings is saved and can be released in laughter. In the comic, cognitive energy to be used to solve an intellectual challenge is left over and can be released. The humorous involves a saving of emotional energy, since what might have been an emotion provoking situation turns out to be something we should treat non-seriously. The energy building up for the serious emotional reaction can then be released.

The details of Freud’s discussions of the process of energy saving, are widely regarded as problematic. His notion of energy saving is unclear, since it is not clear what sense it makes to say that energy which is never called upon is saved, rather than saying that no energy was expended. Take his theory of jokes, where the energy that otherwise would have been used to repress a desire is saved by joking which allows for aggression to be released. John Morreall and Noel Carroll make a similar criticism of this theory of energy management. We may have an idea of what it is like to express pent up energy, but we have no notion of what it would be to release energy that is used to repress a desire. Beyond the claim of queerness, this theory of joking does not result in the expected empirical observations. On Freud’s explanation, the most inhibited and repressed people would seem to enjoy joking the most, though the opposite is the case.

Relief theories of laughter do not furnish us a way to distinguish humorous from non-humorous laughter. Freud’s saved energy is perceptually indistinguishable with other forms of energy. As we saw with Spencer, Relief theories must be saddled to another theory of humor. Freud’s attempt to explain why we laugh is also an effort to explain why we find certain tendentious jokes especially funny, though it is not clear what he is getting at in his account of the saving of energy. He commits the fundamental mistake of relief theorists—they erroneously assume that since mental energy often finds release in physical movement, any physical movement must be explainable by an excess of nervous energy.

c. Incongruity Theory

The incongruity theory is the reigning theory of humor, since it seems to account for most cases of perceived funniness, which is partly because “incongruity” is something of an umbrella term. Most developments of the incongruity theory only try to list a necessary condition for humor—the perception of an incongruity—and they stop short of offering the sufficient conditions.

In the Rhetoric (III, 2), Aristotle presents the earliest glimmer of an incongruity theory of humor, finding that the best way to get an audience to laugh is to setup an expectation and deliver something “that gives a twist.” After discussing the power of metaphors to produce a surprise in the hearer, Aristotle says that “[t]he effect is produced even by jokes depending upon changes of the letters of a word; this too is a surprise. You find this in verse as well as in prose. The word which comes is not what the hearer imagined.” These remarks sound like a surprise theory of humor, similar to that later offered by René Descartes, but Aristotle continues to explain how the surprise must somehow “fit the facts,” or as we might put it today, the incongruity must be capable of a resolution.

In the Critique of Judgment, Immanuel Kant gives a clearer statement of the role of incongruity in humor: “In everything that is to excite a lively laugh there must be something absurd (in which the understanding, therefore, can find no satisfaction). Laughter is an affection arising from the sudden transformation of a strained expectation into nothing” (I, I, 54).

Arthur Schopenhauer offers a more specific version of the incongruity theory, arguing that humor arising from a failure of a concept to account for an object of thought. When the particular outstrips the general, we are faced with an incongruity. Schopenhauer also emphasizes the element of surprise, saying that “the greater and more unexpected [. . .] this incongruity is, the more violent will be his laughter” (1818, I, Sec. 13).

As stated by Kant and Schopenhauer, the incongruity theory of humor specifies a necessary condition of the object of humor. Focusing on the humorous object, leaves something out of the analysis of humor, since there are many kinds of things that are incongruous which do not produce amusement. A more robust statement of the incongruity theory would need to include the pleasurable response one has to humorous objects. John Morreall attempts to find sufficient conditions for identifying humor by focusing on our response. He defines humorous amusement as taking pleasure in a cognitive shift. The incongruity theory can be stated as a response focused theory, claiming that humor is a certain kind of reaction had to perceived incongruity.

Henri Bergson’s essay “Laughter” (1980) is perhaps the one of the most influential and sophisticated theories of humor. Bergson’s theory of humor is not easily classifiable, since it has elements of superiority and incongruity theories. In a famous phrase, Bergson argues that the source of humor is the “mechanical encrusted upon the living” (p. 84) According to Bergson “the comic does not exist outside of what is strictly human.” He thinks that humor involve an incongruous relationship between human intelligence and habitual or mechanical behaviors. As such, humor serves as a social corrective, helping people recognize behaviors that are inhospitable to human flourishing. A large source of the comic is in recognizing our superiority over the subhuman. Anything that threatens to reduce a person to an object—either animal or mechanical—is prime material for humor. No doubt, Bergson’s theory accounts for much of physical comedy and bodily humor, but he seems to over-estimate the necessity of mechanical encrustation. It is difficult to see how his theory can accommodate most jokes and sources of humor coming from wit.

Three major criticisms of the incongruity theory are that it is too broad to be very meaningful, it is insufficiently explanatory in that it does not distinguish between non-humorous incongruity and basic incongruity, and that revised versions still fail to explain why some things, rather than others, are funny. We have already addressed the third criticism: it confuses the object of humor with the response. What is at issue is the definition of humor, or how to identify humor, not how to create a humor-generating algorithm. The incongruity theorist has a response to this criticism as well, since they can claim that humor is pleasure in incongruity.

d. Play Theories

Describing play theories of humor as an independent school or approach might overstate their relative importance, although they do serve as a good representative of theories focused on the functional question. By looking at the contextual characteristic, play theories try to classify humor as a species of play. In this general categorization effort, the play theorists are not so much listing necessary conditions, as they are asking us to look at humor as an extension of animal play. They try to call our attention to the structural similarities between play contexts and humorous context, to suggest that what might be true of play, might be true of humor as well.

Play theorists often take an ethological approach to studying humor, tracing it back through evolutionary development. They look at laughter triggers like tickling, that are found in other species, to suggest that in humor ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. In The Enjoyment of Laughter (1936), Max Eastman develops a play theory of humor with an adaptive story. He thinks we can find analogies of humor in the behavior of animals, especially in the proto-laughter of chimps to tickling. He goes so far as to argue that the wagging tail of a happy dog is a form of humorous laughter, since Eastman wants to broaden the definition of laughter to encompass other rhythmic responses to pleasure. Speaking more specifically of humor, he argues that “we come into the world endowed with an instinctive tendency to laugh and have this feeling in response to pains presented playfully” (p. 45). On Eastman’s account, what is central to humor and play is that both require taking a disinterested attitude towards what might otherwise be seen as serious.

Eastman considers humor to be a form of play, because humor involves a disinterested stance, certain kinds of humor involve mock aggression and insults, and because some forms of play activities result in humorous amusement. Since Eastman defines play as the adoption of this disinterested attitude, humor would count as a form of play on his definition, but this seems both too restrictive and too vague to serve as an adequate definition of play. In Homo Ludens (1938), Johan Huizinga criticizes identifying play with laughter or the comic. Though both seem to involve “the opposite of seriousness,” there are crucial asymmetries. Laughter, he argues, is particular to humans, whereas, play is found in other mammals and birds. Also, if we allow for certain types of competitive play, then a non-serious attitude is not essential to play, as it seems to be for humor. Identifying the comic, or humor, with play is problematic, since “in itself play is not comical for either for the player or public” (1938, p. 6). Huizinga questions whether humor and play share any necessary conditions, a requirement of the relationship if humor is a subtype of play. This will, of course, depend on how we describe humor and play, two equally elusive notions.

Play theorists are primarily concerned with the problem of determining the function of humor in order to explain how it might have adaptive value, a task taken up by other biological theories of humor. They argue that similarities between play and humor suggest that the adaptive value of play might be similar to that of humor. Other researchers focused on the functional questions have described humor as having value in cognitive development, social skill learning, tension relief, empathy management, immune system benefits, stress relief, and social bonding. Though these questions are primarily addressed by psychologists, sociologist, anthropologists, and medical researchers, their studies rely on and contribute to an evolving notion of just what counts as humor. Though the functional question is foremost in these theories, play theory tries to give humor a genus by offering some differentiating characteristics, essential to humor.

e. Summary of Humor Theories

We discussed four different schools of humor theories and noted how each reveals aspects common, if not necessary, to humor. Presenting these theories as rivals is misleading since, as we have seen, theorists in each classification focus on different problems and may draw upon the answers to different questions from another school. For instance, while focusing on why we find something funny, Spencer offers a functional explanation and relies on the answer incongruity theorists give to the question of what we find funny. Relief theories and Play theories tend to focus on the function humor serves in human life, though the functional question cannot be separated from characterizing amusement, or the humor response. Superiority theorists tend to focus on what feelings are necessary for there to be humor, or why we find some things funny. Incongruity theories have the most to say about the object of humor, though variants identify humor with the way we respond to a perceived incongruity. Though the functional, stimuli, and response questions are not neatly separated, the differing schools tend to assume that one question is more basic than the others.

3. References and Further Reading

  • Audi, Robert (1994). “Dispositional Beliefs and Dispositions to Believe.” Nous 28 (4), pp. 419-434.
  • Bateson, Gregory (2000). Steps to an Ecology of Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
  • Baudelaire, Charles (1956). “The Essence of Laughter and More Especially of the Comic in Plastic Arts.” Trans. Gerald Hopkins. In The Essence of Laughter and other Essays, Journals, and Letters, ed. Peter Qeennell. New York: Meridian Books.
  • Bergson, Henri (1980). “Laughter.” Trans. Wylie Sypher, in Comedy, eds. Wylie Sypher. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
  • Berman, Merrie (1986). “How Many Feminists Does It Take To Make A Joke? Sexist Humor and What’s Wrong With It.” Hypatia, vol. 1, no. 1, Spring, pp. 63-82.
  • Caplow, Theodore (1968). Two Against One: Coalitions in Triads. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall.
  • Carroll, Noel, ed. (2001a). Beyond Aesthetics: Philosophical Essays. New York: Cambridge University Press.
  • Carroll, Noel (2001b). “Horror and Humor” in Carroll (2001a), pp. 235-253.
  • Carroll, Noel (2001c). “Moderate Moralism” in Carroll (2001a), pp. 293- 306.
  • Carroll, Noel (2001d). “On Jokes” in Carroll (2001), pp. 317-334.
  • Carroll, Noel (1996). “Notes on the Sight Gag” in Noel Carroll Theorizing the Moving Image. New York, Cambridge Univesrity Press.
  • Carroll, Noel (1997). “Words, Images, and Laughter.” Persistence of Vision, no. 14, pp. 42-52.
  • Chapman, A. J., & Foot, H. C., eds. (1976). Humour and laughter: Theory, research, and applications. London: John Wiley & Sons.
  • Cohen, Ted (1999). Jokes: Philosophical Perspectives on Laughing Matters. Chicago: Chicago Univesrity Press.
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Author Information

Aaron Smuts
Email: asmuts@gmail.com
University of Wisconsin-Madison
U. s. A.

Design Arguments for the Existence of God

Design arguments are empirical arguments for the existence of God. These arguments typically, though not always, proceed by attempting to identify various empirical features of the world that constitute evidence of intelligent design and inferring God’s existence as the best explanation for these features. Since the concepts of design and purpose are closely related, design arguments are also known as teleological arguments, which incorporates “telos,” the Greek word for “goal” or “purpose.”

Design arguments typically consist of (1) a premise that asserts that the material universe exhibits some empirical property F; (2) a premise (or sub-argument) that asserts (or concludes) that F is persuasive evidence of intelligent design or purpose; and (3) a premise (or sub-argument) that asserts (or concludes) that the best or most probable explanation for the fact that the material universe exhibits F is that there exists an intelligent designer who intentionally brought it about that the material universe exists and exhibits F.

There are a number of classic and contemporary versions of the argument from design. This article will cover seven different ones. Among the classical versions are: (1) the “Fifth Way” of St. Thomas Aquinas; (2) the argument from simple analogy; (3) Paley’s watchmaker argument; and (4) the argument from guided evolution. The more contemporary versions include: (5) the argument from irreducible biochemical complexity; (6) the argument from biological information; and (7) the fine-tuning argument.

Table of Contents

  1. The Classical Versions of the Design Argument
    1. Scriptural Roots and Aquinas’s Fifth Way
    2. The Argument from Simple Analogy
    3. Paley’s Watchmaker Argument
    4. Guided Evolution
  2. Contemporary Versions of the Design Argument
    1. The Argument from Irreducible Biochemical Complexity
    2. The Argument from Biological Information
    3. The Fine-Tuning Arguments
      1. The Argument from Suspicious Improbability
      2. The Confirmatory Argument
  3. The Scientifically Legitimate Uses of Design Inferences
  4. References and Further Reading

1. The Classical Versions of the Design Argument

a. Scriptural Roots and Aquinas’s Fifth Way

The scriptures of each of the major classically theistic religions contain language that suggests that there is evidence of divine design in the world. Psalms 19:1 of the Old Testament, scripture to both Judaism and Christianity, states that “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.” Similarly, Romans 1:19-21 of the New Testament states:

For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made. So they are without excuse.

Further, Koran 31:20 asks “Do you not see that Allah has made what is in the heavens and what is in the earth subservient to you, and made complete to you His favors outwardly and inwardly?” While these verses do not specifically indicate which properties or features of the world are evidence of God’s intelligent nature, each presupposes that the world exhibits such features and that they are readily discernable to a reasonably conscientious agent.

Perhaps the earliest philosophically rigorous version of the design argument owes to St. Thomas Aquinas. According to Aquinas’s Fifth Way:

We see that things which lack knowledge, such as natural bodies, act for an end, and this is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way, so as to obtain the best result. Hence it is plain that they achieve their end, not fortuitously, but designedly. Now whatever lacks knowledge cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence; as the arrow is directed by the archer. Therefore some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are directed to their end; and this being we call God (Aquinas, Summa Theologica, Article 3, Question 2).

It is worth noting that Aquinas’s version of the argument relies on a very strong claim about the explanation for ends and processes: the existence of any end-directed system or process can be explained, as a logical matter, only by the existence of an intelligent being who directs that system or process towards its end. Since the operations of all natural bodies, on Aquinas’s view, are directed towards some specific end that conduces to, at the very least, the preservation of the object, these operations can be explained only by the existence of an intelligent being. Accordingly, the empirical fact that the operations of natural objects are directed towards ends shows that an intelligent Deity exists.

This crucial claim, however, seems to be refuted by the mere possibility of an evolutionary explanation. If a Darwinian explanation is even coherent (that is, non-contradictory, as opposed to true), then it provides a logically possible explanation for how the end-directedness of the operations of living beings in this world might have come about. According to this explanation, such operations evolve through a process by which random genetic mutations are naturally selected for their adaptive value; organisms that have evolved some system that performs a fitness-enhancing operation are more likely to survive and leave offspring, other things being equal, than organisms that have not evolved such systems. If this explanation is possibly true, it shows that Aquinas is wrong in thinking that “whatever lacks knowledge cannot move towards an end, unless it be directed by some being endowed with knowledge and intelligence.”

b. The Argument from Simple Analogy

The next important version of the design argument came in the 17th and 18th Centuries. Pursuing a strategy that has been adopted by the contemporary intelligent design movement, John Ray, Richard Bentley, and William Derham drew on scientific discoveries of the 16th and 17th Century to argue for the existence of an intelligent Deity. William Derham, for example, saw evidence of intelligent design in the vision of birds, the drum of the ear, the eye-socket, and the digestive system. Richard Bentley saw evidence of intelligent design in Newton’s discovery of the law of gravitation. It is noteworthy that each of these thinkers attempted to give scientifically-based arguments for the existence of God.

David Hume is the most famous critic of these arguments. In Part II of his famous Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, Hume formulates the argument as follows:

Look round the world: contemplate the whole and every part of it: you will find it to be nothing but one great machine, subdivided into an infinite number of lesser machines, which again admit of subdivisions to a degree beyond what human senses and faculties can trace and explain. All these various machines, and even their most minute parts, are adjusted to each other with an accuracy which ravishes into admiration all men who have ever contemplated them. The curious adapting of means to ends, throughout all nature, resembles exactly, though it much exceeds, the productions of human contrivance; of human designs, thought, wisdom, and intelligence. Since, therefore, the effects resemble each other, we are led to infer, by all the rules of analogy, that the causes also resemble; and that the Author of Nature is somewhat similar to the mind of man, though possessed of much larger faculties, proportioned to the grandeur of the work which he has executed. By this argument a posteriori, and by this argument alone, do we prove at once the existence of a Deity, and his similarity to human mind and intelligence.

Since the world, on this analysis, is closely analogous to the most intricate artifacts produced by human beings, we can infer “by all the rules of analogy” the existence of an intelligent designer who created the world. Just as the watch has a watchmaker, then, the universe has a universe-maker.

As expressed in this passage, then, the argument is a straightforward argument from analogy with the following structure:

  1. The material universe resembles the intelligent productions of human beings in that it exhibits design.
  2. The design in any human artifact is the effect of having been made by an intelligent being.
  3. Like effects have like causes.
  4. Therefore, the design in the material universe is the effect of having been made by an intelligent creator.

Hume criticizes the argument on two main grounds. First, Hume rejects the analogy between the material universe and any particular human artifact. As Hume states the relevant rule of analogy, “wherever you depart in the least, from the similarity of the cases, you diminish proportionably the evidence; and may at last bring it to a very weak analogy, which is confessedly liable to error and uncertainty” (Hume, Dialogues, Part II). Hume then goes on to argue that the cases are simply too dissimilar to support an inference that they are like effects having like causes:

If we see a house,… we conclude, with the greatest certainty, that it had an architect or builder because this is precisely that species of effect which we have experienced to proceed from that species of cause. But surely you will not affirm that the universe bears such a resemblance to a house that we can with the same certainty infer a similar cause, or that the analogy is here entire and perfect (Hume, Dialogues, Part II).

Since the analogy fails, Hume argues that we would need to have experience with the creation of material worlds in order to justify any a posteriori claims about the causes of any particular material world; since we obviously lack such experience, we lack adequate justification for the claim that the material universe has an intelligent cause.

Second, Hume argues that, even if the resemblance between the material universe and human artifacts justified thinking they have similar causes, it would not justify thinking that an all-perfect God exists and created the world. For example, there is nothing in the argument that would warrant the inference that the creator of the universe is perfectly intelligent or perfectly good. Indeed, Hume argues that there is nothing there that would justify thinking even that there is just one deity: “what shadow of an argument… can you produce from your hypothesis to prove the unity of the Deity? A great number of men join in building a house or ship, in rearing a city, in framing a commonwealth; why may not several deities combine in contriving and framing a world” (Hume Dialogues, Part V)?

c. Paley’s Watchmaker Argument

Though often confused with the argument from simple analogy, the watchmaker argument from William Paley is a more sophisticated design argument that attempts to avoid Hume’s objection to the analogy between worlds and artifacts. Instead of simply asserting a similarity between the material world and some human artifact, Paley’s argument proceeds by identifying what he takes to be a reliable indicator of intelligent design:

[S]uppose I found a watch upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch happened to be in that place, I should hardly think … that, for anything I knew, the watch might have always been there. Yet why should not this answer serve for the watch as well as for [a] stone [that happened to be lying on the ground]?… For this reason, and for no other; namely, that, if the different parts had been differently shaped from what they are, if a different size from what they are, or placed after any other manner, or in any order than that in which they are placed, either no motion at all would have been carried on in the machine, or none which would have answered the use that is now served by it (Paley 1867, 1).

There are thus two features of a watch that reliably indicate that it is the result of an intelligent design. First, it performs some function that an intelligent agent would regard as valuable; the fact that the watch performs the function of keeping time is something that has value to an intelligent agent. Second, the watch could not perform this function if its parts and mechanisms were differently sized or arranged; the fact that the ability of a watch to keep time depends on the precise shape, size, and arrangement of its parts suggests that the watch has these characteristics because some intelligent agency designed it to these specifications. Taken together, these two characteristics endow the watch with a functional complexity that reliably distinguishes objects that have intelligent designers from objects that do not.

Paley then goes on to argue that the material universe exhibits the same kind of functional complexity as a watch:

Every indicator of contrivance, every manifestation of design, which existed in the watch, exists in the works of nature; with the difference, on the side of nature, of being greater and more, and that in a degree which exceeds all computation. I mean that the contrivances of nature surpass the contrivances of art, in the complexity, subtilty, and curiosity of the mechanism; and still more, if possible, do they go beyond them in number and variety; yet in a multitude of cases, are not less evidently mechanical, not less evidently contrivances, not less evidently accommodated to their end, or suited to their office, than are the most perfect productions of human ingenuity (Paley 1867, 13).

Since the works of nature possess functional complexity, a reliable indicator of intelligent design, we can justifiably conclude that these works were created by an intelligent agent who designed them to instantiate this property.

Paley’s watchmaker argument is clearly not vulnerable to Hume’s criticism that the works of nature and human artifacts are too dissimilar to infer that they are like effects having like causes. Paley’s argument, unlike arguments from analogy, does not depend on a premise asserting a general resemblance between the objects of comparison. What matters for Paley’s argument is that works of nature and human artifacts have a particular property that reliably indicates design. Regardless of how dissimilar any particular natural object might otherwise be from a watch, both objects exhibit the sort of functional complexity that warrants an inference that it was made by an intelligent designer.

Paley’s version of the argument, however, is generally thought to have been refuted by Charles Darwin’s competing explanation for complex organisms. In The Origin of the Species, Darwin argued that more complex biological organisms evolved gradually over millions of years from simpler organisms through a process of natural selection. As Julian Huxley describes the logic of this process:

The evolutionary process results immediately and automatically from the basic property of living matter—that of self-copying, but with occasional errors. Self-copying leads to multiplication and competition; the errors in self-copying are what we call mutations, and mutations will inevitably confer different degrees of biological advantage or disadvantage on their possessors. The consequence will be differential reproduction down the generations—in other words, natural selection (Huxley 1953, 4).

Over time, the replication of genetic material in an organism results in mutations that give rise to new traits in the organism’s offspring. Sometimes these new traits are so unfavorable to a being’s survival prospects that beings with the traits die off; but sometimes these new traits enable the possessors to survive conditions that kill off beings without them. If the trait is sufficiently favorable, only members of the species with the trait will survive. By this natural process, functionally complex organisms gradually evolve over millions of years from primordially simple organisms.

Contemporary biologist, Richard Dawkins (1986), uses a programming problem to show that the logic of the process renders the Darwinian explanation significantly more probable than the design explanation. Dawkins considers two ways in which one might program a computer to generate the following sequence of characters: METHINKS IT IS LIKE A WEASEL. The first program randomly producing a new 28-character sequence each time it is run; since the program starts over each time, it incorporates a “single-step selection process.” The probability of randomly generating the target sequence on any given try is 2728 (that is, 27 characters selected for each of the 28 positions in the sequence), which amounts to about 1 in (10,000 x 1,000,0006). While a computer running eternally would eventually produce the sequence, Dawkins estimates that it would take 1,000,0005 years—which is 1,000,0003 years longer than the universe has existed. As is readily evident, a program that selects numbers by means of such a “single-step selection mechanism” has a very low probability of reaching the target.

The second program incorporates a “cumulative-step selection mechanism.” It begins by randomly generating a 28-character sequence of letters and spaces and then “breeds” from this sequence in the following way. For a specified period of time, it generates copies of itself; most of the copies perfectly replicate the sequence, but some copies have errors (or mutations). At the end of this period, it compares all of the sequences with the target sequence METHINKS IT IS LIKE A WEASEL and keeps the sequence that most closely resembles it. For example, a sequence that has an E in the second place more closely resembles a sequence that is exactly like the first except that it has a Q in the second place. It then begins breeding from this new sequence in exactly the same way. Unlike the first program which starts afresh with each try, the second program builds on previous steps, getting successively closer to the program as it breeds from the sequence closest to the target. This feature of the program increases the probability of reaching the sequence to such an extent that a computer running this program hit the target sequence after 43 generations, which took about half-an-hour.

The problem with Paley’s watchmaker argument, as Dawkins explains it, is that it falsely assumes that all of the other possible competing explanations are sufficiently improbable to warrant an inference of design. While this might be true of explanations that rely entirely on random single-step selection mechanisms, this is not true of Darwinian explanations. As is readily evident from Huxley’s description of the process, Darwinian evolution is a cumulative-step selection method that closely resembles in general structure the second computer program. The result is that the probability of evolving functionally complex organisms capable of surviving a wide variety of conditions is increased to such an extent that it exceeds the probability of the design explanation.

d. Guided Evolution

While many theists are creationists who accept the occurrence of “microevolution” (that is, evolution that occurs within a species, such as the evolution of penicillin-resistant bacteria) but deny the occurrence of “macroevolution” (that is, one species evolving from a distinct species), some theists accept the theory of evolution as consistent with theism and with their own denominational religious commitments. Such thinkers, however, frequently maintain that the existence of God is needed to explain the purposive quality of the evolutionary process. Just as the purposive quality of the cumulative-step computer program above is best explained by intelligent design, so too the purposive quality of natural selection is best explained by intelligent design.

The first theist widely known to have made such an argument is Frederick Robert Tennant. As he puts the matter, in Volume 2 of Philosophical Theology, “the multitude of interwoven adaptations by which the world is constituted a theatre of life, intelligence, and morality, cannot reasonably be regarded as an outcome of mechanism, or of blind formative power, or aught but purposive intelligence” (Tennant 1928-30, 121). In effect, this influential move infers design, not from the existence of functionally complex organisms, but from the purposive quality of the evolutionary process itself. Evolution is, on this line of response, guided by an intelligent Deity.

2. Contemporary Versions of the Design Argument

Contemporary versions of the design argument typically attempt to articulate a more sophisticated strategy for detecting evidence of design in the world. These versions typically contain three main elements—though they are not always explicitly articulated. First, they identify some property P that is thought to be a probabilistically reliable index of design in the following sense: a design explanation for P is significantly more probable than any explanation that relies on chance or random processes. Second they argue that some feature or features of the world exhibits P. Third, they conclude that the design explanation is significantly more likely to be true.

As we will see, however, all of the contemporary versions of the design inference seem to be vulnerable to roughly the same objection. While each of the design inferences in these arguments has legitimate empirical uses, those uses occur only in contexts where we have strong antecedent reason for believing there exist intelligent agents with the ability to bring about the relevant event, entity, or property. But since it is the very existence of such a being that is at issue in the debates about the existence of God, design arguments appear unable to stand by themselves as arguments for God’s existence.

a. The Argument from Irreducible Biochemical Complexity

Design theorists distinguish two types of complexity that can be instantiated by any given structure. As William Dembski describes the distinction: a system or structure is cumulatively complex “if the components of the system can be arranged sequentially so that the successive removal of components never leads to the complete loss of function”; a system or structure is irreducibly complex “if it consists of several interrelated parts so that removing even one part completely destroys the system’s function” (Dembski 1999, 147). A city is cumulatively complex since one can successively remove people, services, and buildings without rendering it unable to perform its function. A mousetrap, in contrast, is irreducibly complex because the removal of even one part results in complete loss of function.

Design proponents, like Michael J. Behe, have identified a number of biochemical systems that they take to be irreducibly complex. Like the functions of a watch or a mousetrap, a cilium cannot perform its function unless its microtubules, nexin linkers, and motor proteins are all arranged and structured in precisely the manner in which they are structured; remove any component from the system and it cannot perform its function. Similarly, the blood-clotting function cannot perform its function if either of its key ingredients, vitamin K and antihemophilic factor, are missing. Both systems are, on this view, irreducibly complex—rather than cumulatively complex.

According to Behe, the probability of evolving irreducibly complex systems along Darwinian lines is sufficiently small that it can be ruled out as an explanation of irreducible biochemical complexity:

An irreducibly complex system cannot be produced … by slight, successive modifications of a precursor system, because any precursor to an irreducibly complex system that is missing a part is by definition nonfunctional…. Since natural selection can only choose systems that are already working, if a biological system cannot be produced gradually it would have to arise as an integrated unit, in one fell swoop, for natural selection to have anything to act on (Behe 1996, 39; emphasis added).

Since, for example, a cilium-precursor (that is, one that lacks at least one of a cilium’s parts) cannot perform the function that endows a cilium with adaptive value, organisms that have the cilium-precursor are no “fitter for survival” than they would have been without it. Since chance-driven evolutionary processes would not select organisms with the precursor, intelligent design is a better explanation for the existence of organisms with fully functional cilia.

Though Behe states his conclusion in categorical terms (that is, irreducibly complex systems “cannot be produced gradually”), he is more charitably construed as claiming only that the probability of gradually producing irreducibly complex systems is very small. The stronger construction of the conclusion (and argument) incorrectly presupposes that Darwinian theory implies that every precursor to a fully functional system must itself perform some function that makes the organism more fit to survive. Organisms that have, say, a precursor to a fully functional cilium are no fitter than they would have been without it, but there is nothing in Darwinian theory that implies they are necessarily any less fit. Thus, there is no reason to think that it is logically or nomologically impossible, according to Darwinian theory, for a set of organisms with a precursor to a fully functional cilium to evolve into a set of organisms that has fully functional cilia. Accordingly, the argument from irreducible biochemical complexity is more plausibly construed as showing that the design explanation for such complexity is more probable than the evolutionary explanation.

Nevertheless, this more modest interpretation is problematic. First, there is little reason to think that the probability of evolving irreducibly complex systems is, as a general matter, small enough to warrant assuming that the probability of the design explanation must be higher. If having a precursor to an irreducibly complex system does not render the organism less fit for survival, the probability a subspecies of organisms with the precursor survives and propagates is the same, other things being equal, as the probability that a subspecies of organisms without the precursor survives and propagates. In such cases, then, the prospect that the subspecies with the precursor will continue to thrive, leave offspring, and evolve is not unusually small.

Second, the claim that intelligent agents of a certain kind would (or should) see functional value in a complex system, by itself, says very little about the probability of any particular causal explanation. While this claim surely implies that intelligent agents with the right causal abilities have a reason for bringing about such systems, it does not tell us anything determinate about whether it is likely that intelligent agents with the right causal powers did bring such systems about—because it does not tell us anything determinate about whether it is probable that such agents exist. As a logical matter, the mere fact that some existing thing has a feature, irreducibly complex or otherwise, that would be valuable to an intelligent being with certain properties, by itself, does not say anything about the probability that such a being exists.

Accordingly, even if we knew that the prospect that the precursor-subspecies would survive was “vanishingly small,” as Behe believes, we would not be justified in inferring a design explanation on probabilistic grounds. To infer that the design explanation is more probable than an explanation of vanishingly small probability, we need some reason to think that the probability of the design explanation is not vanishingly small. The problem, however, is that the claim that a complex system has some property that would be valued by an intelligent agent with the right abilities, by itself, simply does not justify inferring that the probability that such an agent exists and brought about the existence of that system is not vanishingly small. In the absence of some further information about the probability that such an agent exists, we cannot legitimately infer design as the explanation of irreducible biochemical complexity.

b. The Argument from Biological Information

While the argument from irreducible biochemical complexity focuses on the probability of evolving irreducibly complex living systems or organisms from simpler living systems or organisms, the argument from biological information focuses on the problem of generating living organisms in the first place. Darwinian theories are intended only to explain how it is that more complex living organisms developed from primordially simple living organisms, and hence do not even purport to explain the origin of the latter. The argument from biological information is concerned with an explanation of how it is that the world went from a state in which it contained no living organisms to a state in which it contained living organisms; that is to say, it is concerned with the explanation of the very first forms of life.

There are two distinct problems involved in explaining the origin of life from a naturalistic standpoint. The first is to explain how it is that a set of non-organic substances could combine to produce the amino acids that are the building blocks of every living substance. The second is to explain the origin of the information expressed by the sequences of nucleotides that form DNA molecules. The precise ordering of the four nucleotides, adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine (A, T, G, and C, for short), determine the specific operations that occur within a living cell and is hence fairly characterized as representing (or embodying) information. As Stephen C. Meyer puts the point: “just as the letters in the alphabet of a written language may convey a particular message depending on their sequence, so too do the sequences of nucleotides or bases in the DNA molecule convey precise biochemical instructions that direct protein synthesis within the cell” (Meyer 1998, 526).

The argument from biological information is concerned with only the second of these problems. In particular, it attempts to evaluate four potential explanations for the origin of biological information: (1) chance; (2) a pre-biotic form of natural selection; (3) chemical necessity; and (4) intelligent design. The argument concludes that intelligent design is the most probable explanation for the information present in large biomacromolecules like DNA, RNA, and proteins.

The argument proceeds as follows. Pre-biotic natural selection and chemical necessity cannot, as a logical matter, explain the origin of biological information. Theories of pre-biotic natural selection are problematic because they illicitly assume the very feature they are trying to explain. These explanations proceed by asserting that the most complex nonliving molecules will reproduce more efficiently than less complex nonliving molecules. But, in doing so, they assume that nonliving chemicals instantiate precisely the kind of replication mechanism that biological information is needed to explain in the case of living organisms. In the absence of some sort of explanation as to how non-organic reproduction could occur, theories of pre-biotic natural selection fail.

Theories of chemical necessity are problematic because chemical necessity can explain, at most, the development of highly repetitive ordered sequences incapable of representing information. Because processes involving chemical necessity are highly regular and predictable in character, they are capable of producing only highly repetitive sequences of “letters.” For example, while chemical necessity could presumably explain a sequence like “ababababababab,” it cannot explain specified but highly irregular sequences like “the house is on fire.” The problem is that highly repetitive sequences like the former are not sufficiently complex and varied to express information. Thus, while chemical necessity can explain periodic order among nucleotide letters, it lacks the resources logically needed to explain the aperiodic, highly specified, complexity of a sequence capable of expressing information.

Ultimately, this leaves only chance and design as logically viable explanations of biological information. Although it is logically possible to obtain functioning sequences of amino acids through purely random processes, some researchers have estimated the probability of doing so under the most favorable of assumptions at approximately 1 in 1065. Factoring in more realistic assumptions about pre-biotic conditions, Meyer argues the probability of generating short functional protein is 1 in 10125—a number that is vanishingly small. Meyer concludes: “given the complexity of proteins, it is extremely unlikely that a random search through all the possible amino acid sequences could generate even a single relatively short functional protein in the time available since the beginning of the universe (let alone the time available on the early earth)” (Meyer 2002, 75).

Next, Meyer argues that the probability of the design explanation for the origin of biological information is considerably higher:

[O]ne can detect the past action of an intelligent cause from the presence of an information-rich effect, even if the cause itself cannot be directly observed. For instances, visitors to the gardens of Victoria harbor in Canada correctly infer the activity of intelligent agents when they see a pattern of red and yellow flowers spelling “Welcome to Victoria”, even if they did not see the flowers planted and arranged. Similarly, the specifically arranged nucleotide sequences—the complex but functionally specified sequences—in DNA imply the past action of an intelligent mind, even if such mental agency cannot be directly observed (Meyer 2002, 93).

Further, scientists in many fields typically infer the causal activity of intelligent agents from the occurrence of information content. As Meyer rightly observes by way of example, “[a]rcheologists assume a mind produced the inscriptions on the Rosetta Stone” (Meyer 2002, 94).

Meyer’s reasoning appears vulnerable to the same objection to which the argument from biochemical complexity is vulnerable. In all of the contexts in which we legitimately make the design inference in response to an observation of information, we already know that there exist intelligent agents with the right sorts of motivations and abilities to produce information content; after all, we know that human beings exist and are frequently engaged in the production and transmission of information. It is precisely because we have this background knowledge that we can justifiably be confident that intelligent design is a far more probable explanation than chance for any occurrence of information that a human being is capable of producing. In the absence of antecedent reason for thinking there exist intelligent agents capable of creating information content, the occurrence of a pattern of flowers in the shape of “Welcome to Victoria” would not obviously warrant an inference of intelligent design.

The problem, however, is that it is the very existence of an intelligent Deity that is at issue. In the absence of some antecedent reason for thinking there exists an intelligent Deity capable of creating biological information, the occurrence of sequences of nucleotides that can be described as “representing information” does not obviously warrant an inference of intelligent design—no matter how improbable the chance explanation might be. To justify preferring one explanation as more probable than another, we must have information about the probability of each explanation. The mere fact that certain sequences take a certain shape that we can see meaning or value in, by itself, tells us nothing obvious about the probability that it is the result of intelligent design.

It is true, of course, that “experience affirms that information content not only routinely arises but always arises from the activity of intelligent minds” (Meyer 2002, 92), but our experience is limited to the activity of human beings—beings that are frequently engaged in activities that are intended to produce information content. While that experience will inductively justify inferring that some human agency is the cause of any information that could be explained by human beings, it will not inductively justify inferring the existence of an intelligent agency with causal powers that depart as radically from our experience as the powers that are traditionally attributed to God. The argument from biological information, like the argument from biochemical complexity, seems incapable of standing alone as an argument for God’s existence.

c. The Fine-Tuning Arguments

Scientists have determined that life in the universe would not be possible if more than about two dozen properties of the universe were even slightly different from what they are; as the matter is commonly put, the universe appears “fine-tuned” for life. For example, life would not be possible if the force of the big bang explosion had differed by one part in 1060; the universe would have either collapsed on itself or expanded too rapidly for stars to form. Similarly, life would not be possible if the force binding protons to neutrons differed by even five percent.

It is immediately tempting to think that the probability of a fine-tuned universe is so small that intelligent design simply must be the more probable explanation. The supposition that it is a matter of chance that so many things could be exactly what they need to be for life to exist in the universe just seems implausibly improbable. Since, on this intuition, the only two explanations for the highly improbable appearance of fine-tuning are chance and an intelligent agent who deliberately designed the universe to be hospitable to life, the latter simply has to be the better explanation.

This natural line of argument is vulnerable to a cogent objection. The mere fact that it is enormously improbable that an event occurred by chance, by itself, gives us no reason to think that it occurred by design. Suppose we flip a fair coin 1000 times and record the results in succession. The probability of getting the particular outcome is vanishingly small: 1 in 21000 to be precise. But it is clear that the mere fact that such a sequence is so improbable, by itself, does not give us any reason to think that it was the result of intelligent design. As intuitively tempting as it may be to conclude from just the apparent improbability of a fine-tuned universe that it is the result of divine agency, the inference is unsound.

i. The Argument from Suspicious Improbabilitys

George N. Schlesinger, however, attempts to formalize the fine-tuning intuition in a way that avoids this objection. To understand Schlesinger’s argument, consider your reaction to two different events. If John wins a 1-in-1,000,000,000 lottery game, you would not immediately be tempted to think that John (or someone acting on his behalf) cheated. If, however, John won three consecutive 1-in-1,000 lotteries, you would immediately be tempted to think that John (or someone acting on his behalf) cheated. Schlesinger believes that the intuitive reaction to these two scenarios is epistemically justified. The structure of the latter event is such that it is justifies a belief that intelligent design is the cause: the fact that John got lucky in three consecutive lotteries is a reliable indicator that his winning was the intended result of someone’s intelligent agency. Despite the fact that the probability of winning three consecutive 1-in-1,000 games is exactly the same as the probability of winning one 1-in-1,000,000,000 game, the former event is of a kind that is surprising in a way that warrants an inference of intelligent design.

Schlesinger argues that the fact that the universe is fine-tuned for life is improbable in exactly the same way that John’s winning three consecutive lotteries is improbable. After all, it is not just that we got lucky with respect to one property-lottery game; we got lucky with respect to two dozen property-lottery games—lotteries that we had to win in order for there to be life in the universe. Given that we are justified in inferring intelligent design in the case of John’s winning three consecutive lotteries, we are even more justified in inferring intelligent design in the case of our winning two dozen much more improbable property lotteries. Thus, Schlesinger concludes, the most probable explanation for the remarkable fact that the universe has exactly the right properties to sustain life is that an intelligent Deity intentionally created the universe such as to sustain life.

This argument is vulnerable to a number of criticisms. First, while it might be clear that carbon-based life would not be possible if the universe were slightly different with respect to these two-dozen fine-tuned properties, it is not clear that no form of life would be possible. Second, some physicists speculate that this physical universe is but one material universe in a “multiverse” in which all possible material universes are ultimately realized. If this highly speculative hypothesis is correct, then there is nothing particularly suspicious about the fact that there is a fine-tuned universe, since the existence of such a universe is inevitable (that is, has probability 1) if all every material universe is eventually realized in the multiverse. Since some universe, so to speak, had to win, the fact that ours won does not demand any special explanation.

Schlesinger’s fine-tuning argument also appears vulnerable to the same criticism as the other versions of the design argument (see Himma 2002). While Schlesinger is undoubtedly correct in thinking that we are justified in suspecting design in the case where John wins three consecutive lotteries, it is because—and only because—we know two related empirical facts about such events. First, we already know that there exist intelligent agents who have the right motivations and causal abilities to deliberately bring about such events. Second, we know from past experience with such events that they are usually explained by the deliberate agency of one or more of these agents. Without at least one of these two pieces of information, we are not obviously justified in seeing design in such cases.

As before, the problem for the fine-tuning argument is that we lack both of the pieces that are needed to justify an inference of design. First, the very point of the argument is to establish the fact that there exists an intelligent agency that has the right causal abilities and motivations to bring the existence of a universe capable of sustaining life. Second, and more obviously, we do not have any past experience with the genesis of worlds and are hence not in a position to know whether the existence of fine-tuned universes are usually explained by the deliberate agency of some intelligent agency. Because we lack this essential background information, we are not justified in inferring that there exists an intelligent Deity who deliberately created a universe capable of sustaining life.

ii. The Confirmatory Argument

Robin Collins defends a more modest version of the fine-tuning argument that relies on a general principle of confirmation theory, rather than a principle that is contrived to distinguish events or entities that are explained by intelligent design from events or entities explained by other factors. Collins’s version of the argument relies on what he calls the Prime Principle of Confirmation: If observation O is more probable under hypothesis H1 than under hypothesis H2, then O provides a reason for preferring H1 over H2. The idea is that the fact that an observation is more likely under the assumption that H1 is true than under the assumption H2 is true counts as evidence in favor of H1.

This version of the fine-tuning argument proceeds by comparing the relative likelihood of a fine-tuned universe under two hypotheses:

  1. The Design Hypothesis: there exists a God who created the universe such as to sustain life;
  2. The Atheistic Single-Universe Hypothesis: there exists one material universe, and it is a matter of chance that the universe has the fine-tuned properties needed to sustain life.

Assuming the Design Hypothesis is true, the probability that the universe has the fine-tuned properties approaches (if it does not equal) 1. Assuming the Atheistic Single-Universe Hypothesis is true, the probability that the universe has the fine-tuned properties is very small—though it is not clear exactly how small. Applying the Prime Principle of Confirmation, Collins concludes that the observation of fine-tuned properties provides reason for preferring the Design Hypothesis over the Atheistic Single-Universe Hypothesis.

At the outset, it is crucial to note that Collins does not intend the fine-tuned argument as a proof of God’s existence. As he explains, the Prime Principle of Confirmation “is a general principle of reasoning which tells us when some observation counts as evidence in favor of one hypothesis over another” (Collins 1999, 51). Indeed, he explicitly acknowledges that “the argument does not say that the fine-tuning evidence proves that the universe was designed, or even that it is likely that the universe was designed” (Collins 1999, 53). It tells us only that the observation of fine-tuning provides one reason for accepting the Theistic Hypothesis over the Atheistic Single-Universe Hypothesis—and one that can be rebutted by other evidence.

The confirmatory version of the fine-tuning argument is not vulnerable to the objection that it relies on an inference strategy that presupposes that we have independent evidence for thinking the right kind of intelligent agency exists. As a general scientific principle, the Prime Principle of Confirmation can be applied in a wide variety of circumstances and is not limited to circumstances in which we have other reasons to believe the relevant conclusion is true. If the observation of a fine-tuned universe is more probable under the Theistic Hypothesis than under the Atheistic Single-Universe Hypothesis, then this fact is a reason for preferring the Design Hypothesis to Atheistic Single-Universe Hypothesis.

Nevertheless, the confirmatory version of the argument is vulnerable on other fronts. As a first step towards seeing one worry, consider two possible explanations for the observation that John Doe wins a 1-in-7,000,000 lottery (see Himma 2002). According to the Theistic Lottery Hypothesis, God wanted John Doe to win and deliberately brought it about that his numbers were drawn. According to the Chance Lottery Hypothesis, John Doe’s numbers were drawn by chance. It is clear that John’s winning the lottery is vastly more probable under the Theistic Lottery Hypothesis than under the Chance Lottery Hypothesis. By the Prime Principle of Confirmation, then, John’s winning the lottery provides a reason to prefer the Theistic Lottery Hypothesis over the Chance Lottery Hypothesis.

As is readily evident, the above reasoning, by itself, provides very weak support for the Theistic Lottery Hypothesis. If all we know about the world is that John Doe won a lottery and the only possible explanations for this observation are the Theistic Lottery Hypothesis and the Chance Lottery Hypothesis, then this observation provides some reason to prefer the former. But it does not take much counterevidence to rebut the Theistic Lottery Hypothesis: a single observation of a lottery that relies on a random selection process will suffice. A single application of the Prime Principle of Confirmation, by itself, is simply not designed to provide the sort of reason that would warrant much confidence in preferring one hypothesis to another.

For this reason, the confirmatory version of the fine-tuning argument, by itself, provides a weak reason for preferring the Design Hypothesis over the Atheistic Single Universe Hypothesis. Although Collins is certainly correct in thinking the observation of fine-tuning provides a reason for accepting the Design Hypothesis and hence rational ground for belief that God exists, that reason is simply not strong enough to do much in the way of changing the minds of either agnostics or atheists.

3. The Scientifically Legitimate Uses of Design Inferences

It is worth noting that proponents are correct in thinking that design inferences have a variety of legitimate scientific uses. Such inferences are used to detect intelligent agency in a large variety of contexts, including criminal and insurance investigations. Consider, for example, the notorious case of Nicholas Caputo. Caputo, a member of the Democratic Party, was a public official responsible for conducting drawings to determine the relative ballot positions of Democrats and Republicans. During Caputo’s tenure, the Democrats drew the top ballot position 40 of 41 times, making it far more likely that an undecided voter would vote for the Democratic candidate than for the Republican candidate. The Republican Party filed suit against Caputo, arguing he deliberately rigged the ballot to favor his own party. After noting that the probability of picking the Democrats 40 out of 41 times was less than 1 in 50 billion, the court legitimately made a design inference, concluding that “few persons of reason will accept the explanation of blind chance.”

What proponents of design arguments for God’s existence, however, have not noticed is that each one of these indubitably legitimate uses occurs in a context in which we are already justified in thinking that intelligent beings with the right motivations and abilities exist. In every context in which design inferences are routinely made by scientists, they already have conclusive independent reason for believing there exist intelligent agents with the right abilities and motivations to bring about the apparent instance of design.

Consider, for example, how much more information was available to the court in the Caputo case than is available to the proponent of the design argument for God’s existence. Like the proponent of the design argument, the court knew that (1) the relevant event or feature is something that might be valued by an intelligent agent; and (2) the odds of it coming about by chance are astronomically small. Unlike the proponent of the design argument, however, the court had an additional piece of information available to it: the court already knew that there existed an intelligent agent with the right causal abilities and motives to bring about the event; after all, there was no dispute whatsoever about the existence of Caputo. It was that piece of information, together with (1), that enabled the court to justifiably conclude that the probability that an intelligent agent deliberately brought it about that the Democrats received the top ballot position 40 of 41 times was significantly higher than the probability that this happened by chance. Without this crucial piece of information, however, the court would not have been so obviously justified in making the design inference. Accordingly, while the court was right to infer a design explanation in the Caputo case, this is, in part, because the judges already knew that the right kind of intelligent beings exist—and one of them happened to have occupied a position that afforded him with the opportunity to rig the drawings in favor of the Democrats.

In response, one might be tempted to argue that there is one context in which scientists employ the design inference without already having sufficient reason to think the right sort of intelligent agency exists. As is well-known, researchers monitor radio transmissions for patterns that would support a design inference that such transmissions are sent by intelligent beings. For example, it would be reasonable to infer that some intelligent extraterrestrial beings were responsible for a transmission of discrete signals and pauses that effectively enumerated the prime numbers from 2 to 101. In this case, the intelligibility of the pattern, together with the improbability of its occurring randomly, seems to justify the inference that the transmission sequence is the result of intelligent design.

As it turns out, we are already justified in thinking that the right sort of intelligent beings exist even in this case. We already know, after all, that we exist and have the right sort of motivations and abilities to bring about such transmissions because we send them into space hoping that some other life form will detect our existence. While our existence in the universe—and this is crucial—does not, by itself, justify thinking that there are other intelligent life forms in the universe, it does justify thinking that the probability that there are such life forms is higher than the astronomically small probability (1 in 21136 to be precise) that a sequence of discrete radio signals and pauses that enumerates the prime numbers from 2 to 101 is the result of chance. Thus, we would be justified in inferring design as the explanation of such a sequence on the strength of three facts: (1) the probability of such a chance occurrence is 1 in 21136; (2) there exist intelligent beings in the universe capable of bringing about such an occurrence; and (3) the sequence of discrete signals and pauses has a special significance to intelligent beings. In particular, (2) and (3) tell us that the probability that design explains such an occurrence is significantly higher than 1 in 21136—though it is not clear exactly what the probability is.

Insofar as the legitimate application of design inferences presupposes that we have antecedent reason to believe the right kind of intelligent being exists, they can enable us to distinguish what such beings do from what merely happens. If we already know, for example, that there exist beings capable of rigging a lottery, then design inferences can enable us to distinguish lottery results that merely happen from lottery results that are deliberately brought about by such agents. Similarly, if we already have adequate reason to believe that God exists, then design inferences can enable us to distinguish features of the world that merely happen from features of the world that are deliberately brought about by the agency of God. Indeed, to the extent that we are antecedently justified in believing that God exists, it is obviously more reasonable to believe that God deliberately structured the universe to have the fine-tuned properties than it is to believe that somehow this occurred by chance.

If this is correct, then design inferences simply cannot do the job they are asked to do in design arguments for God’s existence. Insofar as they presuppose that we already know the right kind of intelligent being exists, they cannot stand alone as a justification for believing that God exists. It is the very existence of the right kind of intelligent being that is at issue in the dispute over whether God exists. While design inferences have a variety of scientifically legitimate uses, they cannot stand alone as arguments for God’s existence.

4. References and Further Reading

  • Michael J. Behe, Darwin’s Black Box: The Biochemical Challenge to Evolution (New York: Touchstone Books, 1996)
  • Richard Bentley, A Confutation of Atheism from the Origin and Frame of the World (London: H. Mortlock, 1692-1693)
  • Robin Collins, “A Scientific Argument for the Existence of God,” in Michael J. Murray (ed.), Reason for the Hope Within (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1999)
  • Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species, Everyman’s Library (London: J.M. Dent, 1947)
  • Richard Dawkins, The Blind Watchmaker: Why the Evidence of Evolution Reveals a Universe without Design (New York: Norton Publishing, 1996; originally published in 1986)
  • William Dembski, The Design Inference (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998)
  • William Dembski, No Free Lunch: Why Specified Complexity Cannot Be Purchased without Intelligence (Rowman & Littlefield, 2002)
  • William Derham, Physico-theology, or, A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God from his Works of Creation Being the Substance of XVI Sermons Preached in St. Mary le Bow-Church, London, at the Hon’ble Mr. Boyle’s Lectures in the Years 1711 and 1712 (London: W. Innys, 1713)
  • William Derham, Astro-theology, or, A Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God: From a Survey of the Heavens (London: W. Innys, 1715)
  • Kenneth Einar Himma, “Prior Probabilities and Confirmation Theory: A Problem with the Fine-Tuning Argument,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, vol. 51, no. 4 (June 2002)
  • Kenneth Einar Himma, “The Application-Conditions for Design Inferences: Why the Design Arguments Need the Help of Other Arguments for God’s Existence,”International Journal for Philosophy of Religion., vol. 57, no. 1 (February 2005).
  • David Hume, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, edited with an introduction by Norman Kemp Smith, (New York: Social Sciences Publishers, 1948)
  • Julian Huxley, Evolution as Process (New York: Harper and Row, 1953).
  • Stephen C. Meyer, “DNA by Design: An Inference to the Best Explanation,” Rhetoric and Public Affairs, vol. 1, no. 4 (Winter 1998)
  • Stephen C. Meyer, “Evidence for Design in Physics and Biology: From the Origin of the Universe to the Origin of Life,” in Behe, Dembski, and Meyer (eds.), Science and Evidence for Design in the Universe (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2002)
  • William Paley, Natural Theology: Or Evidences of the Existence and Attributes of the Deity Collected from the Appearances of Nature (Boston: Gould and Lincoln, 1867)
  • Del Ratzsch, Nature, Design, and Science: The Status of Design in Natural Science (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2001)
  • John Ray, The Wisdom of God Manifested in the Works of the Creation Being the Substance of Some Common Places Delivered in the Chappel of Trinity-College, in Cambridge (London: Printed for Samuel Smith, 1691)
  • Hugh Ross, Beyond the Cosmos: What Recent Discoveries in Astronomy and Physics Reveal about the Nature of God (Colorado Springs: Nav Press, 1996)
  • George N. Schlesinger, New Perspectives on Old-time Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988)
  • Frederick Robert Tennant, Philosophical Theology, Volume 2 (1928-30)

Author Information

Kenneth Einar Himma
Email: himma@spu.edu
Seattle Pacific University
U. S. A.

Joseph Butler (1692—1752)

butlerBishop Joseph Butler is a well-known religious philosopher of the eighteenth century. He is still read and discussed among contemporary philosophers, especially for arguments against some major figures in the history of philosophy, such as Thomas Hobbes and John Locke. In his Fifteen Sermons Preached at the Rolls Chapel (1729), Butler argues against Hobbes’s egoism, and in the Analogy of Religion (1736), he argues against Locke’s memory-based theory of personal identity.

Overall, Butler’s philosophy is largely defensive. His general strategy is to accept the received systems of morality and religion and, then, defend them against those who think that such systems can be refuted or disregarded. Butler ultimately attempts to naturalize morality and religion, though not in an overly reductive way, by showing that they are essential components of nature and common life. He argues that nature is a moral system to which humans are adapted via conscience. Thus, in denying morality, Butler takes his opponents to be denying our very nature, which is untenable. Given this conception of nature as a moral system and certain proofs of God’s existence, Butler is then in a position to defend religion by addressing objections to it, such as the problem of evil.

This article provides an overview of Butler’s life, works, and influence with special attention paid to his writings on religion and ethics. The totality of his work addresses the questions: Why be moral? Why be religious? Which morality? Which religion? In attempting to answer such questions, Butler develops a philosophy that possesses a unity often neglected by those who read him selectively. The philosophy that develops is one according to which religion and morality are grounded in the natural world order.

Table of Contents

  1. Life
  2. Human Nature as Made for Virtue
  3. Human Life as in the Presence of God
  4. This Life as a Prelude to a Future Life
  5. The World as a Moral Order
  6. The Christian Scriptures as a Revelation
  7. Public Institutions as Moral Agents
  8. Butler’s Influence
  9. References and Further Reading
    1. Works by Butler
    2. Secondary Literature

1. Life

Joseph Butler was born into a Presbyterian family at Wantage. He attended a dissenting academy, but then converted to the Church of England intent on an ecclesiastical career. Butler expressed distaste for Oxford’s intellectual conventions while a student at Oriel College; he preferred the newer styles of thought, especially those of John Locke, the 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury and Francis Hutcheson, leading David Hume to characterize Butler as one of those “who have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have engaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public.” Butler benefited from the support of Samuel Clarke and the Talbot family.

In 1719, Butler was appointed to his first job, preacher to the Rolls Chapel in Chancery Lane, London. Butler’s anonymous letters to Clarke had been published in 1716, but a selection of his Fifteen Sermons Preached at the Rolls Chapel (1729) was the first work published under his name. The Rolls sermons are still widely read and have held the attention of secular philosophers more than any other sermons in history. Butler moved north and became rector of Stanhope in 1725. Only at this point is his life documented in any detail, and his tenure is remembered mainly for the Analogy of Religion (1736). Soon after publication of that work, Butler became Bishop of Bristol. Queen Caroline had died urging his preferment, but Bristol was one of the poorest sees, and Butler expressed some displeasure in accepting it. Once Butler became dean of St. Paul’s in 1740, he was able to use that income to support his work in Bristol. In 1750, not long before his death, Butler was elevated to Durham, one of the richest bishoprics. The tradition that Butler declined the See of Canterbury was conclusively discredited by Norman Sykes (1936), but continues to be repeated uncritically in many reference works. Butler’s famous encounter with John Wesley has only recently been reconstructed in as full detail as seems possible given the state of the surviving evidence, and we are now left with little hope of ever knowing what their actual relationship was. They disagreed, certainly, on Wesley’s right to preach without a license, and on this point Butler seems entirely in the right; but Butler may have supported Wesley more than he opposed him, and Wesley seems entirely sincere in his praise of the Analogy.

Butler has become an icon of a highly intellectualized, even rarefied, theology, “wafted in a cloud of metaphysics,” as Horace Walpole said. Ironically, Butler refused as a matter of principle to write speculative works or to pursue curiosity. All his writings were directly related to the performance of his duties at the time or to career advancement. From the Rolls sermons on, all his works are devoted to pastoral philosophy.

A pastoral philosopher gives philosophically persuasive arguments for seeing life in a particular way when such a seeing-as may have a decisive effect on practice. Butler had little interest in, and only occasionally practiced, natural theology in the scholastic sense; his intent is rather defensive: to answer those who claim that morals and religion, as conventionally understood, may be safely disregarded. Butler tried to show, as a refutation of the practice of his day (as he perceived it), that morals and religion are natural extensions of the common way of life usually taken for granted, and thus that those who would dispense with them bear a burden of proof they are unable to discharge. In arguing that morals and religion are favored by a presumption already acknowledged in ordinary life, Butler employs many types of appeal, at least some of which would be fallacious if used in an attempted demonstrative argument.

2. Human Nature as Made for Virtue

Butler’s argument for morality, found primarily in his sermons, is an attempt to show that morality is a matter of following human nature. To develop this argument, he introduces the notions of nature and of a system. There are, he says, various parts to human nature, and they are arranged hierarchically. The fact that human nature is hierarchically ordered is not what makes us manifestly adapted to virtue, rather, it is what Butler calls “conscience” that is at the top of this hierarchy. Butler does sometimes refer to the conscience as the voice of God; but, contrary to what is sometimes alleged, he never relies on divine authority in asserting the supremacy, the universality or the reliability of conscience. Butler clearly believes in the autonomy of the conscience as a secular organ of knowledge.

Whether the conscience judges principles, actions or persons is not clear, perhaps deliberately since such distinctions are of no practical significance. What Butler is concerned to show is that to dismiss morality is in effect to dismiss our own nature, and therefore absurd. As to which morality we are to follow, Butler seems to have in mind the common core of civilized standards. He stresses the degree of agreement and reliability of conscience without denying some differences remain. All that is required for his argument to go through is that the opponent accept in practice that conscience is the supreme authority in human nature and that we ought not to disregard our own nature.

The most significant recent challenge to Butler’s moral theory is by Nicholas Sturgeon (1976), a reply to which appears in Stephen Darwall (1995).

Besides the appeal to the rank of conscience, Butler offered many other observations in his attempt to show that we are made for (that is, especially suited to) virtue. In a famous attack on the egoistic philosophy of Thomas Hobbes, he argues that benevolence is as much a part of human nature as self-love. Butler also argues that various other aspects of human nature are adapted to virtue, sometimes in surprising ways. For example, he argues that resentment is needed to balance benevolence. He also deals forthrightly with self-deception.

Only three of the fifteen sermons deal with explicitly religious themes: the sermons on the love of God and the sermon on ignorance.

3. Human Life as in the Presence of God

Butler’s views on our knowledge of God are among the most frequently misstated aspects of his philosophy. Lewis White Beck’s exposition (1937) of this neglected aspect of Butler’s philosophy has itself been generally neglected, and both friends and foes frequently assert that Butler “assumed” that God exists. Butler never assumes the existence of God; rather, at least after his exchange with Clarke, he takes it as granted that God’s existence can be and has been proved to the satisfaction of those who were party to the discussion in his time. The charge, frequently repeated since the mid-nineteenth century, that Butler’s position is reversible once an opponent refuses to grant God’s existence, is therefore groundless. It is true that Butler does not expound any proof of God’s existence. (Notice that this fact makes it problematic to identify him with the character Cleanthes in Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.) However, he does endorse many such proofs, using common names rather than citing specific texts.

The sermons on the love of God are rarely read today, but they provide abundant evidence that Butler’s God is not some remote deity who created the world and then lost interest in it. On the contrary, the difference that God makes to us is the difference that a lively sense of God’s presence makes.

4. This Life as a Prelude to a Future Life

Butler considered the expectation of a future life to be the foundation of all our hopes and fears. He does not state exactly why this is so, and most commentators have concluded that he is referring to hopes and fears regarding what will happen to us as individuals when we die. Such an intention would be contrary to Butler’s general line of thought. More consonant with what Butler does say is the Platonic point that one cannot truly benefit by acting viciously and then escaping punishment. Since that is what appears to happen in this world, appearances must be denied. Secondly, and here Butler would agree with Hume, in this world there is an appearance that the superintendence of the universe is not entirely just. Thus, there are three logical options: (1) the universe is ultimately unjust, (2) contrary to appearances, this world is somehow just, or (3) the universe is just, but only when viewed more broadly than we are able to see now. Given these options, Butler thinks there are good practical reasons for accepting the third in practice.

The first chapter of the Analogy is devoted to the argument that what little we know of the nature of death is insufficient to warrant an assurance that death is the end of us. And when we lack sufficient warrant for acting on the presumption of a change, we must act on the presumption of continuance. The recurrent objection, offered by such otherwise sympathetic readers as Richard Swinburne, is that in the physical destruction of the body, we do have sufficient warrant. Roderick Chisholm (1986) has proposed a counter to this criticism.

Butler appends to his discussion of a future life a brief essay on personal identity, and this is the only part of the Analogy widely read today. That it is read independently is perhaps just as well since it is difficult to see how it is related to the general argument. Butler says he needs to answer objections to personal identity continuing after death, which he certainly must do. But the view he proposes to refute is Locke’s, and Locke seemed not to see that his theory of personal identity presented a problem for expectation of a future life. Locke’s theory was that memory is constitutive of personal identity. Even if Butler is right in his objection to Locke’s theory, he certainly needs personal memories to be retained since they are presupposed by his theory of rewards and punishments after death.

5. The World as a Moral Order

Butler’s work is directed mainly against skeptics (and those inclined toward skepticism) and as an aid for those who propose to argue with skeptics. The general motivation for his work is to overcome intellectual embarrassment at accepting the received systems of morals and religion. To succeed, Butler must present a case that is plausible if not fully probative, and he must do so without resorting to an overly reductive account of morals and religion. Butler’s strategy is to naturalize morals and religion. Although generally scorning scholastic methods, Butler does accept the ontological argument for God’s existence, the appeal to the unity and simplicity of the soul and the distinction of natural and revealed religion. The fundamental doctrine of natural religion is the efficacy of morals—that the categories of virtue and vice, already discussed in terms of human nature, have application to the larger world of nature. To some, fortune and misfortune in this world seem not to be correlated with any moral scheme. But, with numerous examples, Butler argues that the world as we ordinarily experience it does have the appearance of a moral order.

Butler takes up two objections: the possibility that the doctrine of necessity is true and the familiar problem of evil. With regard to necessity, he argues that, even if such is the case, we are in no position to live in accord with necessity since we cannot see our own or others’ actions as entirely necessitated. Butler’s approach to the problem of evil is to appeal to human ignorance, a principal theme in various aspects of his work. What Butler must show is that we do not know of the actual occurrence of any event such that it could not be part of a just world. Since he does appeal to our ignorance, Butler cannot be said to have produced a theodicy, a justification of the ways of God to us, but his strategy may show a greater intellectual integrity, and may be sufficient for his purposes.

6. The Christian Scriptures as a Revelation

Butler’s treatment of revealed religion is less satisfactory, since he had only a partial understanding of modern biblical criticism. Butler does insist on treating the Bible like any other book for critical purposes. He maintains that if any biblical teaching appears immoral or contrary to what we know by our natural faculties, then that alone is sufficient reason for seeking another interpretation of the scripture. The point of a revelation is to supplement natural knowledge, not to overrule it. Far from compromising the role of religion, this view is entailed by the fact that nature, natural knowledge and revelation all have a common source in God.

It is only in the second part of his Analogy that Butler argues against the deists. The characterization of his work as on the whole a reply to the deists is entirely a modern invention and is not found anywhere in the first century of reactions.

Only one chapter of the Analogy is devoted to the “Christian evidences” of miracles and prophecy, and even there Butler confines himself to some judicious remarks on the logical character of the arguments, especially with regard to miracles. In general, Butler presents revelation as wholly consistent with, but also genuinely supplemental of, natural knowledge. Hume says he castrated his Treatise of Human Nature (1739/1740) out of regards for Butler. But based on the texts that survive, there is no reason to think Hume would have gotten the better of the argument. Charles Babbage (1837) eventually showed why Hume had no valid objection to Butler.

Unfortunately, Butler’s account of scripture is entirely two-dimensional. He does not doubt the point that scripture was written in terms properly applicable to a previous state of society, but he has little sense of the canonical books themselves being redactions of a multitude of oral and literary traditions and sources.

7. Public Institutions as Moral Agents

In the six sermons preserved from the years he served as the Bishop of Bristol, Butler defends the moral nature of various philanthropic and political institutions of his day. And in his Charge to the Clergy at Durham, he presents a concise rationale for the Church.

8. Butler’s Influence

Ernest Mossner (1936) is still the most useful survey of Butler’s influence. Mossner claims that Butler was widely read in his own time, but his evidence may be insufficient to convince some. However that may be, there is no doubt that by the late eighteenth century Butler was widely read in Scottish universities, and from the early nineteenth century at Oxford, Cambridge and many American colleges, perhaps especially because the Scottish influence was so strong in America. Butler’s work impressed David Hume and John Wesley, and Thomas Reid, Adam Smith and David Hartley considered themselves Butlerians. Butler was a great favorite of the Tractarians, but the association with them may have worked against his ultimate influence in England, especially since Newman attributed his own conversion to the Roman Church to his study of Butler. S. T. Coleridge was among the first to urge study of the sermons and to disparage the Analogy. The decline of interest in the Analogy in the late nineteenth century has never been satisfactorily explained, but Leslie Stephen’s critical work was especially influential.

The editions most frequently cited today appeared only after wide interest in Butler’s Analogy had evaporated. The total editions are sometimes said to be countless, but this is true only in the sense that there are no agreed criteria for individuating editions. The numerous ancillary essays and study guides are still useful as evidence of how Butler was studied and understood. At its height, Butler’s influence cut across protestant denominational lines and party differences in the Church of England, but serious interest in the Analogy is now concentrated among certain Anglican writers.

9. References and Further Reading

Butler’s first biography appeared in the supplement to the Biographia Britannica (London, 1766). The most frequently reprinted biography is by Andrew Kippis and appeared in his second edition of the Biographia Britannica (London, 1778-93). This second edition is often confused with the supplement to the first edition. The only full biography is Bartlett (1839).

The best modern edition of Butler’s works is J.H. Bernard’s, but it is a modernized text, as of 1900, and contains errors. Serious readers may consult the original editions, now available on microfilm.

a. Works by Butler

  • Several Letters to the Reverend Dr. Clarke. London: Knapton, 1716.
  • Fifteen Sermons Preached at the Rolls Chapel. London: second edition, 1729; six sermons added in the 1749 edition.
  • Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Nature. London: Knapton, 1736.
  • Charge Delivered to the Clergy. Durham: Lane, 1751.

b. Secondary Literature

  • Babbage, Charles. Ninth Bridgewater Treatise. London: J. Murray, 1837.
  • Babolin, Albino. Joseph Butler. Padova: LaGarangola, 1973. 2 vols.
  • Baker, Frank. “John Wesley and Bishop Joseph Butler: A Fragment of Wesley’s Manuscript Journal 16th to 24th August 1739.” Proceedings of the Wesley Historical Society. 42 (May 1980) 93-100.
  • Bartlett, Thomas. Memoirs of the Life, Character and Writings of Joseph Butler. London: John W. Parker, 1839.
  • Beck, Lewis White. “A Neglected Aspect of Butler’s Ethics.” Sophia 5 (1937) 11-15.
  • Butler, J.F. “John Wesley’s Defense Before Bishop Butler.” Proceedings of the Wesley Historical Society. 20 (1935) 63-67.
  • Butler, J.F. “John Wesley’s Defense Before Bishop Butler: A Further Note.” Proceedings of the Wesley Historical Society. 20 (1936) 193-194.
  • Chisholm, Roderick. “Self-Profile” in Roderick M. Chisholm, ed. Radu J. Bogdan. Dordrecht:Reidel, 1986.
  • Cunliffe, Christopher, ed. Joseph Butler’s Moral and Religious Thought: Tercentenary Essays. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992.
  • Darwall, Stephen. The British Moralists and the Internal ‘Ought’ 1640-1740. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.
  • Mossner, E.C. Bishop Butler and the Age of Reason. New York: Macmillan, 1936.
  • Penelhum, Terence. Butler. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1985.
  • Stephen, Leslie. “Butler, Joseph.” Dictionary of National Biography, 1886.
  • Sturgeon, Nicholas L. “Nature and Conscience in Butler’s Ethics.” Philosophical Review 85 (1976) 316-356.
  • Sykes, Norman. “Bishop Butler and the Primacy” Theology (1936) 132- 137.
  • Sykes, Norman. “Bishop Butler and the Primacy” (letter) Theology (1958) 23.

Author Information

David E. White
Email: dr.david.e.white@gmail.com
St. John Fisher College
U. S. A.

Phenomenology

In its central use, the term “phenomenology” names a movement in twentieth century philosophy. A second use of “phenomenology” common in contemporary philosophy names a property of some mental states, the property they have if and only if there is something it is like to be in them. Thus, it is sometimes said that emotional states have a phenomenology while belief states do not.  For example, while there is something it is like to be angry, there is nothing it is like to believe that Paris is in France. Although the two uses of “phenomenology” are related, it is the first which is the current topic.  Accordingly, “phenomenological” refers to a way of doing philosophy that is more or less closely related to the corresponding movement. Phenomenology utilizes a distinctive method to study the structural features of experience and of things as experienced. It is primarily a descriptive discipline and is undertaken in a way that is largely independent of scientific, including causal, explanations and accounts of the nature of experience. Topics discussed within the phenomenological tradition include the nature of intentionality, perception, time-consciousness, self-consciousness, awareness of the body and consciousness of others. Phenomenology is to be distinguished from phenomenalism, a position in epistemology which implies that all statements about physical objects are synonymous with statements about persons having certain sensations or sense-data. George Berkeley was a phenomenalist but not a phenomenologist.

Although elements of the twentieth century phenomenological movement can be found in earlier philosophers—such as David Hume, Immanuel Kant and Franz Brentano—phenomenology as a philosophical movement really began with the work of Edmund Husserl. Following Husserl, phenomenology was adapted, broadened and extended by, amongst others, Martin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Emmanuel Levinas and Jacques Derrida. Phenomenology has, at one time or another, been aligned with Kantian and post-Kantian transcendental philosophy, existentialism and the philosophy of mind and psychology.

This article introduces some of the central aspects of the phenomenological method and also concrete phenomenological analyses of some of the topics that have greatly exercised phenomenologists.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. Phenomenological Method
    1. Phenomena
    2. Phenomenological Reduction
    3. Eidetic Reduction
    4. Heidegger on Method
  3. Intentionality
    1. Brentano and Intentional Inexistence
    2. Husserl’s Account in Logical Investigations
    3. Husserl’s Account in Ideas I
    4. Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty on Intentionality
  4. Phenomenology of Perception
    1. Naïve Realism, Indirect Realism and Phenomenalism
    2. Husserl’s Account: Intentionality and Hyle
    3. Husserl’s Account: Internal and External Horizons
    4. Husserl and Phenomenalism
    5. Sartre Against Sensation
  5. Phenomenology and the Self
    1. Hume and the Unity of Consciousness
    2. Kant and the Transcendental I
    3. Husserl and the Transcendental Ego
    4. Sartre and the Transcendent Ego
  6. Phenomenology of Time-Consciousness
    1. The Specious Present
    2. Primal Impression, Retention and Protention
    3. Absolute Consciousness
  7. Conclusion
  8. References and Further Reading

1. Introduction

The work often considered to constitute the birth of phenomenology is Husserl’s Logical Investigations (Husserl 2001). It contains Husserl’s celebrated attack on psychologism, the view that logic can be reduced to psychology; an account of phenomenology as the descriptive study of the structural features of the varieties of experience; and a number of concrete phenomenological analyses, including those of meaning, part-whole relations and intentionality.

Logical Investigations seemed to pursue its agenda against a backdrop of metaphysical realism. In Ideas I (Husserl 1982), however, Husserl presented phenomenology as a form of transcendental idealism. This apparent move was greeted with hostility from some early admirers of Logical Investigations, such as Adolph Reinach. However, Husserl later claimed that he had always intended to be a transcendental idealist. In Ideas I Husserl offered a more nuanced account of the intentionality of consciousness, of the distinction between fact and essence and of the phenomenological as opposed to the natural attitude.

Heidegger was an assistant to Husserl who took phenomenology in a rather new direction. He  married Husserl’s concern for legitimating concepts through phenomenological description with an overriding interest in the question of the meaning of being, referring to his own phenomenological investigations as “fundamental ontology.” His Being and Time (Heidegger 1962) is one of the most influential texts on the development of European philosophy in the Twentieth Century. Relations between Husserl and Heidegger became strained, partly due to the divisive issue of National Socialism, but also due to significant philosophical differences. Thus, unlike his early works, Heidegger’s later philosophy bears little relation to classical Husserlian phenomenology.

Although he published relatively little in his lifetime, Husserl was a prolific writer leaving a large number of manuscripts. Alongside Heidegger’s interpretation of phenomenology, this unpublished work had a decisive influence on the development of French existentialist phenomenology. Taking its lead from Heidegger’s account of authentic existence, Sartre’s Being and Nothingness (Sartre 1969) developed a phenomenological account of consciousness, freedom and concrete human relations that perhaps defines the term “existentialism.” Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception (Merleau-Ponty 1962) is distinctive both in the central role it accords to the body and in the attention paid to the relations between phenomenology and empirical psychology.

Although none of the philosophers mentioned above can be thought of straightforwardly as classical Husserlian phenomenologists, in each case Husserl sets the phenomenological agenda. This remains the case, with a great deal of the contemporary interest in both phenomenological methodology and phenomenological topics drawing inspiration from Husserl’s work. Accordingly, Husserl’s views are the touchstone in the following discussion of the topics, methods and significance of phenomenology.

2. Phenomenological Method

Husserlian phenomenology is a discipline to be undertaken according to a strict method. This method incorporates both the phenomenological and eidetic reductions.

a. Phenomena

Phenomenology is, as the word suggests, the science of phenomena. But this just raises the questions: “What are phenomena?” and “In what sense is phenomenology a science?”.

In answering the first question, it is useful to briefly turn to Kant. Kant endorsed “transcendental idealism,” distinguishing between phenomena (things as they appear) and noumena (things as they are in themselves), claiming that we can only know about the former (Kant 1929, A30/B45). On one reading of Kant, appearances are in the mind, mental states of subjects. On another reading, appearances are things as they appear, worldly objects considered in a certain way.

Both of these understandings of the nature of phenomena can be found in the phenomenological literature. However, the most common view is that all of the major phenomenologists construe phenomena in the latter way: phenomena are things as they appear. They are not mental states but worldly things considered in a certain way. The Phenomenologists tend, however, to reject Kantian noumena. Also, importantly, it is not to be assumed that the relevant notion of appearing is limited to sensory experience. Experience (or intuition) can indeed be sensory but can, at least by Husserl’s lights, be understood to encompass a much broader range of phenomena (Husserl 2001, sec. 52). Thus, for example, although not objects of sensory experience, phenomenology can offer an account of how the number series is given to intuition.

Phenomenology, then, is the study of things as they appear (phenomena). It is also often said to be descriptive rather than explanatory: a central task of phenomenology is to provide a clear, undistorted description of the ways things appear (Husserl 1982, sec. 75). This can be distinguished from the project of giving, for example, causal or evolutionary explanations, which would be the job of the natural sciences.

b. Phenomenological Reduction

In ordinary waking experience we take it for granted that the world around us exists independently of both us and our consciousness of it. This might be put by saying that we share an implicit belief in the independent existence of the world, and that this belief permeates and informs our everyday experience. Husserl refers to this positing of the world and entities within it as things which transcend our experience of them as “the natural attitude” (Husserl 1982, sec. 30). In The Idea of Phenomenology, Husserl introduces what he there refers to as “the epistemological reduction,” according to which we are asked to supply this positing of a transcendent world with “an index of indifference” (Husserl 1999, 30). In Ideas I, this becomes the “phenomenological epoché,” according to which, “We put out of action the general positing which belongs to the essence of the natural attitude; we parenthesize everything which that positing encompasses with respect to being” (Husserl 1982, sec. 32). This means that all judgements that posit the independent existence of the world or worldly entities, and all judgements that presuppose such judgements, are to be bracketed and no use is to be made of them in the course of engaging in phenomenological analysis. Importantly, Husserl claims that all of the empirical sciences posit the independent existence of the world, and so the claims of the sciences must be “put out of play” with no use being made of them by the phenomenologist.

This epoché is the most important part of the phenomenological reduction, the purpose of which is to open us up to the world of phenomena, how it is that the world and the entities within it are given. The reduction, then, is that which reveals to us the primary subject matter of phenomenology—the world as given and the givenness of the world; both objects and acts of consciousness.

There are a number of motivations for the view that phenomenology must operate within the confines of the phenomenological reduction. One is epistemological modesty. The subject matter of phenomenology is not held hostage to skepticism about the reality of the “external” world. Another is that the reduction allows the phenomenologist to offer a phenomenological analysis of the natural attitude itself. This is especially important if, as Husserl claims, the natural attitude is one of the presuppositions of scientific enquiry. Finally, there is the question of the purity of phenomenological description. It is possible that the implicit belief in the independent existence of the world will affect what we are likely to accept as an accurate description of the ways in which worldly things are given in experience. We may find ourselves describing things as “we know they must be” rather than how they are actually given.

The reduction, in part, enables the phenomenologist to go “back to the ‘things themselves'”(Husserl 2001, 168), meaning back to the ways that things are actually given in experience. Indeed, it is precisely here, in the realm of phenomena, that Husserl believes we will find that indubitable evidence that will ultimately serve as the foundation for every scientific discipline. As such, it is vital that we are able to look beyond the prejudices of common sense realism, and accept things as actually given. It is in this context that Husserl presents his Principle of All Principles which states that, “every originary presentive intuition is a legitimizing source of cognition, that everything originally (so to speak, in its ‘personal’ actuality) offered to us in ‘intuition’ is to be accepted simply as what it is presented as being, but also only within the limits in which it is presented there” (Husserl 1982, sec. 24).

c. Eidetic Reduction

The results of phenomenology are not intended to be a collection of particular facts about consciousness, but are rather supposed to be facts about the essential natures of phenomena and their modes of givenness. Phenomenologists do not merely aspire to offer accounts of what their own experiences of, say, material objects are like, but rather accounts of the essential features of material object perception as such. But how is this aspiration to be realized given that the method of phenomenology is descriptive, consisting in the careful description of experience? Doesn’t this, necessarily, limit phenomenological results to facts about particular individuals’ experience, excluding the possibility of phenomenologically grounded general facts about experience as such?

The Husserlian answer to this difficulty is that the phenomenologist must perform a second reduction called “eidetic” reduction (because it involves a kind of vivid, imagistic intuition). The purpose of the eidetic reduction in Husserl’s writings is to bracket any considerations concerning the contingent and accidental, and concentrate on (intuit) the essential natures or essences of the objects and acts of consciousness (Husserl 1982, sec. 2). This intuition of essences proceeds via what Husserl calls “free variation in imagination.” We imagine variations on an object and ask, “What holds up amid such free variations of an original […] as the invariant, the necessary, universal form, the essential form, without which something of that kind […] would be altogether inconceivable?” (Husserl 1977, sec. 9a). We will eventually come up against something that cannot be varied without destroying that object as an instance of its kind. The implicit claim here is that if it is inconceivable that an object of kind K might lack feature F, then F is a part of the essence of K.

Eidetic intuition is, in short, an a priori method of gaining knowledge of necessities. However, the result of the eidetic reduction is not just that we come to knowledge of essences, but that we come to intuitive knowledge of essences. Essences show themselves to us (Wesensschau), although not to sensory intuition, but to categorial or eidetic intuition (Husserl 2001, 292-4). It might be argued that Husserl’s methods here are not so different from the standard methods of conceptual analysis: imaginative thought experiments (Zahavi 2003, 38-39).

d. Heidegger on Method

It is widely accepted that few of the most significant post-Husserlian phenomenologists accepted Husserl’s prescribed methodology in full. Although there are numerous important differences between the later phenomenologists, the influence of Heidegger runs deep.

On the nature of phenomena, Heidegger remarks that “the term ‘phenomenon’…signifies ‘to show itself'” (Heidegger 1962, sec. 7). Phenomena are things that show themselves and the phenomenologist describes them as they show themselves. So, at least on this score there would appear to be some affinity between Husserl and Heidegger. However, this is somewhat controversial, with some interpreters understanding Husserlian phenomena not as things as given, but as states of the experiencing subject (Carman 2006).

It is commonly held that Heidegger reject’s the epoché: “Heidegger came to the conclusion that any bracketing of the factual world in phenomenology must be a crucial mistake” (Frede 2006, 56). What Heidegger says in his early work, however, is that, for him, the phenomenological reduction has a different sense than it does for Husserl:

For Husserl, phenomenological reduction… is the method of leading phenomenological vision from the natural attitude of the human being whose life is involved in the world of things and persons back to the transcendental life of consciousness…. For us phenomenological reduction means leading phenomenological vision back from the apprehension of a being…to the understanding of the being of this being.
(Heidegger 1982, 21)

Certainly, Heidegger thinks of the reduction as revealing something different—the Being of beings. But this is not yet to say that his philosophy does not engage in bracketing,for we can distinguish between the reduction itself and its claimed consequences. There is, however, some reason to think that Heidegger’s position is incompatible with Husserl’s account of the phenomenological reduction. For, on Husserl’s account, the reduction is to be applied to the “general positing” of the natural attitude, that is to a belief. But, according to Heidegger and those phenomenologists influenced by him (including both Sartre and Merleau-Ponty), our most fundamental relation to the world is not cognitive but practical (Heidegger 1962, sec. 15).

Heidegger’s positive account of the methods of phenomenology is explicit in its ontological agenda. A single question dominates the whole of Heidegger’s philosophy: What is the meaning of being? To understand this, we can distinguish between beings (entities) and Being. Heidegger calls this “the ontological difference.”  According to Heidegger, “ontology is the science of Being. But Being is always the being of a being. Being is essentially different from a being, from beings…We call it the ontological difference—the differentiation between Being and beings” (Heidegger 1982, 17). Tables, chairs, people, theories, numbers and universals are all beings. But they all have being, they all are. An understanding at the level of beings is “ontical,” an understanding at the level of being is “ontological”. Every being has being, but what does it mean to say of some being that it is? Might it be that what it means to say that something is differs depending on what sort of thing we are talking about? Do tables, people, numbers have being in the same way? Is there such a thing as the meaning of being in general? The task is, for each sort of being, to give an account of the structural features of its way of Being, “Philosophy is the theoretical conceptual interpretation of being, of being’s structure and its possibilities” (Heidegger 1982, 11).

According to Heidegger, we have a “pre-ontological” understanding of being: “We are able to grasp beings as such, as beings, only if we understand something like being. If we did not understand, even though at first roughly and without conceptual comprehension, what actuality signifies, then the actual would remain hidden from us…We must understand being so that we may be able to be given over to a world that is” (Heidegger 1982, 10-11). Our understanding of being is manifested in our “comportment towards beings” (Heidegger 1982, 16). Comportment is activity, action or behaviour. Thus, the understanding that we have of the Being of beings can be manifested in our acting with them. One’s understanding of the being of toothbrushes, for example, is manifested in one’s capacity for utilizing toothbrushes. Understanding need not be explicit, nor able to be articulated conceptually. It is often embodied in “know-how.” This is the sense, on Heidegger’s account, that our most fundamental relation to the world is practical rather than cognitive. It is this that poses a challenge to the phenomenological reduction.

Heidegger’s relation to the eidetic reduction is complex. The purpose of the eidetic reduction in Husserl’s writings is to bracket any considerations concerning the contingent and accidental, and concentrate on (intuit) the essential natures of the objects and acts of consciousness. Heidegger’s concentration on the meaning of the Being of entities appears similar in aim. However, insofar as the Being of entities relies on the notion of essence, Heidegger’s project calls it into question. The idea that there are different “ways of being” looks as though it does not abide by the traditional distinction between existence and essence. So, on Heidegger’s account, what it takes for something to have being is different for different sorts of thing.

3. Intentionality

How is it that subjective mental processes (perceptions, thoughts, etc.) are able to reach beyond the subject and open us up to an objective world of both worldly entities and meanings? This question is one that occupied Husserl perhaps more than any other, and his account of the intentionality of consciousness is central to his attempted answer.

Intentionality is one of the central concepts of Phenomenology from Husserl onwards. As a first approximation, intentionality is aboutness or directedness as exemplified by mental states. For example, the belief that The Smiths were from Manchester is about both Manchester and The Smiths. One can also hope, desire, fear, remember, etc. that the Smiths were from Manchester.

Intentionality is, say many, the way that subjects are “in touch with” the world. Two points of terminology are worth noting. First, in contemporary non-phenomenological debates, “intentional” and its cognates is often used interchangeably with “representational” and its cognates. Second, although they are related, “intentionality” (with a “t”)  is not to be confused with “intensionality” (with an “s”). The former refers to aboutness (which is the current topic), the latter refers to failure of truth-preservation after substitution of co-referring terms.

a. Brentano and Intentional Inexistence

Franz Brentano, Husserl’s one time teacher, is the origin of the contemporary debate about intentionality. He famously, and influentially claimed:

Every mental phenomenon is characterised by what the Scholastics of the Middle Ages called the intentional (or mental) inexistence of an object, and what we might call, though not wholly unambiguously, reference to a content, direction towards an object (which is not to be understood here as meaning a thing) or immanent objectivity. Every mental phenomenon includes something as object within itself, although they do not all do so in the same way. In presentation, something is presented, in judgement something is affirmed or denied, in love loved, in hate hated, in desire desired and so on.
(Brentano 1995, 88)

Brentano thought that all and only psychological states exhibit intentionality, and that in this way the subject matter of psychology could be demarcated. His, early and notorious, doctrine of intentional inexistence maintains that the object of an intentional state is literally a part of the state itself, and is, therefore, an “immanent” psychological entity. This position is based on Brentano’s adherence to (something like) the first interpretation of the Kantian notion of phenomena mentioned above (Crane 2006).

b. Husserl’s Account in Logical Investigations

Since phenomenology is descriptive, Husserl’s aim is to describe (rather than explain or reduce) intentionality. Husserl differs from Brentano in that he thinks that, apart from some special cases, the object of an intentional act is a transcendent object. That is, the object of an intentional act is external to the act itself (Husserl 2001, 126-7) (Husserl’s “acts” are not to be thought of as actions, or even as active. For example, on Husserl’s view, a visual experience is a conscious act (Husserl 2001, 102)). The object of the belief that Paris is the capital of France is Paris (and France). This is in keeping with the suggestion above that when phenomenologists describe phenomena, they describe worldly things as they are presented in conscious acts, not mental entities.

Intentionality is not a relation, but rather an intrinsic feature of intentional acts. Relations require the existence of their relata (the things related to one another), but this is not true of intentionality (conceived as directedness towards a transcendent object). The object of my belief can fail to exist (if my belief is, for example, about Father Christmas). On Husserl’s picture, every intentional act has an intentional object, an object that the act is about, but they certainly needn’t all have a real object (Husserl 2001, 127).

Husserl distinguishes between the intentional matter (meaning) of a conscious act and its intentional quality, which is something akin to its type (Husserl 2001, 119-22). Something’s being a belief, desire, perception, memory, etc. is its intentional quality. A conscious act’s being about a particular object, taken in a particular way, is its intentional matter. An individual act has a meaning that specifies an object. It is important to keep these three distinct. To see that the latter two are different, note that two intentional matters (meanings) can say the same thing of the same object, if they do it in a different way. Compare: Morrissey wrote “I know it’s Over,” and The lead singer of the Smiths wrote the second track on The Queen is Dead. To see that the first two (act and meaning) are distinct, on Husserl’s view, meanings are ideal (that is, not spatio-temporal), and therefore transcend the acts that have them (Husserl 2001, 120). However, intentional acts concretely instantiate them. In this way, psychological subjects come into contact with both ideal meaning and the worldly entities meant.

c. Husserl’s Account in Ideas I

In his Ideas I, Husserl introduced a new terminology to describe the structure of intentionality. He distinguished between the noesis and the noema, and he claimed that phenomenology involved both noetic and noematic analysis (Husserl 1982, pt. 3, ch.6). The noesis is the act of consciousness; this notion roughly corresponds to what Husserl previously referred to as the “intentional quality.” Thus, noetic analysis looks at the structure of conscious acts and the ways in which things are consciously intended. The noema is variously interpreted as either the intentional object as it is intended or the ideal content of the intentional act. Thus, noematic analysis looks at the structure of meaning or objects as they are given to consciousness. Exactly how to interpret Husserl’s notions of the noema and noematic analysis are much debated (Smith 2007, 304-11), and this debate goes right to the heart of Husserlian phenomenology.

d. Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty on Intentionality

On Husserl’s view, intentionality is aboutness or directedness as exemplified by conscious mental acts. Heidegger and, following him, Merleau-Ponty broaden the notion of intentionality, arguing that it fails to describe what is in fact the most fundamental form of intentionality. Heidegger argues:

The usual conception of intentionality…misconstrues the structure of the self-directedness-toward….  An ego or subject is supposed, to whose so-called sphere intentional experiences are then supposed to belong…. [T]he mode of being of our own self, the Dasein, is essentially such that this being, so far as it is, is always already dwelling with the extant. The idea of a subject which has intentional experiences merely inside its own sphere and is not yet outside it but encapsulated within itself is an absurdity.
(Heidegger 1982, 63-4)

Heidegger introduces the notion of comportment as a meaningful directedness towards the world that is, nevertheless, more primitive than the conceptually structured intentionality of conscious acts, described by Husserl (Heidegger 1982, 64). Comportment is an implicit openness to the world that continually operates in our habitual dealings with the world. As Heidegger puts it, we are “always already dwelling with the extant”.

Heidegger’s account of comportment is related to his distinction, in Being and Time, between the present-at-hand and the ready-to-hand. These describe two ways of being of worldly entities. We are aware of things as present-at-hand, or occurrent, through what we can call the “theoretical attitude.” Presence-at-hand is the way of being of things—entities with determinate properties.
Thus, a hammer, seen through the detached contemplation of the theoretical attitude, is a material thing with the property of hardness, woodenness etc. This is to be contrasted with the ready-to-hand. In our average day-to-day comportments, Dasein encounters equipment as ready-to-hand,
“The kind of Being which equipment possesses – in which it manifests itself in its own right – we call ‘readiness-to-hand‘” (Heidegger 1962, sec. 15). Equipment shows itself as that which is in-order-to, that is, as that which is for something. A pen is equipment for writing, a fork is equipment for eating, the wind is equipment for sailing, etc. Equipment is ready-to-hand, and this means that it is ready to use, handy, or available. The readiness-to-hand of equipment is its manipulability in our dealings with it.

A ready-to-hand hammer has various properties, including Being-the-perfect-size-for-the-job-at-hand. Heidegger claims that these “dealings” with “equipment” have their own particular kind of “sight”: “[W]hen we deal with them [equipment] by using them and manipulating them, this activity is not a blind one; it has its own kind of sight, by which our manipulation is guided… the sight with which they thus accommodate themselves is circumspection” (Heidegger 1962, sec. 15). Circumspection is the way in which we are aware of the ready-to-hand. It is the kind of awareness that we have of “equipment” when we are using it but are not explicitly concentrating on it or contemplating it, when it recedes. For example, in driving, one is not explicitly aware of the wheel. Rather, one knowledgeably use it; one has “know how.” Thus, circumspection is the name of our mode of awareness of the ready-to-hand entities with which Dasein comports in what, on Heidegger’s view, is the most fundamental mode of intentionality.

Merleau-Ponty’s account of intentionality introduces, more explicitly than does Heidegger’s, the role of the body in intentionality. His account of “motor intentionality” treats bodily activities, and not just conscious acts in the Husserlian sense, as themselves intentional. Much like Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty describes habitual, bodily activity as a directedness towards worldly entities that are for something, what he calls “a set of manipulanda” (Merleau-Ponty 1962, 105). Again, like Heidegger, he argues that motor intentionality is a basic phenomenon, not to be understood in terms of the conceptually articulated intentionality of conscious acts, as described by Husserl. As Merleau-Ponty says, “it is the body which ‘catches’ and ‘comprehends movement’. The acquisition of a habit is indeed the grasping of a significance, but it is the motor grasping or a motor significance” (Merleau-Ponty 1962, 142-3). And again, “it is the body which ‘understands'” (Merleau-Ponty 1962, 144).

4. Phenomenology of Perception

Perceptual experience is one of the perennial topics of phenomenological research. Husserl devotes a great deal of attention to perception, and his views have been very influential. We will concentrate, as does Husserl, on the visual perception of three dimensional spatial objects. To understand Husserl’s view, some background will be helpful.

a. Naïve Realism, Indirect Realism and Phenomenalism

We ordinarily think of perception as a relation between ourselves and things in the world. We think of perceptual experience as involving the presentation of three dimensional spatio-temporal objects and their properties. But this view, sometimes known as naïve realism, has not been the dominant view within the history of modern philosophy. Various arguments have been put forward in an attempt to show that it cannot be correct. The following is just one such:

  1. If one hallucinates a red tomato, then one is aware of something red.
  2. What one is aware of cannot be a red tomato (because there isn’t one); it must be a private, subjective entity (call this a sense datum).
  3. It is possible to hallucinate a red tomato while being in exactly the same bodily states as one would be in if one were seeing a red tomato.
  4. What mental/experiential states people are in are determined by what bodily states they are in.
  5. So: When one sees a red tomato, what one is (directly) aware of cannot be a red tomato but must be a private, subjective entity (a sense datum).

The conclusion of this argument is incompatible with naïve realism. Once naïve realism is rejected, and it is accepted that perception is a relation, not to an ordinary worldly object, but to a private mental object, something must be said about the relation between these two types of object. An indirect realist view holds that there really are both kinds of object. Worldly objects both cause and are represented by sense data. However, this has often been thought to lead to a troubling skepticism regarding ordinary physical objects: one could be experiencing exactly the same sense data, even if there were no ordinary physical objects causing one to experience them. That is, as far as one’s perceptual experience goes, one could be undergoing one prolonged hallucination. So, for all one knows, there are no ordinary physical objects.

Some versions of a view known as phenomenalism answer this skeptical worry by maintaining that ordinary physical objects are nothing more than logical constructions out of (collections of) actual and possible sense data. The standard phenomenalist claim is that statements about ordinary physical objects can be translated into statements that refer only to experiences (Ayer 1946). A phenomenalist might claim that the physical object statement “there is a white sheep in the kitchen” could be analysed as “if one were to currently be experiencing sense-data as of the inside of the kitchen, then one would experience a white, sheep-shaped sense-datum.” Of course, the above example is certainly not adequate. First, it includes the unanalysed physical object term “kitchen.” Second, one might see the kitchen but not the sheep. Nevertheless, the phenomenalist is committed to the claim that there is some adequate translation into statements that refer only to experiences.

b. Husserl’s Account: Intentionality and Hyle

However, another route out of the argument from hallucination is possible. This involves the denial that when one suffers a hallucination there is some object of which one is aware. That is, one denies premise 1 of the argument. Intentional theories of perception deny that perceptual experience is a relation to an object. Rather, perception is characterised by intentionality. The possibility of hallucinations is accounted for by the fact that my perceptual intentions can be inaccurate or “non-veridical.” When one hallucinates a red tomato, one “perceptually intends” a red tomato, but there is none. One’s conscious experience has an intentional object, but not a real one.

This, of course, is the fundamental orientation of Husserl‘s view. In sensory perception we are intentionally directed toward a transcendent object. We enjoy, “concrete intentive mental processes called perceivings of physical things” (Husserl 1982, sec. 41). Further, Husserl takes this view to be consistent with the intuition that in part drives naïve realism, that in perception we are aware of three-dimensional physical things, not subjective mental representations of them. As Husserl writes, “The spatial physical thing which we see is, with all its transcendence, still something perceived, given ‘in person’ in the manner peculiar to consciousness” (Husserl 1982, sec. 43). If the intentional account of perceptual experience is correct, we can agree that naïve realism is false while avoiding the postulation of private sense data.

But if perceiving is characterised by intentionality, what distinguishes it from other intentional phenomena, such as believing? What is the difference between seeing that there is a cat on the mat and believing that there is a cat on the mat? Part of Husserl’s answer to this is that perception has a sensory character. As one commentary puts it, “The authentic appearance of an object of perception is the intentional act inasmuch and to the extent that this act is interwoven with corresponding sensational data” (Bernet, Kern, and Marbach 1993, 118). The “sensational data” (also called hyle) are non-intentional, purely sensory aspects of experience. Sensory data are, on Husserl’s account, “animated” by intentions, which “interpret” them (Husserl 1982, 85). Thus, although perception is an intentional phenomenon, it is not purely intentional; it also has non-intentional, sensory qualities. In contemporary debates over intentionality and consciousness, those who believe that experiences have such non-intentional qualities are sometimes said to believe in qualia.

c. Husserl’s Account: Internal and External Horizons

When we visually perceive a three-dimensional, spatial object, we see it from one particular perspective. This means that we see one of its sides at the expense of the others (and its insides). We see a profile, aspect or, as Husserl puts it, “adumbration.” Should we conclude from this that the other sides of the object are not visually present? Husserl thinks not, claiming that a more phenomenologically adequate description of the experience would maintain that, “Of necessity a physical thing can be given only ‘one-sidedly;’… A physical thing is necessarily given in mere ‘modes of appearance’ in which necessarily a core of what is actually presented‘ is apprehended as being surrounded by a horizon of ‘co-givenness‘” (Husserl 1982, sec. 44).

Husserl refers to that which is co-given as a “horizon,” distinguishing between the internal and external horizons of a perceived object (Husserl 1973, sec. 8). The internal horizon of an experience includes those aspects of the object (rear aspect and insides) that are co-given. The external horizon includes those objects other than those presented that are co-given as part of the surrounding environment. In visual experience we are intentionally directed towards the object as a whole, but its different aspects are given in different ways.

Husserl often uses the term “anticipation” to describe the way in which the merely co-presented is present in perceptual experience. As he says, “there belongs to every external perception its reference from the ‘genuinely perceived’ sides of the object of perception to the sides ‘also meant’—not  yet perceived, but only anticipated and, at first, with a non-intuitional emptiness… the perception has horizons made up of other possibilities of perception, as perceptions that we could have, if we actively directed the course of perception otherwise” (Husserl 1960, sec. 19). In these terms, only the front aspect of an object is “genuinely perceived.” Its other features (rear aspect and insides) are also visually present, but by way of being anticipated. This anticipation consists, in part, in expectations of how the object will appear in subsequent experiences. These anticipations count as genuinely perceptual, but they lack the “intuitional fullness” of the fully presented. The non-intuitional emptiness of the merely co-given can be brought into intuitional fullness precisely by making the previously co-given rear aspect fully present, say, by moving around the object. Perceptual anticipations have an “if…then…” structure, that is, a perceptual experience of an object is partly constituted by expectations of how it would look were one to see it from another vantage point.

d. Husserl and Phenomenalism

Above, phenomenalism was characterised in two ways. On one, the view is that ordinary physical objects are nothing more than logical constructions out of (collections of) actual and possible sense data. One the other, the view is that statements about ordinary physical objects can be translated into statements that refer only to experiences. But, in fact, these views are not equivalent. The first, but not the second, is committed to the existence of sense data.

Husserl’s intentional account of perception does not postulate sense data, so he is not a phenomenalist of the first sort. However, there is some reason to believe that he may be a phenomenalist of the second sort. Concerning unperceived objects, Husserl writes:

That the unperceived physical thing “is there” means rather that, from my actually present perceptions, with the actually appearing background field, possible and, moreover, continuously-harmoniously motivated perception-sequences, with ever new fields of physical things (as unheeded backgrounds) lead to those concatenations of perceptions in which the physical thing in question would make its appearance and become seized upon.
(Husserl 1982, sec. 46)

Here Husserl seems to be claiming that what it is for there to be a currently unperceived object  is for one to have various things given, various things co-given and various possibilities of givenness. That is, he appears to endorse something that looks rather like the second form of phenomenalism—the view that statements about physical objects can be translated into statements that only make reference to actual and possible appearances. Thus, there is some reason to think that Husserl may be a phenomenalist, even though he rejects the view that perceptual experience is a relation to a private, subjective sense datum.

e. Sartre Against Sensation

Sartre accepts, at least in broad outline, Husserl’s view of intentionality (although he steers clear of Husserl’s intricate detail). Intentionality, which Sartre agrees is characteristic of consciousness, is directedness toward worldly objects and, importantly for Sartre, it is nothing more than this. He writes, “All at once consciousness is purified, it is clear as a strong wind. There is nothing in it but a movement of fleeing itself, a sliding beyond itself” (Sartre 1970, 4). Consciousness is nothing but a directedness elsewhere, towards the world. Sartre’s claim that consciousness is empty means that there are no objects or qualities in consciousness. So, worldly objects are not in consciousness; sense data are not in consciousness; qualia are not in consciousness; the ego is not in consciousness. In so far as these things exist, they are presented to consciousness. Consciousness is nothing more than directedness toward the world. Thus, Sartre rejects Husserl’s non-intentional, purely sensory qualities.

A test case for Sartre’s view concerning the emptiness of consciousness is that of bodily sensation (for example, pain). A long tradition has held that bodily sensations, such as pain, are non-intentional, purely subjective qualities (Jackson 1977, chap. 3). Sartre is committed to rejecting this view. However, the most obvious thing with which to replace it is the view according to which bodily sensations are perceptions of the body as painful, or ticklish, etc. On such a perceptual view, pains are experienced as located properties of an object—one’s body. However, Sartre also rejects the idea that when one is aware of one’s body as subject (and being aware of something as having pains is a good candidate for this), one is not aware of it as an object (Sartre 1969, 327). Thus, Sartre is committed to rejecting the perceptual view of bodily sensations.

In place of either of these views, Sartre proposes an account of pains according to which they are perceptions of the world. He offers the following example:

My eyes are hurting but I should finish reading a philosophical work this evening…how is the pain given as pain in the eyes? Is there not here an intentional reference to a transcendent object, to my body precisely in so far as it exists outside in the world? […] [P]ain is totally void of intentionality…. Pain is precisely the eyes in so far as consciousness “exists them”…. It is the-eyes-as-pain or vision-as-pain; it is not distinguished from my way of apprehending transcendent words.
(Sartre 1969, 356)

Bodily sensations are not given to unreflective consciousness as located in the body. They are indicated by the way objects appear. Having a pain in the eyes amounts to the fact that, when reading, “It is with more difficulty that the words are detached from the undifferentiated ground” (Sartre 1969, 356). What we might intuitively think of as an awareness of a pain in a particular part of the body is nothing more than an awareness of the world as presenting some characteristic difficulty. A pain in the eyes becomes an experience of the words one is reading becoming indistinct, a pain in the foot might become an experience of one’s shoes as uncomfortable.

5. Phenomenology and the Self

There are a number of philosophical views concerning both the nature of the self and any distinctive awareness we may have of it. Husserl’s views on the self, or ego, are best understood in relation to well known discussions by Hume and Kant. Phenomenological discussions of the self and self-awareness cannot be divorced from issues concerning the unity of consciousness.

a. Hume and the Unity of Consciousness

Hume’s account of the self and self-awareness includes one of the most famous quotations in the history of philosophy. He wrote:

There are some philosophers, who imagine we are every moment intimately conscious of what we call our SELF; that we feel its existence and its continuance in existence…. For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, or heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe anything but the perception.
(Hume 1978, 251-2)

Hume claims that reflection does not reveal a continuously existing self. Rather, all that reflection reveals is a constantly changing stream of mental states. In Humean terms, there is no impression of self and, as a consequence of his empiricism, the idea that we have of ourselves is rendered problematic. The concept self is not one which can be uncritically appealed to.

However, as Hume recognized, this appears to leave him with a problem, a problem to which he could not see the answer: “…all my hopes vanish when I come to explain the principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or consciousness” (Hume 1978, 635-6). This problem concerns the unity of consciousness. In fact there are at least two problems of conscious unity.

The first problem concerns the synchronic unity of consciousness and the distinction between subjects of experience. Consider four simultaneous experiences: e1, e2, e3 and e4. What makes it the case that, say, e1 and e2 are experiences had by one subject, A, while e3 and e4 are experiences had by another subject, B? One simple answer is that there is a relation that we could call ownership such that A bears ownership to both e1 and e2, and B bears ownership to both e3 and e4. However if, with Hume, we find the idea of the self problematic, we are bound to find the idea of ownership problematic. For what but the self could it be that owns the various experiences?

The second problem concerns diachronic unity. Consider four successive conscious experiences, e1, e2, e3 and e4, putatively had by one subject, A. What makes it the case that there is just one subject successively enjoying these experiences? That is, what makes the difference between a temporally extended stream of conscious experience and merely a succession of experiences lacking any experienced unity? An answer to this must provide a relation that somehow accounts for the experienced unity of conscious experience through time.

So, what is it for two experiences, e1 and e2, to belong to the same continuous stream of consciousness? One thought is that e1 and e2 must be united, or synthesised, by the self. On this view, the self must be aware of both e1 and e2 and must bring them together in one broader experience that encompasses them. If this is right then, without the self to unify my various experiences, there would be no continuous stream of conscious experience, just one experience after another lacking experiential unity. But our experience is evidently not like this. If the unity of consciousness requires the unifying power of the self, then Hume’s denial of self-awareness, and any consequent doubts concerning the legitimacy of the idea of the self, are deeply problematic.

b. Kant and the Transcendental I

Kant’s view of these matters is complex. However, at one level, he can be seen to agree with Hume on the question of self-awareness while disagreeing with him concerning the legitimacy of the concept of the self. His solution to the two problems of the unity of concious is, as above, that diverse experiences are unified by me. He writes:

The thought that these representations given in intuition all together belong to me means, accordingly, the same as that I unite them in a self-consciousness, or at least can unite them therein…for otherwise I would have as multicoloured, diverse a self as I have representations of which I am conscious.
(Kant 1929, sec. B143)

Thus, Kant requires that the notion of the self as unifier of experience be legitimate. Nevertheless, he denies that reflection reveals this self to direct intuition:

…this identity of the subject, of which I can be conscious in all my representations, does not concern any intuition of the subject, whereby it is given as an object, and cannot therefore signify the identity of the person, if by that is understood the consciousness of the identity of one’s own substance, as a thinking being, in all change of its states.
(Kant 1929, sec. B408)

The reason that Kant can allow the self as a legitimate concept despite the lack of an intuitive awareness of the self is that he does not accept the empiricism that drove Hume’s account. On the Kantian view, it is legitimate to appeal to an I that unifies experience since such a thing is precisely a condition of the possibility of experience. Without such a unifying self, experience would not be possible, therefore the concept is legitimate. The I, on this account, is transcendental—it is brought into the account as a condition of the possibility of experience (this move is one of the distinctive features of Kantian transcendental philosophy).

c. Husserl and the Transcendental Ego

Husserl‘s views on the self evolved over his philosophical career. In Logical Investigations, he accepted something like the Humean view (Husserl 2001, 91-3), and did not appear to find overly problematic the resulting questions concerning the unity of consciousness. However, by the time of Ideas I, he had altered his view. There he wrote that, “all mental processes…as belonging to the one stream of mental processes which is mine, must admit of becoming converted into actional cogitationes…In Kant’s words, ‘The ‘I think’ must be capable to accompanying all my presentations.'” (Husserl 1982, sec. 57). Thus, Husserl offers an account of unity that appeals to the self functioning transcendentally, as a condition of the possibility of experience.

However, Husserl departs from Kant, and before him Hume, in claiming that this self is experienced in direct intuition. He claims that, “I exist for myself and am constantly given to myself, by experiential evidence, as ‘I myself.’ This is true of the transcendental ego and, correspondingly, of the psychologically pure ego; it is true, moreover, with respect to any sense of the word ego.” (Husserl 1960, sec. 33).

On Kant’s view, the I is purely formal, playing a role in structuring experience but not itself given in experience. On Husserl’s view, the I plays this structuring role, but is also given in inner experience. The ego appears but not as (part of) a mental process. It’s presence is continual and unchanging. Husserl says that it is, “a transcendency within immanency” (Husserl 1982, sec. 57). It is immanent in that it is on the subject side of experience; It is transcendent in that it is not an experience (or part of one). What Husserl has in mind here is somewhat unclear, but one might liken it to the way that the object as a whole is given through an aspect—except that the ego is at “the other end” of intentional experience.

d. Sartre and the Transcendent Ego

Sartre’s view that consciousness is empty involves the denial not only of sensory qualities but also of the view that we are experientially aware of an ego within consciousness. Sartre denies that the ego is given in pre-reflective experience, either in the content of experience (as an object) or as a structural feature of the experience itself (as a subject). As he puts it, “while I was reading, there was consciousness of the book, of the heroes of the novel, but the I was not inhabiting this consciousness. It was only consciousness of the object and non-positional consciousness of itself” (Sartre 1960, 46-7). Again, “When I run after a streetcar, when I look at the time, when I am absorbed in contemplating a portrait, there is no I.” (Sartre 1960, 48-9).

Here Sartre appears to be siding with Hume and Kant on the question of the givenness of the self with respect to everyday, pre-reflective consciousness. However, Sartre departs from the Humean view, in that he allows that the ego is given in reflective consciousness:

…the I never appears except on the occasion of a reflexive act. In this case, the complex structure of consciousness is as follows: there is an unreflected act of reflection, without an I, which is directed on a reflected consciousness. The latter becomes the object of the reflecting consciousness without ceasing to affirm its own object (a chair, a mathematical truth, etc.). At the same time, a new object appears which is the occasion of an affirmation by reflective consciousness…This transcendent object of the reflective act is the I.
(Sartre 1960, 53)

On this view, the self can appear to consciousness, but it is paradoxically experienced as something outside of, transcendent to, consciousness. Hence the transcendence of the ego, Sartre’s title.

With respect to unreflective consciousness, however, Sartre denies self-awareness. Sartre also denies that the ego is required to synthesise, or unite, one’s various experiences. Rather, as he sees it, the unity of consciousness is achieved via the objects of experience, and via the temporal structure of experience. Although his explanation is somewhat sketchy, his intent is clear:

…it is certain that phenomenology does not need to appeal to any such unifying and individualizing I…The object is transcendent to the consciousness which grasps it, and it is in the object that the unity of the consciousness is found…It is consciousness which unifies itself, concretely, by a play of “transversal” intentionalities which are concrete and real retentions of past consciousnesses. Thus consciousness refers perpetually to itself.
(Sartre 1960, 38-9)

6. Phenomenology of Time-Consciousness

Various questions have occupied phenomenologists concerning time-consciousness—how our conscious lives take place over time. What exactly does this amount to? This question can be seen as asking for more detail concerning the synthesising activity of the self with respect to the diachronic unity of consciousness. Related to this, temporal objects (such as melodies or events) have temporal parts or phases. How is it that the temporal parts of a melody are experienced as parts of one and the same thing? How is it that we have an experience of succession, rather than simply a succession of experiences? This seems an especially hard question to answer if we endorse the claim that we can only be experientially aware of the present instant. For if, at time t1 we enjoy experience e1 of object (or event) o1, and at t2 we enjoy experience e2 of object (or event) o2, then it seems that we are always experientially confined to the present. An account is needed of how is it that our experience appears to stream through time.

a. The Specious Present

When faced with this problem, a popular view has been that we are simultaneously aware of more than an instant. According to William James, “the practically cognized present is no knife-edge, but a saddle-back, with a certain breadth of its own on which we sit perched, and from which we look in two directions into time. The unit of composition of our perception of time is a duration” (James 1981, 609).The doctrine of the specious present holds that we are experientially aware of a span of time that includes the present and past (and perhaps even the future). So, at t2 we are aware of the events that occur at both t2 and t1 (and perhaps also t3).

The specious present is present in the sense that the phases of the temporal object are experienced as present. The specious present is specious in that those phases of the temporal object that occur at times other than the present instant are not really present. But this would seem to have the bizarre consequence that we experience the successive phases of a temporal object as simultaneous. That is, a moving object is simultaneously experienced as being at more than one place. It goes without saying that this is not phenomenologically accurate.

Also, given that our experience at each instant would span a duration longer than that instant, it seems that we would experience everything more than once. In a sequence of notes c, d, e we would experience c at the time at which c occurs, and then again at the time at which d occurs. But, of course, we only experience each note once.

b. Primal Impression, Retention and Protention

Husserl’s position is not entirely unlike the specious present view. He maintains that, at any one instant, one has experience of the phase occurring at that instant, the phase(s) that has just occurred, and that phase that is just about to occur. His labels for these three aspects of experience are “primal impression,” “retention” and “protention.”  All three must be in place for the proper experience of a temporal object, or of the duration of a non-temporal object.

The primal impression is an intentional awareness of the present event as present. Retention is an intentional awareness of the past event as past. Protention is an intentional awareness of the future event as about to happen. Each is an intentional directedness towards a present, past and future event respectively. As Husserl puts matters, “In each primal phase that originally constitutes the immanent content we have retentions of the preceding phases and protentions of the coming phases of precisely this content” (Husserl 1991, sec. 40). The movement from something’s being protended, to its being experienced as a primal impression, to its being retained, is what accounts for the continuous stream of experience. Retention and protention form the temporal horizon against which the present phase is perceived. That is, the present is perceived as that which follows a past present and anticipates a future present.

c. Absolute Consciousness

Not only does the present experience include a retention of past worldly events, it also includes a retention of the past experiences of those past events. The same can be said with regard to protention. The fact that past and future experiences are retained and protended respectively, points towards this question: What accounts for the fact that mental acts themselves are experienced as enduring, or as having temporal parts? Do we need to postulate a second level of conscious acts (call it “consciousness*”) that explains the experienced temporality of immanent objects? But this suggestion looks as though it would involve us in an infinite regress, since the temporality of the stream of experiences constituting consciousness* would need to be accounted for.

Husserl’s proposed solution to this puzzle involves his late notion of “absolute constituting consciousness.” The temporality of experiences is constituted by a consciousness that is not itself temporal. He writes: “Subjective time becomes constituted in the absolute timeless consciousness, which is not an object” (Husserl 1991, 117). Further, “The flow of modes of consciousness is not a process; the consciousness of the now is not itself now…therefore sensation…and likewise retention, recollection, perception, etc. are nontemporal; that is to say, nothing in immanent time.” (Husserl 1991, 345-6).

The interpretation of Husserl’s notion of absolute constituting consciousness is not helped by the fact that, despite the non-temporal nature of absolute consciousness, Husserl describes it in temporal terms, such as “flow.” Indeed, Husserl seems to have thought that here we have come up against a phenomenon intrinsically problematic to describe:

Now if we consider the constituting appearances of the consciousness of internal time we find the following: they form a flow…. But is not the flow a succession? Does it not have a now, an actually present phase, and a continuity of pasts which I am now conscious in retentions? We have no alternative here but to say: the flow is something we speak of in conformity with what is constituted, but it is not “something in objective time.” It…has the absolute properties of something to be designated metaphorically as “flow”…. For all of this we have no names. (Husserl 1991, 381-2)

7. Conclusion

Husserlian and post-Husserlian phenomenology stands in complex relations to a number of different philosophical traditions, most notably British empiricism, Kantian and post-Kantian transcendental philosophy, and French existentialism. One of the most important philosophical movements of the Twentieth Century, phenomenology has been influential, not only on so-called “Continental” philosophy (Embree 2003), but also on so-called “analytic” philosophy (Smith and Thomasson 2005). There continues to be a great deal of interest in the history of phenomenology and in the topics discussed by Twentieth Century phenomenologists, topics such as intentionality, perception, the self and time-consciousness.

8. References and Further Reading

  • Ayer, A. J. 1946. Phenomenalism. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 47: 163-96
  • Bernet, Rudolf, Iso Kern, and Eduard Marbach. 1993. An Introduction to Husserlian Phenomenology. Evanston, Ill: Northwestern University Press.
  • Brentano, Franz. 1995. Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint. Ed. Oskar Kraus. Trans. Antos C. Rancurello, D. B. Terrell, and Linda L. McAlister. 2nd ed. London: Routledge.
  • Carman, Taylor. 2006. The Principle of Phenomenology. In The Cambridge Companion to Heidegger, ed. Charles, B. Guignon. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Carman, Taylor. 2008. Merleau-Ponty. London: Routledge.
  • Cerbone, David R. 2006. Understanding Phenomenology. Chesham: Acumen.
  • Crane, T. 2006. Brentano’s Concept of Intentional Inexistence. In The Austrian Contribution to Analytic Philosophy, ed. Mark Textor. London: Routledge.
  • Dreyfus, Hubert L. 1991. Being-in-the-World: A Commentary on Heidegger’s Being and Time, Division I. Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.
  • Embree, L. 2003. Husserl as Trunk of the American Continental Tree. International Journal of Philosophical Studies 11, no. 2: 177-190.
  • Frede, Dorothea. 2006. The Question of Being:Heidegger’s Project. In The Cambridge Companion to Heidegger, trans. Charles, B. Guignon. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Gallagher, Shaun, and Dan Zahavi. 2008. The Phenomenological Mind: An Introduction to Philosophyof Mind and Cognitive Science. London: Routledge.
  • Gennaro, Rocco. 2002. Jean-Paul Sartre and the HOT Theory of Consciousness. Canadian Journal of Philosophy 32, no.3: 293-330.
  • Hammond, Michael, Jane Howarth, and Russell Keat. 1991. Understanding Phenomenology. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
  • Heidegger, Martin. 1962 [1927]. Being and Time. Trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson. Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Heidegger, Martin. 1982 [1927]. The Basic Problems of Phenomenology. Trans. Albert Hofstadter. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
  • Hume, David. 1978 [1739-40]. A Treatise of Human Nature. Ed. L. A Selby-Bigge, rev. P. H. Nidditch. 2nd ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 1960 [1931]. Cartesian Meditations: An Introduction to Phenomenology. Trans. Dorion Cairns. The Hague: Nijhoff.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 1973 [1939]. Experience and Judgement: Investigations in a Genealogy of Logic. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 1977 [1925]. Phenomenological Psychology: Lectures, Summer Semester, 1925. Trans. John Scanlon. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 1982 [1913]. Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a Phenomenological Philosophy. Trans. F. Kersten. The Hague: Nijhoff.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 1991 [1893-1917]. On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893-1917). Trans. John B Brough. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 1999 [1907]. The Idea of Phenomenology. Trans. Lee Hardy. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
  • Husserl, Edmund. 2001 [1900/1901]. Logical Investigations. Ed. Dermot Moran. 2nd ed. 2 vols. London: Routledge.
  • Jackson, Frank. 1977. Perception: A Representative Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • James, William. 1981 [1890]. The Principles of Psychology. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press.
  • Kant, Immanuel. 1929 [1781/1787]. Critique of Pure Reason. Trans. Norman Kemp Smith. London: Macmillan.
  • Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. 1989 [1945]. Phenomenology of Perception. Trans. Colin Smith. London: Routledge.
  • Moran, Dermot. 2000. Introduction to Phenomenology. London: Routledge.
  • Polt, Richard F. H. 1999. Heidegger: An Introduction. London: UCL Press.
  • Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1972 [1936-7]. The Transcendence of the Ego: An Existentialist Theory of Consciousness. New York: Noonday.
  • Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1989 [1943]. Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. Trans. Hazel E. Barnes. London: Routledge.
  • Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1970 [1939]. Intentionality: A fundamental idea of Husserl’s Phenomenology. Trans. J. P. Fell. Journal of the British Society for Phenomenology 1, no. 2.
  • Smith, David Woodruff. 2007. Husserl. London: Routledge.
  • Smith, David Woodruff, and Amie L Thomasson, eds. 2005. Phenomenology and Philosophy of Mind. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
  • Sokolowski, Robert. 2000. Introduction to Phenomenology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Wider, Kathleen. 1997. The Bodily Nature of Consciousness. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
  • Zahavi, Dan. 2003. Husserl’s Phenomenology. Stanford: Stanford University Press

Author Information

Joel Smith
Email: joel.smith@manchester.ac.uk
University of Manchester
United Kingdom

Anaximenes (d. 528 B.C.E.)

AnaximenesAccording to the surviving sources on his life, Anaximenes flourished in the mid 6th century B.C.E. and died about 528. He is the third philosopher of the Milesian School of philosophy, so named because like Thales and Anaximander, Anaximenes was an inhabitant of Miletus, in Ionia (ancient Greece). Theophrastus notes that Anaximenes was an associate, and possibly a student, of Anaximander’s.

Anaximenes is best known for his doctrine that air is the source of all things. In this way, he differed with his predecessors like Thales, who held that water is the source of all things, and Anaximander, who thought that all things came from an unspecified boundless stuff.

Anaximenes’ theory of successive change of matter by rarefaction and condensation was influential in later theories. It is developed by Heraclitus and criticized by Parmenides. Anaximenes’ general theory of how the materials of the world arise is adopted by Anaxagoras, even though the latter has a very different theory of matter. Both Melissus and Plato see Anaximenes’ theory as providing a common-sense explanation of change. Diogenes of Apollonia makes air the basis of his explicitly monistic theory. The Hippocratic treatise On Breaths uses air as the central concept in a theory of diseases. By providing cosmological accounts with a theory of change, Anaximenes separated them from the realm of mere speculation and made them, at least in conception, scientific theories capable of testing.

Table of Contents

  1. Doctrine of Air
  2. Doctrine of Change
  3. Origin of the Cosmos
  4. Influence on Later Philosophy
  5. References and Further Reading

1. Doctrine of Air

Anaximenes seems to have held that at one time everything was air. Air can be thought of as a kind of neutral stuff that is found everywhere, and is available to participate in physical processes. Natural forces constantly act on the air and transform it into other materials, which came together to form the organized world. In early Greek literature, air is associated with the soul (the breath of life) and Anaximenes may have thought of air as capable of directing its own development, as the soul controls the body (DK13B2 in the Diels-Kranz collection of Presocratic sources). Accordingly, he ascribed to air divine attributes.

2. Doctrine of Change

Given his doctrine that all things are composed of air, Anaximenes suggested an interesting qualitative account of natural change:

[Air] differs in essence in accordance with its rarity or density. When it is thinned it becomes fire, while when it is condensed it becomes wind, then cloud, when still more condensed it becomes water, then earth, then stones. Everything else comes from these. (DK13A5)

Using two contrary processes of rarefaction and condensation, Anaximenes explains how air is part of a series of changes. Fire turns to air, air to wind, wind to cloud, cloud to water, water to earth and earth to stone. Matter can travel this path by being condensed, or the reverse path from stones to fire by being successively more rarefied. Anaximenes provides a crude kind of empirical support by appealing to a simple experiment: if one blows on one’s hand with the mouth relaxed, the air is hot; if one blows with pursed lips, the air is cold (DK13B1). Hence, according to Anaximenes we see that rarity is correlated with heat (as in fire), and density with coldness, (as in the denser stuffs).

Anaximenes was the first recorded thinker who provided a theory of change and supported it with observation. Anaximander had described a sequence of changes that a portion of the boundless underwent to form the different stuffs of the world, but he gave no scientific reason for changes, nor did he describe any mechanism by which they might come about. By contrast, Anaximenes uses a process familiar from everyday experience to account for material change. He also seems to have referred to the process of felting, by which wool is compressed to make felt. This industrial process provides a model of how one stuff can take on new properties when it is compacted.

3. Origin of the Cosmos

Anaximenes, like Anaximander, gives an account of how our world came to be out of previously existing matter. According to Anaximenes, earth was formed from air by a felting process. It began as a flat disk. From evaporations from the earth, fiery bodies arose which came to be the heavenly bodies. The earth floats on a cushion of air. The heavenly bodies, or at least the sun and the moon, seem also to be flat bodies that float on streams of air. On one account, the heavens are like a felt cap that turns around the head. The stars may be fixed to this surface like nails. In another account, the stars are like fiery leaves floating on air (DK13A14). The sun does not travel under the earth but circles around it, and is hidden by the higher parts of the earth at night.

Like Anaximander, Anaximenes uses his principles to account for various natural phenomena. Lightning and thunder result from wind breaking out of clouds; rainbows are the result of the rays of the sun falling on clouds; earthquakes are caused by the cracking of the earth when it dries out after being moistened by rains. He gives an essentially correct account of hail as frozen rainwater.

Most commentators, following Aristotle, understand Anaximenes’ theory of change as presupposing material monism. According to this theory, there is only one substance, (in this case air) from which all existing things are composed. The several stuffs: wind, cloud, water, etc., are only modifications of the real substance that is always and everywhere present. There is no independent evidence to support this interpretation, which seems to require Aristotle’s metaphysical concepts of form and matter, substratum and accident that are too advanced for this period. Anaximenes may have supposed that the ‘stuffs’ simply change into one another in order.

4. Influence on Later Philosophy

Anaximenes’ theory of successive change of matter by rarefaction and condensation was influential in later theories. It is developed by Heraclitus (DK22B31), and criticized by Parmenides (DK28B8.23-24, 47-48). Anaximenes’ general theory of how the materials of the world arise is adopted by Anaxagoras (DK59B16), even though the latter has a very different theory of matter. Both Melissus (DK30B8.3) and Plato (Timaeus 49b-c) see Anaximenes’ theory as providing a common-sense explanation of change. Diogenes of Apollonia makes air the basis of his explicitly monistic theory. The Hippocratic treatise On Breaths uses air as the central concept in a theory of diseases. By providing cosmological accounts with a theory of change, Anaximenes separated them from the realm of mere speculation and made them, at least in conception, scientific theories capable of testing.

5. References and Further Reading

There are no monographs on Anaximenes in English. Articles on him are sometimes rather specialized in nature. A number of chapters in books on the Presocratics are helpful.

  • Barnes, Jonathan. The Presocratic Philosophers. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul (1 vol. edn.), 1982. Ch. 3.
    • Gives a philosophically rich defense of the standard interpretation of Anaximenes.
  • Bicknell, P. J. “Anaximenes’ Astronomy.” Acta Classica 12: 53-85.
    • An interesting reconstruction of the conflicting reports on Anaximenes’ astronomy.
  • Classen, C. Joachim. “Anaximander and Anaximenes: The Earliest Greek Theories of Change?” Phronesis 22: 89-102.
    • This article provides a good assessment of one of Anaximenes’ major contributions.
  • Guthrie, W. K. C. A History of Greek Philosophy. Vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge U. Pr., 1962. 115-40.
    • A good introduction to Anaximenes’ thought.
  • Kirk, G. S., J. E. Raven and M. Schofield. The Presocratic Philosophers. 2nd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983. Ch. 4.
    • A careful analysis of the texts of Anaximenes.
  • Wöhrle, Georg. Anaximenes aus Milet. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1993.
    • This brief edition adds four new testimonies to the evidence about Anaximenes and challenges the standard interpretation. It is useful as a counterbalance to the received view, though I think particular criticisms it makes of that view are wrong.

Author Information

Daniel W. Graham
Email: daniel_graham@byu.edu
Brigham Young University
U. S. A.

Conceptual Role Semantics

In the philosophy of language, conceptual role semantics (hereafter CRS) is a theory of what constitutes the meanings possessed by expressions of natural languages, or the propositions expressed by their utterance. In the philosophy of mind, it is a theory of what constitutes the contents of psychological attitudes, such as beliefs or desires.

CRS comes in a variety of forms, not always clearly distinguished by commentators. Such versions are known variously as functional/causal/computational role semantics, and more broadly as use-theories of meaning. Nevertheless, all are united in seeking the meaning or content of an item, not in what it is made of, nor in what accompanies or is associated with it, but in what is done with it, the use it is put to. Roughly, according to CRS, the meaning or propositional content of an expression or attitude is determined by the role it plays in a person’s language or in her cognition.

Currently, many view CRS as the main rival to theories that take notions such as truth or reference as central (for example, Davidson 2001), although the relationship between the two is not straightforward. The following outlines the main varieties of CRS, provides a cursory survey of its history, introduces the central arguments offered in its favor, and provisionally assesses how the variants fair against a number of prominent criticisms.

Table of Contents

  1. Preparing the Ground
    1. A Theory of Linguistic Meaning
    2. A Theory of Content
    3. Normativism and Naturalism
    4. Perception and Action
    5. Language and Mind
    6. Provisional Summary
  2. A Very Brief History
  3. Arguments for CRS
    1. Attributions of Meaning and Understanding
    2. The No Intrinsic Meaning Thesis
    3. The Insufficiency of Causation
    4. The Frege-problem
    5. Methodological Solipsism
  4. Problems for CRS
    1. Holism, Compositionality and Analyticity
    2. Proper Names
    3. Externalism
    4. Truth, Reference and Intentionality
    5. Indeterminacy
    6. Defective Expressions and Conservatism
    7. Circularity
  5. Prospects and Applications
  6. References and Further Reading

1. Preparing the Ground

a. A Theory of Linguistic Meaning

CRS may be first introduced as a theory of meaning. The theory of meaning must be distinguished from a meaning-theory. The former is a philosophical project that seeks to explain what meaning is, or what the meaning possessed by expressions in a natural language consists in. The latter, in contrast, is an empirical project. More specifically, it is a specification of the meaning of each expression in a language. Since a natural language such as English contains a potential infinity of expressions, these specifications must be derived from a finite body of axioms concerning sentence constituents and their modes of combination. CRS is a theory of meaning rather than a meaning-theory, although as such it can and should inform the construction of meaning-theories.

One must also distinguish the meaning of an expression from what is said (the proposition expressed) by its utterance. For example, what is said by the use of ‘I am tired now’ varies according to who employs the expression and when, whereas the meaning remains constant. Arguably, this overt context-dependency in the case of sentences containing indexicals is quite general (see Travis 2000). Hence, the invariant meaning possessed by a sentence is distinct from the truth-evaluable propositional content expressed by its use on a particular occasion, although the former (in combination with contextual factors) determines the latter.

CRS can be profitably viewed as a refinement of the claim that the meaning of an expression is its use (Wittgenstein 1967: §43; cf. Alston 2000; see Wittgenstein, Ludwig). While many philosophers might accept as platitudinous that, in some sense, an expression means what it does because of how it is employed, what is here distinctive is the claim that its having a meaning is its having a use. So stated, however, the view suffers from a number of objections. Many things have a ‘use’ (for example, hammers) but no meaning. More seriously, there are linguistic expressions with a use but no meaning, such as ‘um’ or ‘abracadabra’. Likewise, there can be differences in use without differences in meaning. For example, where and by whom a word is used can vary while meaning remains constant (see Glock 1996; Lycan 2000: 94ff; Rundle 2001: 100-1; Whiting 2007b).

One response to such criticisms is to identify more narrowly the specific kind of use that is supposed to be constitutive of meaning. According to CRS, it is use in inference. Roughly, it claims that to understand an expression is to be prepared to make certain inferential transitions. Accordingly, the meaning of the expression is its inferential role. If one were to enumerate all the transitions an expression is involved in, one would thereby give its meaning. So, to take a simplified example, to grasp the meaning of ‘brother’ is to be prepared to make linguistic moves of the following kind:

x is a male sibling” → “x is a brother”

x is a brother” → “x has parents”

Note that it is somewhat misleading to call the above ‘inferential’ transitions, since properly-speaking inferential relations hold between propositions not sentences. Nevertheless, the basic idea remains the same once qualified. One might say that the invariant meaning an expression possesses is its inferential potential, that is, its usability by speakers to make certain inferential transitions.

Note also that it is sentences that in the first instance can properly be said to have inferential significance, since ordinarily it is only by uttering a sentence that one make a claim from which other claims might be said to follow. Hence, for CRS, it is sentences that are the primary bearers of meaning. Nonetheless, a proponent of CRS can still speak of the meaning of a word as its stable contribution to the inferential potential of sentences or, more abstractly, as the set of inferential roles of sentences in which it occurs.

b. A Theory of Content

CRS extends straightforwardly to a theory of the propositional content expressed by the use of an expression. According to it, to know what is said by an utterance is to know, given the context, what the grounds for making the utterance are, and which further utterances are thereby in order. For an utterance to express such content just is for speakers to perform, and respond to performances, in a characteristic way. The proposition expressed is determined by the inferential network the utterance is caught up in, the linguistic moves that lead to and from it.

CRS simultaneously provides a theory of what constitutes mental content. So-called psychological attitudes, such as beliefs, desires and fears, appear to have two components: an attitude—believing, desiring, fearing and so on—and a content—that which is believed, desired, feared and so on. One can hold the same attitude toward different contents, and different attitudes toward the same content. According to CRS, for an attitude to have as its content a particular proposition just is for it to play a particular role in cognition, and to grasp that conceptual content is to be prepared to make certain inferential transitions. So, to take another simplified example, to possess the concept vixen, or to have thoughts involving it, is to be prepared to make moves conforming to the following pattern:

x is a female fox → x is a vixen

x is a vixen → x is a mammal

c. Normativism and Naturalism

So far, this survey has talked neutrally of subjects being ‘prepared’ to make inferences. But how exactly should this be understood? On this issue, there is a broad division among theorists between what one might label naturalists (for example, Block 1986; Field 1977; Harman 1999; Horwich 1998; 2005; Loar 1981; Peacocke 1992) and normativists (for example, Brandom 1994; von Savigny 1988; Skorupski 1997; Travis 2000). Exploring this distinction will simultaneously address another matter. One might have qualms about CRS as outlined above, since the notion of inference is itself semantic. Surely, one might complain, philosophy requires that a theory of meaning provide a more illuminating explanation of what constitutes meaning or content. Through outlining the naturalist and normativist positions, one can see in each case how their proponents seek to capture the notion of an inferential role in more fundamental terms.

According to normativists, content or meaning is constituted by those transitions one ought to or may (not) make, and to grasp that content or meaning is to grasp the propriety of those moves. While many philosophers recognise that what an expression means, for example, has normative implications, what is distinctive of the normativist view is that such norms do not merely follow from but are rather determinative of its meaning. Hence, such a theory typically takes as basic a primitive normative notion, with which to explain semantic notions. That said, one need not take the existence of such norms to be inexplicable; one might instead view them as instituted in some way, perhaps behaviorally or socially.

An issue on which normativists are divided is whether the existence of such proprieties requires the existence of rules. If the issue is not to be purely terminological, it presumably turns on whether the relevant standards of usage stem from generalisations or from particular considerations, and on whether to qualify as such, rules must always be explicitly formulated. (For a defence of the appeal to rules, see Glock 2005. For resistance, see Boghossian 1989; Brandom 1994: ch. 1; Dancy 2004: ch. 13.)

Naturalists in turn divide into two camps (although, it is fair to say, they are typically not distinguished). According to regularists, meaning or content is determined by those behavioral or psychological transitions a person regularly or generally makes. According to dispositionalists, in contrast, meaning or content is determined by those transitions a person is disposed in certain actual and counterfactual circumstances to make. On such accounts, the notion of inferential role gives way to that of causal or computational role.

d. Perception and Action

In addition, one can distinguish the more liberal CRS from the more restricted inferential role semantics (IRS) (sometimes referred to as ‘long-’ and ‘short-armed’ respectively). According to the latter, meaning or content is determined by intra-linguistic transitions only. According to the former, meaning or content is partially constituted by the tokenings of a concept or expression that result from perceptual experience, and the action such tokenings elicit. That is to say, extra-linguistic transitions—which Sellars (2007: 36) dubs ‘language-entry’ and ‘language-departure’ moves—contribute to the determination of meaning or content (cf. Harman 1999; McCulloch 1995).

e. Language and Mind

A final preliminary matter concerns the relative priority of (public) language and mind. Some philosophers hold that CRS provides, in the first instance, a theory of mental content, viewed as independent of its public expression, and only derivatively extended to linguistic content and meaning. On this view, the semantics of language is parasitic upon the semantics of mental states (for example, Loar 1981; Peacocke 1992). Typically, the connection between the two is thought to be effected by various Gricean mechanisms (1989). Crudely, on this picture, speakers intend to communicate their thoughts to one another, and over time such thoughts are conventionally correlated with particular linguistic expressions.

Alternatively, one might take mastery of a public language to be prior to possession of psychological attitudes and view mental content as derivative (for example, Sellars 1997), or hold that the two develop in unison (for example, Brandom 1994; Harman 1999; Horwich 2005). One reason for rejecting the priority of mind over language is that there is arguably no substance in attributing beliefs to a creature incapable in principle of manifesting them, and only linguistic behavior is sufficiently fine-grained for this task.

f. Provisional Summary

By now it should be clear that, when investigating or propounding CRS, one must keep in view a number of issues:

1. Is it a theory of meaning or propositional content?

2. Is it normativist or naturalist?

i. If normativist, are the norms in the forms of rules?

ii. If naturalist, is it regularist or a dispositionalist?

3. Does it incorporate language-entry and language-exit moves?

4. Is the mind prior to language or vice versa?

In many cases, which objections to CRS are relevant or effective will depend on how these questions are answered.

2. A Very Brief History

Although this is not an exegetical essay, it is worth noting that CRS has a distinguished history. Arguably, it goes back at least as far as Kant, if not further (Brandom 2002). Uncontroversially, however, it can be traced to Wittgenstein’s dictum that

the meaning of a word is its use in the language. (1967: §43)

Likewise:

The use of the word in practice is its meaning. (1969: 69)

This putative insight was endorsed by, and in turn influenced the methods of, Oxford philosophers such as Ryle (1968) and Strawson (2004: 7).

Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the influence of Wittgenstein, there are clear affinities between CRS and verificationism, according to which for an expression to have a meaning is for it to possess evidential conditions that warrant its application (Ayer 1959; Dummett 1991; 1996; Waismann 1968: 36). The shared idea is that the meaning of an expression, or the content it expresses, is given in part by what justifies and what are the implications of its employment.

One can also note similarities between CRS and the structuralist and phenomenological traditions. Saussure, for example, held that the meaning of a sign is determined by its role within a system of signs, its structural relations to other signs (1983). And according to Heidegger, for an expression to have a certain significance is for it to occupy a role within a network of linguistic and non-linguistic practices and, more specifically, for it to be subject to proprieties of usage (1962: 203ff).

Arguably, however, it was Sellars (2007: pt. 1) who first explicitly placed the notion of inference at the centre of the theory of meaning, and advocated the first systematic and unmistakable version of CRS.

Having precedent, no matter how distinguished, is of course no guarantee of correctness. So as to place us in a position to evaluate CRS, the next section outlines a number of prominent arguments in its favor, and the following introduces a number of prominent objections.

3. Arguments for CRS

a. Attributions of Meaning and Understanding

Reflection on our ordinary practices of attributing both meaning and understanding lend support to CRS (Horwich 1998: 48-9; Wittgenstein 1969: 102-3). One would typically say of a word in a foreign language that it has the same meaning as one in English if it has the same role. And if a word has no discernible use, one would be reluctant to attribute it meaning. Correlatively, if a person is able to use a word correctly, and respond to its employment appropriately, one would usually claim that she understands it. All of these observations suggest that the meaning of an expression is its role within a language.

Similar results are obtained by reflecting on everyday explanations of the meaning of an expression. This can take a number of forms, including exhibiting a familiar expression that plays a similar role, indicating the circumstances or grounds for introducing the expression, or noting what follows from its introduction. This likewise indicates that the expression’s meaning is given by its linguistic role.

b. The No Intrinsic Meaning Thesis

A different route to CRS is via the ‘no intrinsic meaning’ thesis (Skorupski 1997). It begins with the observation that a sign, considered in itself, is a mere noise or ink-mark, and as such, surely lacks any intrinsic meaning. That same noise or mark could have had a different meaning altogether, or none at all. One might be tempted to think that what ‘animates’ it is some entity to which it is (somehow) related, perhaps an image in the mind or abstract object.

However, this appears only to push the explanation back a stage, since one now needs to know in virtue of what these entities have the significance that they do. What an expression means has consequences for how it is to be employed on an indefinite number of occasions. Hence, one requires an account of how the mental or abstract entity could have such consequences when the mere noise or mark could not. As Wittgenstein remarks,

whatever accompanied [the sign] would for us just be another sign. (1969: 5)

Once one feels the force of the no intrinsic meaning thesis, one might be tempted by CRS. This view has the advantage of not positing any further entity that accompanies or is associated with an expression to act as an unexplained explainer, but instead looks to how the word is employed to account for its significance, specifically its role in inference.

c. The Insufficiency of Causation

Another motivation for endorsing CRS is through contrasting it with a competitor, one which also accepts the no intrinsic meaning thesis. According to it, the meaning or content of an item is determined by that which typically causes its tokenings (Dretske 1981; Fodor 1990). (This is no doubt crude but sufficient for present purposes.) Even if such a differential response to environing stimuli were necessary to grasp certain meanings or possess certain concepts, it cannot be sufficient (Brandom 1994; Harman 1999: 211; Sellars 1997). To put it vividly, it would not distinguish one who genuinely possesses understanding from a thermostat! Surely, in order properly to grasp the concept red, say, one must not only be able to respond differentially to red things, but in addition know that if something is red then it is not blue, or that if it is red it is colored, and so on. Hence, these entailments and incompatibilities, that is, these inferential connections, seem to be determinative of the relevant concept. And to accept that is to accept CRS.

d. The Frege-problem

Diagnosis of what is often labelled the ‘Frege-problem’ likewise speaks in favor of CRS (Frege 1997; see Frege and Language and Frege, Gottlob). A prominent and intuitive view is that for an expression to have a meaning is for it to refer to something. However, two expressions can refer to the same thing, for example, ‘table salt’ and ‘sodium chloride’, and yet one acquainted with both expressions could rationally adopt conflicting attitudes towards sentences containing them. One might accept:

(1) Table salt dissolves.

but not:

(2) Sodium chloride dissolves.

It seems, therefore, that a term’s ‘cognitive significance’ cannot reside solely in its having a reference.

CRS is consonant with this observation. According to it, what distinguishes co-referring (or co-extensive) terms is precisely their cognitive role, or the inferential networks they are involved in.

e. Methodological Solipsism

A final, and more controversial, reason to endorse IRS (rather than CRS) is to respect ‘methodological solipsism’ (see Lepore 1994). Methodological solipsism requires that mental content properly so-called supervene upon a person’s internal physical and functional make-up considered in isolation from her physical and social environment, by ‘what is in her head’. This is in part intended to respect the conviction that mental states are causes of behavior, and that such causes must be proximal rather than distal, and is presumed indispensable for the ability to make generalisations about subjects’ behavior.

If, as IRS holds, the content of a mental state is determined by its cognitive role, where this cognitive role is specified without reference to the person’s physical or social environment, then the requirements imposed by methodological solipsism are satisfied.

4. Problems for CRS

Despite the number of factors that seem to point to CRS, it faces a number of potential problems. The remainder outlines those difficulties and suggests various possible responses one might offer on its behalf. These issues not only pose a challenge for CRS, but also serve to bring into view the respective strengths and weaknesses of the various forms it might take.

a. Holism, Compositionality and Analyticity

CRS is evidently a holistic view of meaning or content. Since an expression’s meaning is possessed in virtue of the inferential relations it stands in to other expressions, it follows that an expression cannot have meaning on its own. This might seem innocuous, but it leads swiftly to seemingly grave problems.

What one takes the inferential significance of an expression to be depends on what beliefs one has. Therefore, since no two speakers share the same beliefs, they will inevitably be disposed to make, or treat as correct, different inferential transitions involving an expression. Hence, according to CRS, the same word in different mouths will possess a different meaning and be understood in different ways. It seems to follow that communication is impossible. Relatedly, since a particular speaker’s beliefs are constantly changing, at different times she will inevitably be disposed to make, or treat as correct, different inferential transitions involving an expression. Hence, according to CRS, the same word in the same mouth will possess a different meaning and be understood differently at different times. It seems to follow that constancy of meaning is impossible.

One possible response to this is to reject the need for CRS to incorporate shareable, constant meaning, and hold instead that what is required is only sufficiently similar understanding of an expression (Block 1995; Harman 1993). But this is hard to stomach. It seems a mere platitude, and is arguably definitive of the relevant notions, that two speakers can understand one another or say the same thing, that terms in different vocabularies might be synonymous, and so on. One requires a better reason for rejecting such trivialities than the fact that they are hard to accommodate in one’s preferred theory of meaning.

In any event, rather than offering an alternative, the above suggestion simply takes for granted the possibility of shared concepts or mutual understanding of the corresponding expressions (see Fodor and Lepore 1992: 17-22; for further discussion, see Pagin 2006). Consider how one might ascertain similar understandings. Presumably one would need to enumerate the various inferences that any two subjects are prepared to make. Their understanding is alike in so far as they are prepared to make a sufficient number of the same inferences. But what is to count as the same inference? Surely those that contain identical concepts.

Related to the communication and constancy problems are difficulties concerning the phenomena of productivity—the fact that competent speakers of a language are able to produce and understand a potential infinity of novel sentences—and systematicity—the fact that if a speaker understands an expression that expresses a proposition of the form aRb, then typically she will also understand one that expresses a proposition of the form bRa. The best explanation of both is that meanings are compositional. The meanings of the potentially infinite complex expression in a language are a function of the meanings of their parts, which constitute a finite vocabulary.

Therein lies the apparent difficulty for CRS, since inferential roles are not usually compositional (Fodor and Lepore 1992; Lepore 1994). The inferential role of ‘Cars pollute’, for example, is not determined by the meanings of ‘cars’ and ‘pollute’ alone, but in part by auxiliary information.

Proponents and critics alike typically accept that for CRS to avoid all of the above problems it requires some kind of analytic/synthetic distinction (Boghossian 1994; 1997; Fodor and Lepore 1992; Horwich 1998; Lepore 1994; Loewer 1997: 120-1). That is, a distinction in kind between those transitions that are determinative of meaning or content and those that are not. This would provide something constant—an invariant significance—that could be grasped despite differences in belief. And, moreover, it respects compositionality, since the meaning of a complex expression is fixed only by its role in analytic inferences, and that is determined by the meanings of its parts.

Where proponents and critics differ is over whether any such distinction can and should be drawn. Some suggest that it would be circular to appeal to the notion of analyticity in an analysis of meaning, since ‘analytic’ just means true/valid in virtue of meaning (Fodor and Lepore 1992; Lepore 1994; cf. Quine 1980: ch. 2). But clearly the advocate of CRS need not specify the analytic inferences using that very description, but might rather seek to do so in more basic terms (Boghossian 1994; Horwich 1998; 2005; cf. Block 1993: 64). Alternatively, one might challenge the requirement of reductionism. CRS might serve to illuminate the nature and role of semantic notions without appealing only to independently intelligible notions.

Nonetheless, since Quine’s ‘Two Dogmas of Empiricism’ (1980: ch. 2), many consider the notion of analyticity to be spurious (see The Classical Theory of Concepts). Therefore, if CRS requires an analytic/synthetic distinction, however specified, so much the worse for it.

Crucially, however, Quine’s target is a conception of analyticity according to which analytic statements possess no experiential implications or factual content whatsoever. In virtue of this, they owe their truth-value to meaning alone, and thereby provide a priori knowledge. With this target in view, Quine argues that no statement is immune from revision in the light of empirical data, and so no statement is such that it possesses no factual content whatsoever, is true in virtue of meaning alone, or knowable a priori. Therefore, there is no such thing as analyticity.

Note, however, that to grant Quine undermines one conception of the analytic/synthetic distinction is not to concede that he shows it to be bogus as such. A notion of analyticity might be available that respects the obviously fluctuating status of those statements considered determinative of meaning, and does not involve such notions as truth/validity in virtue of meaning, or a priori knowledge, or, if it does, admits only watered-down versions. There is something of a resurgence of work in this area and scepticism at this stage would be precipitate (see Boghossian 1997; 2003; Glock 2003: ch. 3; Horwich 2005: 38-9; Lance and Hawthorne 1997).

Additionally, a quick argument is available to show that any account of meaning must recognise some version of the analytic/synthetic distinction (Boghossian 1997; cf. Glock 2003: 93-5; Grice and Strawson 1989). Certain putatively analytic statements—that is, statements that might license analytically valid inferences—are such that they can be turned into logical truths by replacing synonyms with synonyms. For example:

(3) All bachelors are unmarried men.

is equivalent to:

(3’) All unmarried men are unmarried men.

So, to say that there are no facts as to whether such statements are analytic is just to say that there are no facts about synonymy. From this it surely follows that there are no facts about meaning, which is a conclusion few would accept whether they wish to defend CRS or an alternative. Thus, the mere fact that CRS requires certain inferential transitions to be privileged as analytic cannot be thought a devastating problem peculiar only to it. All (realist) theories of meaning are in the same boat.

b. Proper Names

Certain specific kinds of expression pose a potential problem for CRS. One in particular is proper names, such as ‘Kelly’ or ‘O Brother! Where Art Thou?’ According to one very influential view, proper names have no meaning. Nevertheless, they certainly have a use and play a role in cognition and language. Therefore, CRS must be rejected (Lycan 2000: 94; Rundle 2001: 101).

One response is to insist that proper names do indeed have meaning (Baker and Hacker 2004; Horwich 1998: 88-9, 124ff). But this seems strange. One does not find them in the dictionary, and the question ‘What does “David” mean?’ sounds confused. A more promising strategy is to offer an explanation—consonant with CRS—as to why proper names do not possess meaning, despite having a usage. That is, to show that although they have a role it is not of the right kind. To do so, I shall examine Kripke’s arguments for the view that proper names ‘directly refer’.

Kripke (1980) convincingly shows that there are no descriptions that warrant (a priori) the introduction of a proper name, and the latter’s use alone does not license the transition to any such description. Consider, for example, ‘Aristotle’ and the following:

the greatest pupil of Plato

the author of De Anima

the most famous teacher of Alexander the Great

As a matter of fact, one is warranted in replacing any of the above descriptions with ‘Aristotle’. Thus, the transition from ‘This was written by the greatest pupil of Plato’ to ‘This was written by Aristotle’ is correct. But in principle one could be unprepared to make such a transition without failing to understand ‘Aristotle’. One could revise which transitions one takes to be correct, and the term would still designate the same individual. Hence, there is no essential relation between ‘Aristotle’ and the above descriptions. This is supposed to generalise to cover any possible set of descriptions and associated proper names.

These observations point toward a distinguishing feature of proper names. They simply lack the kind of intra-linguistic role that bestows meaning on other expressions; they really just function as labels or proxies for their bearers. There are no transitions involving a proper name that one who masters it must be prepared to make. So, rather than count against CRS, one can precisely explain why proper names lack meaning by pointing out that they lack the relevant established usage, or inferential role, that is distinctive of meaningful expressions.

c. Externalism

This section temporarily focuses on IRS and the difficulty externalism seems to pose for it. According to externalism, meaning and content are determined by environmental, that is, extra-linguistic, factors. This is in manifest tension with IRS, according to which meaning and content are determined by intra-linguistic relations alone.

Different versions of externalism emphasise different environmental factors. According to ‘social’ externalism (Burge 1979), the content of a person’s claim or thought is determined in part by the linguistic community to which she belongs (so long as she is suitably deferent to the ‘experts’). What a person says, for example, in uttering ‘I have arthritis’ (and so whether what she says is true or false) is fixed by how her medical community employ ‘arthritis’. While this form of externalism is evidently in tension with methodological solipsism, it is not in tension with IRS per se. On this account, the meaning of a term is still its inferential significance, but that significance is fixed communally not individually.

It is ‘physical’ externalism that is typically thought to pose problems for IRS (Lepore 1994: 197-8; Lycan 2000: 93; McGinn 1982; Putnam 1991: 46ff). Imagine that Sally on Earth has a twin on Twin Earth. The term ‘water’ plays just the same role in the language of Sally and Twin Sally. Both, for example, would make the transition from ‘That is the colorless, odorless liquid in lakes and rivers’ to ‘That is water’, and vice versa. Nevertheless, the colorless odorless liquid on Earth consists of H2O, whereas on Twin Earth it consists of XYZ. Hence, the referent of ‘water’ is different on each planet, and insofar as meaning determines reference, the meaning likewise differs (Putnam 1975). Therefore, linguistic role alone does not determine meaning. This point is supposed to generalise to hold for propositional content too. Since intuitions about thought-experiments of this kind appear strongly to support externalism, it would seem IRS must be false.

One response to such cases regarding mental content is to postulate ‘narrow content’, to be explained by IRS. Narrow content has a cognitive role but it does not have truth-conditions and its constituents do not refer (Block 1986; Fodor 1990; McGinn 1982). ‘Wide content’ involving truth-conditions and reference-relations is then viewed as a mere device for attributing (narrow) thoughts to subjects, or some additional (perhaps causal) theory is wheeled in to explain how it attaches to the relevant item or state. Crucially, on such ‘two-factor’ accounts, only narrow content is genuinely, cognitively ‘real’ (since only it respects methodological solipsism).

Alternatively, one might reject Putnam’s assumption that meaning determines reference. On this account, ‘water’ would be treated as equivalent to ‘the colorless, odorless liquid in our lakes and rivers’. Since this involves an indexical, it combines the externalist intuition that the reference varies across worlds, with the view compatible with IRS that its meaning is not determined by the physical environment. The expression’s role is constant across on Earth and Twin Earth (Horwich 2005: ch. 1; Putnam 1975: 229ff).

While this might work for linguistic meaning, it is less clear that the same account can be given for mental content. The worry with this strategy is that it looks like what it offers is content in name only (McCulloch 1995). Surely thoughts (unlike meanings) are essentially truth-evaluable, and typically concern extra-mental reality. Such features play a crucial part in their role in psychological explanation. To divorce in this way the contents of beliefs, desires and thoughts from their objects is deeply unpalatable. This objection applies equally to the two-factor strategy mentioned above of postulating narrow content.

A different tact is to adopt CRS rather than IRS (Harman 1999; McCulloch 1995). On this view, since perception of distal objects and action on those objects contributes to individuating cognitive roles, one can indeed distinguish the roles of ‘water’ on Earth and Twin Earth (even if subjectively things appear just the same to Sally and her twin).

A concern with this suggestion is that it threatens to divorce the notions of meaning and content from those of understanding and grasp of content. According to it, the meaning of ‘water’, for example, is partially determined by the micro-physical constitution of water, even if a subject is utterly unaware of it. Hence, it apparently follows that she is ignorant of what she says and thinks in employing that expression or the corresponding concept. Insofar as this leaves a subject unable to distinguish the contents of her thoughts, one would expect this to have devastating consequences for her ability to reason.

That externalism in general makes problematic knowledge of one’s own mind is widely-recognised (see Brown 2004), but it seems especially acute in the case of CRS. There will inevitably be a disparity between a concept’s role as individuated by the physical environment and its role in a subject’s cognition, and insofar as they cannot be reconciled, it is hard to imagine how a particular role (hence content) could be assigned to the concept. Perhaps this problem facing CRS can be resolved, but prima facie an alternative response to externalism is preferable.

The above are conciliatory strategies, which accept the externalist’s claim and seek a theory of meaning to accommodate it. An altogether different approach is to reject the externalist intuitions and insist that Sally and Twin Sally mean the same thing by ‘water’, say colorless, odorless liquid, and so both think thoughts that are true of colorless, odorless liquid (whether H2O or XYZ). This is supported by the observation that both subjects would behave, explain their terms and react to their use in identical ways. Perhaps if deferential relations are taken into consideration, one might be able to point to relevant differences that would indicate semantic differences, but this only pushes us toward social rather than physical externalism, and the former has already been shown to be compatible with IRS.

Different strategies for responding to externalism have been considered, and the issue remains unresolved. Nevertheless, there is reason to be confident that intuitions about Twin-Earth style cases do not present insuperable problems for CRS, and especially IRS.

d. Truth, Reference and Intentionality

This discussion points towards a further potential difficulty for CRS (Loewer 1997; Putnam 1978), one which is sometimes treated simultaneously. Thoughts and statements are ‘about’ the world; they possess intentionality. And what they are about is determined by their content. However, according to CRS, content consists primarily in word-word relations (exclusively in some instances), whereas intentionality is on the face of it a word-world relation.

This issue can be reformulated in terms of truth and reference. Statements and thoughts are true or false, depending on how matters stand in the world, and those statements refer to objects and events in that world. How, one might ask, can CRS explain the evident conceptual links between meaning, truth and reference? What is required, surely, is a theory according to which for something to have meaning is for it to stand in some relation to extra-linguistic reality, from which one derives its truth-conditions and reference. (For the remainder, I shall focus on truth. The relevant points can easily be extended to reference, or being true of.)

This assumption, however, takes for granted a conception of truth according to which it consists in some substantial, non-semantic relation between an item and the world. According to deflationism, in contrast, the notion of truth does not pick out any such relation (see Horwich 1990; 1998). Rather, its content is exhausted by the schema:

(T) The proposition that p is true if and only if p

To grasp the notion of truth is to be disposed to accept, or grasp the propriety of, statements of that form. No deeper account of truth is needed or available. On this view, the reason for having an expression such as ‘is true’ in a language is solely to enable us to make generalisations such as ‘Everything the Pope says is true’.

If the deflationary theory is correct then, since truth does not consist in a non-semantic word-world relation, there is no reason to expect or demand a theory that shows possessing meaning or content to consist in such a relation either. A statement of the truth-conditions of a sentence can be derived trivially from a statement of the content it expresses.

More generally, if correct, the outcome of deflationism is that the notion of truth cannot play a fundamental explanatory role in the theory of meaning, as is commonly assumed, since it is to be explained via an antecedently intelligible notion of proposition (or meaning). Crucially, CRS need not deny the platitude that to grasp the content of an attitude or utterance is to grasp its truth-conditions, but instead can be seen as giving a theoretical account of what it is to possess such truth-conditions (Field 1994; Harman 1999: 195).

There is obviously much more to be said for and against deflationism (see Truth). But what should be clear is that it complements CRS and (if successful) shows it to be compatible with the obvious conceptual links between the notions of meaning and content on the one hand and truth and reference on the other.

e. Indeterminacy

This section explores again the views of Kripke, who, on supposed behalf of Wittgenstein, presents several notorious arguments against regularist and dispositionalist theories of meaning (1982). If his arguments succeed, those versions of CRS must be abandoned. (Quine reaches similar conclusions (see 1993).)

The problem with regularism, according to Kripke’s Wittgenstein (1982: 7), is that the actual use of an expression is consistent with an indefinite number of semantic interpretations. A stretch of behavior is only finite, whereas what a word means has consequences for its use on an indefinite number of occasions. For example, that a person to date has uttered ‘blue’ in response to all and only blue things does not determine that by ‘blue’ she means blue, since that behavior is consistent with its meaning ‘blue until 2146AD and green thereafter.’ Thus, regularities of employment leave meaning indeterminate.

Such observations might lead one to dispositionalism. The apparent advantage here is that it includes facts about what speakers would say in an indefinite number of counterfactual circumstances, and thereby promises to rule out gerrymandered interpretations. For example, if a person would assent to an utterance of ‘blue’ in the presence of blue after 2146AD, then by ‘blue’ she means what we mean and not ‘blue until 2146AD and green thereafter.’

Nevertheless, Kripke’s Wittgenstein points out, focus on dispositions fails to exclude deviant interpretations. The fact that a person utters ‘blue’ in the presence of blue after 2146AD does not determine that the expression means blue, since she might be making a mistake and using the expression incorrectly, that is, in a way that conflicts with its meaning. This in turn points to Kripke’s fundamental claim—dispositionalism fails because it does not accommodate the intrinsically normative nature of meaning. What an expression means is a matter of how it ought to or may (not) be used. If one understands an expression, one knows not simply how it is as a matter of fact employed but how it should be. Hence, for an expression to have a meaning cannot be merely for a subject to be disposed to employ it in certain circumstances, since a speaker’s disposition only fixes for what she would do, not what she should.

Several philosophers take this to show that the relevant use constitutive of meaning must be specified using wholly semantic, intentional or normative concepts (Boghossian 1989; Brandom 1994: ch. 1; McDowell 1998: chs. 11-2; Stroud 2002), that is, to favor normativism. If the relevant behavior is described in the first instance in normative terms, that is, as according or failing to accord with a certain standard, then it would seem that the gap between it and the relevant pattern picked out by the semantic interpretation is closed. Alternatively, a dispositionalist or regularist might challenge the claim that dispositions and regularities of use leave meaning indeterminate, perhaps by rejecting the suggestion that meaning is an essentially normative dimension (for discussion, see Hattiangadi 2007; Horwich 1998; 2005; Miller 2007: ch. 5). It is fair to say that the issue of how exactly to respond to Kripke’s Wittgenstein’s challenge is very much a live one.

f. Defective Expressions and Conservatism

Prior (1960) objects to CRS on the following grounds. Given IRS, one could presumably provide a meaning for a connective ‘tonk’ by stipulating that it is to be employed according to the following rules:

Tonk-introduction: p


p tonk q

Tonk-elimination: p tonk q


q

Evidently, by following these rules for the use of ‘tonk’, one could infer any claim from any other claim. Prior took this to be a reductio ad absurdum of IRS. One cannot give an expression a genuine meaning simply be stipulating that it is to be employed in inference in a certain way. As Belnap diagnoses the complaint, a ‘possible moral to draw from this’ is that one ‘must first […] have a notion of what [an expression] means, independently of the role it plays as premise or conclusion’ (1962: 130). That is, the example seems to show that it is in virtue of having an antecedent grasp of an expression’s meaning that one can make judgments as to its inferential significance. Hence, the latter cannot be constitutive of the former.

The traditional response on behalf of CRS is to maintain that the relevant expression does not have a genuine meaning, since the introduction of ‘tonk’ does not constitute a conservative extension of the language (Belnap 1962; see also Dummett 1973: 397; 1991). An extension of the language is conservative if and only if one cannot use the new vocabulary to derive any statements in the original vocabulary that could not already be derived using the original vocabulary. More informally, the problem is that non-conservative rules for the use of an expression clash with the meanings of existing expressions or, rather, the rules governing their employment. The novel rules ‘clash’ in the sense that, when added to the established rules, they lead to contradiction. As a result, the extended language is inconsistent.

This is evident in the case of ‘tonk’. Were one to employ the connective according to the above rules, one could derive any statement in our tonk-free vocabulary from any other statement in that vocabulary. Suppose, for example, that one accepts ‘Grass is green’. According to tonk-introduction, from that sentence, ‘Grass is green tonk it is not the case that grass is green’ follows. From this, in turn, according to tonk-elimination, ‘Grass is not green’ follows, which manifestly contradicts the original sentence from which it was derived. In such a way, assuming the meanings or rules for the use of the other expressions remain constant, the tonk-rules lead immediately and without auxiliary premises to contradiction; their introduction to the language renders it inconsistent.

The constraints imposed by conservatism proscribe the fraudulent connective ‘tonk’ by ruling out the introduction of non-conservative rules of the kind that would generate inconsistency in the manner outlined above. In doing so, they guarantee that there is no defective meaning possessed by ‘tonk’ and so no counter-example to CRS.

According to Prior, CRS allows one to introduce into a language obviously defective expressions. According to a recent twist on this objection, our language obviously contains certain defective expressions and CRS is unable to explain how (see Williamson 2003; cf. Hornsby 2001; cp. Whiting 2007a; 2008). Pejorative terms like ‘Boche’ provide vivid examples. A proponent of CRS might, following Dummett (1973), hold that to grasp the meaning possessed by ‘Boche’ is to infer according to rules such as:

Boche-introduction: x is German


x is Boche

Boche-elimination: x is Boche


x is cruel

As Williamson says (although he does not accept this evaluation), one might regard the above account as providing CRS ‘with a positive success by elegantly explaining in inferentialist terms what is wrong with pejorative expressions’. Unfortunately, however, it instead leads immediately to the following problem.

Since most speakers (including you and I) are simply not disposed to infer according to rules such as Boche-introduction and Boche-elimination and do not consider it proper to do so, it appears to follow (given CRS) that those speakers do not understand the term ‘Boche’ or grasp its meaning. This is, of course, implausible. As Williamson glibly says, ‘We find racist and xenophobic abuse offensive because we understand it, not because we fail to do so’ (2003: 257). Pejorative terms, then, appear to provide a counter-example to CRS. An expression can possess a certain meaning without speakers being prepared to make the relevant inferences involving it; its inferential role is therefore not constitutive of its meaning. It is in virtue of having an antecedent grasp of meaning that one can make judgments as to the inferential significance of an expression.

A possible solution to this problem runs parallel to Belnap’s reply to Prior. One might reject the Boche-introduction and Boche-elimination rules on the grounds that they are non-conservative. They allow one to make without the aid of collateral information the transition from, for example, ‘Merkel is German’ to ‘Merkel is cruel’, when one could not do so in the ‘Boche’-free language. More informally, Boche-introduction and Boche-elimination clash with the rules governing the employment of existing terms, in the sense that supplementing them with the Boche-rules leads to contradiction, rendering the extended language inconsistent. Suppose, for example, that Merkel was born in Germany and does not cause suffering with disregard. On this basis—given what one may assume to be among the established inferential rules for the employment of ‘German’ and ‘cruel’—one infers ‘Merkel is German and is not cruel’. However, by following Boche-introduction one may make the transition to ‘Merkel is Boche and is not cruel’, and in turn Boche-elimination allows one to infer ‘Merkel is cruel and is not cruel’. Hence, in such a way, the introduction of the Boche-rules to a ‘Boche’-free language leads to contradiction.

Since it is non-conservative, the above account of the meaning of ‘Boche’ is bogus and so does not constitute a counter-example to IRS. This point does not depend on the exact details of Dummett’s proposal; the same will be true of any model of pejoratives according to which we accept the grounds for introducing them but not the consequences of doing so.

This proposal might generate the following worry:

It is hard to believe that racists who employ boche-like concepts fail to express complete thoughts. (Boghossian 2003: 243)

Accepting the above, however, does not lead to the conclusion that bigots are not saying anything whatsoever, or express no thoughts, when they use the term ‘Boche’; it is to deny one account of its meaning, not to deny that it has meaning. Indeed, a proponent of CRS might view the term ‘Boche’ as having the same meaning as ‘German’. Thus, the meaning of ‘Boche’ is given by whatever (conservative) rules govern ‘German’. One can in turn explain the pejorative nature of ‘Boche’ by appeal not to its literal, semantic content, but to its offensive associations, its conventional implications (see Grice 1989 ch. 2). According to this account, CRS deals with that aspect of a word that is shared by its neutral counterpart (for example, ‘German’) and an additional apparatus is wheeled in to explain the respect in which it causes offence. (The former is the remit of semantics, the latter of pragmatics.)

Williamson claims that such an account is not available to one who recommends CRS (2003: 267-8). Even if the ‘Boche’ is governed by the same rules as ‘German’, it is still the case that most speakers are not prepared—given its offensive implications—to employ ‘Boche’ in accordance with those rules. According to CRS, then, they do not understand the term ‘Boche’ or grasp the concept it expresses, which is implausible.

Note, however, that this criticism is effective against regularism and dispositionalism, but not normativism. The normativist can insist that the propriety of employment that is constitutive of the concept is distinctively semantic, as opposed to (say) moral. Once this is recognised, one can appreciate that speakers can indeed acknowledge that inferring from ‘x originates in Germany’ to ‘x is Boche’ is correct as far as the language is concerned, or according to the semantic norms determinative of the relevant expressions’ meanings, and still refuse actually to use the term ‘Boche’, since the propriety of doing so is trumped by other considerations (in this instance, moral). So, if CRS distinguishes the relevant normative notion according to which inferences are correct or incorrect, it has the resources to meet Williamson’s objection.

g. Circularity

The above discussion leads almost directly to a concern about CRS that Davidson voices in the following passage:

It is empty to say that meaning is use unless we specify what use we have in mind, and when we do specify, in a way that helps with meaning, we find ourselves going in a circle. (2005: 13)

This is perhaps especially relevant to normativism. According to it, for an expression to possess meaning, or express content, is for it be correctly used in a certain way. But intuitively the ‘correct’ use is just that which accords with meaning, or mastery of which is required for understanding. Further, it was suggested above that norms of meaning must be distinguished from other kinds of norm and hence viewed as distinctively semantic. Clearly, for a theory of meaning to appeal to such notions would be circular.

Two alternatives present themselves. One strategy would be to show how the relevant norms can be picked out in independently intelligible or more basic terms, say epistemological (Brandom 2000: ch. 6; Skorupski 1997; cf. Dummett 1991; 1996). Alternatively, one might reject the requirement of reductionism (Alston 2000; Stroud 2002; Whiting 2006). The assumption that an account of semantic notions must be given in independently intelligible or more basic terms is one that should not go unchallenged.

Note that dispositionalism arguably suffers from its own, distinctive problem of circularity (see Boghossian 1989; Kripke 1982: 28). According to it, to grasp the meaning of an expression is to be disposed to use it in a certain way. So, for example, to grasp the meaning of ‘bachelor’ is to be disposed to make the transition from ‘He is an unmarried man’ to ‘He is a bachelor’. But, of course, a person might fully understand the expression and yet not be disposed to make that transition. Perhaps she desires to confuse her interlocutor, or does not have long to live and wishes not to waste words, or believes that within the elapsed time the person has married, and so on. Evidently, the dispositionalist must say that to grasp the meaning one must be disposed to perform in a certain way in optimal circumstances. However, it appears unlikely that those circumstances could possibly be specified without employing semantic notions of the same kind as that of meaning or content.

5. Prospects and Applications

This entry has surveyed some of the arguments in favor of CRS and sketched briefly a number of the prominent problems it faces. Its critics’ claims notwithstanding, there is no reason to think that CRS faces proportionally more difficulties than its competitors. And in each case there are lines of response that, if not immediately decisive, are worthy of investigation.

For those sympathetic to CRS, examining such matters provide a means of adjudicating between the different versions. Specifically, it seems that the threats of indeterminacy and defective concepts point strongly toward normativism. Of course, once one accepts that semantic concepts are intrinsically normative, one must further distinguish such norms from other kinds of propriety, and it is doubtful that this can be done without making use of semantic concepts on a par with meaning or content. Nevertheless, the assumption that the only satisfactory philosophical explanations are those that provide analyses in independently intelligible and more basic terms is arguably unfounded and certainly not to be assumed.

In closing, it is worth noting that some consider CRS to provide insights into the possibility of a priori knowledge (see A Priori and A Posteriori), and as explaining our entitlement to follow certain fundamental epistemic and ethical principles (Boghossian 1997; 2000; 2003; Hale and Wright 2000; Peacocke 1992; Wedgwood 2006; cp. Horwich 2005 ch. 6; Williamson 2003). This is a burgeoning field of research and deserves investigation. In order to evaluate such claims, however, the details of CRS need first to be spelled out. It is on that task that this entry has focussed.

6. References and Further Reading

  • Alston, W. 2000: Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press.
  • Ayer, A. J. (ed.) 1959: Logical Positivism. London: Allen and Unwin.
  • Baker, G. and Hacker P. 2004: Wittgenstein: Understanding and Meaning, rev. ed. Oxford: Blackwell.
  • Belnap, N. 1962: Tonk, plonk, and plink. Analysis 22: 130-4.
  • Block, N. 1986: Advertisement for a semantics for psychology. Midwest Studies in Philosophy 10: 615-78.
  • Block, N. 1993: Holism, hyper-analyticity and hyper-compositionality. Mind and Language 3: 1-27.
  • Block, N. 1995: An argument for holism. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 95: 151-69.
  • Boghossian, P. 1989: The rule-following considerations. Mind 93: 507-49.
  • Boghossian, P. 1994: Inferential role semantics and the analytic/synthetic distinction. Philosophical Studies 73: 109-22.
  • Boghossian, P. 1997: Analyticity. In A Companion to the Philosophy of Language, ed. B. Hale and C. Wright. Oxford: Blackwell.
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Author Information

Daniel Whiting
Email: d.whiting@soton.ac.uk
University of Southampton
United Kingdom

Disjunctivism

Disjunctivism, as a theory of visual experience, claims that the mental states involved in a “good case” experience of veridical perception and a “bad case” experience of hallucination differ. They differ even in those cases in which the two experiences are indistinguishable for their subject. Consider the veridical perception of a bar stool and an indistinguishable hallucination; both of these experiences might be classed together as experiences of a bar stool or experiences of seeming to see a bar stool. This might lead us to think that the experiences we undergo in the two cases must be of the same kind, the difference being that the former, but not the latter, is connected to the world in the right kind of way. Such a conjecture has been called a “highest common factor” or “common kind” assumption. At heart, disjunctivism consists in the rejection of this assumption. According to the disjunctivist, veridical experiences and hallucinations do not share a common component.

There are a host of interesting questions surrounding disjunctivism including: What is involved in the claims that good case and bad case experiences differ? Why might one want to be a disjunctivist? What kinds of claims can the disjunctivist make about hallucination and illusion? These questions, and problems for the thesis, will be discussed as we proceed.

Table of Contents

  1. Introduction
  2. Disjunctivism and Naïve Realism
  3. Types of Disjunctivism
  4. Arguments for Disjunctivism
    1. Epistemological Motivations
    2. Modesty
    3. Naïve Realism: Phenomenology
    4. Naïve Realism: Demonstrative Reference
  5. Objections to Disjunctivism
    1. The Causal Argument
    2. The “Screening Off” Objection
    3. Matching Hallucinations to Perceptions
  6. Theories of Hallucination
    1. Positive Disjunctivism
    2. Negative Disjunctivism
    3. Negative Disjunctivism and Indiscriminability: Objections
  7. Theories of Illusion
    1. Illusion as Hallucination
    2. Illusion as Veridical Perception
  8. Conclusion
  9. References and Further Reading

1. Introduction

If disjunctivism consists in the rejection of the claim that veridical perceptions and hallucinations share a common factor, why “disjunctivism”? The thesis acquires its name from the particular way in which it reinterprets statements that, at face value, might appear to commit us to the existence of experiences, understood as good case/bad case common factors. Consider the sentence, ‘I seem to see a flash of light’. Such a sentence could be true regardless of whether we are perceiving or hallucinating. As such, the truthmaker of such a sentence might seem to be something common to the two cases, and a commitment to the truth of such sentences in turn to commit us to a common factor. However, J.M. Hinton contends that ‘I seem to see a flash of light’ is simply “a more compact way of saying” something like this: “Either I see a flash of light, or I have an illusion of a flash of light” (1967: 217).

It is this reinterpretation of seems-sentences as disjunctive in form that gives disjunctivism its name. Moreover, not only do disjunctivists insist that a seems-statement is shorthand for a disjunctive statement, they insist that such statements have a disjunctive truthmaker. The statement, Either I see an F or it merely seems to me as if that were so, can be made true in two different ways: either by its being true that I actually do see an F, or by its being true that I don’t see an F but that it is for me as if I did. To see how this is supposed to work, consider the following example from Don Locke:

“This is a woman, or a man dressed as a woman” does not assert the presence of a woman/transvestite-neutral entity … its truth depends simply on the presence of either a woman or a transvestite, as the case may be. (1975: 467)

In this way, Hinton shows how we can be committed to the existence of true seems-statements without being committed to a common factor that makes them true.

In reinterpreting seems-statements in this way, Hinton opens the door for philosophers to claim that veridical perception and hallucination might be psychologically different kinds of experience, which nonetheless both make it the case that it seems to the subject to be a certain way. The core disjunctive claim is therefore that “we should understand statements about how things appear to a perceiver to be equivalent to a disjunction that either one is perceiving such and such or one is suffering a … hallucination; and that such statements are not to be viewed as introducing a report of a distinctive mental event or state common to these various disjoint situations. (Martin 2004: 37).

2. Disjunctivism and Naïve Realism

In insisting that veridical perceptions and hallucinations are mental states of different kinds, the disjunctivist takes on the explanatory burden of giving an account of how two experiences could be indistinguishable without being experiences of the same kind. Given this, what might lead someone to endorse disjunctivism? We shall consider specific arguments for disjunctivism in section 4, but for present purposes it will suffice to note that the typical motivation has been to make room for a “naïve realist” theory of veridical experience. The naïve realist claims that, in the good cases, external objects and their properties “partly constitute one’s conscious experience” (Martin 1997: 83) and thereby “shape the contours of the subject’s conscious experience” (Martin 2004: 64). So naïve realism entails disjunctivism: if naïve realism is true, then the kind of mental state that is involved in a veridical perception – a mental state that relates the subject to elements of the mind-independent environment – could not be involved in a hallucinatory situation. The hallucinatory state must therefore be of a different kind. A defence of naïve realism therefore requires a defence of disjunctivism.

As there is such an intimate connection between disjunctivism and naïve realism, some theorists have actually incorporated naïve realism about the good cases into the very definition of disjunctivism. Paul Snowdon, one of the names most closely associated with the theory, takes disjunctivism to involve the claim that: “the experience in a genuinely perceptual case has a different nature to the experience involved in a non-perceptual case. It is not exhausted, however, by the simple denial of a common nature, but involves also the characterisation of the difference between the perceptual and non-perceptual in terms of the different constituents of the experiences involved. The experience in the perceptual case in its nature reaches out to and involves the perceived external object, not so the experience in other cases.” (2005: 136-7; for a similar formulation, see Sturgeon 2006: 187). However, despite the fact that naïve realism entails the denial of the common kind thesis, the denial of the common kind thesis does not entail naïve realism. For this reason, I think it makes taxonomic sense to restrict the label “disjunctivist” to theories that deny that there is a common factor to indistinguishable cases of veridical perception and hallucination. Yet of course, as naïve realism entails disjunctivism, an argument for naïve realism is thereby also an argument for disjunctivism. We will come back to this when considering motivations for disjunctivism in section 4. Before we do this, however, we need to take a moment to look closely at the claim that veridical perception and hallucination share a common component.

3. Types of Disjunctivism

The reason for caution is that, if we read this claim as holding that veridical perception and hallucination have nothing in common whatsoever, then it is surely false. As we have already seen, a veridical perception of an F and a hallucination of an F have at least this in common: they are both visual experiences of an F / cases of seeming to see an F. So the “no common factor” claim must be read as allowing that they have something in common. This, however, raises an important question. In what respects can the mental states involved in veridical perception and hallucination be the same and the theory remain a version of disjunctivism? This opens up the possibility of different types of disjunctivism.

For example, Byrne and Logue formulate a version of disjunctivism they call epistemological disjunctivism, which is disjunctivist about perceptual evidence (2008: 66). That is, the epistemological disjunctivist denies that one’s perceptual evidence is the same across indistinguishable cases of veridical perception and hallucination. As Snowdon puts it, “we can divide cases where it is true that it appears to the subject as if P into two sorts; one is where the subject is in a position to know that P, in that the fact that P is manifested to him, and others where the subject is in a position to know merely that it appears to be P” (2005: 140). On both Byrne and Logue’s presentation and Snowdon’s, epistemological disjunctivism is consistent with the two experiences having substantial commonalities. As Snowdon asks, “why cannot a single basic sort of (inner) experience have quite different epistemological significance in different cases, depending, say, on the context and on facts about causation?” (ibid.)

Epistemological disjunctivism, then, leaves room for veridical perception and hallucination to be of the same metaphysical kind, so long as they do not have the same epistemological status. More robust versions of disjunctivism will go on to reject the claim that veridical perception and hallucination are of the same metaphysical kind. For example, we might define “metaphysical disjunctivism” as the claim that veridical perceptions and hallucinations are different kinds of mental states in as much as they have different constituents, or different supervenience bases. Yet as Byrne and Logue point out, even this seems to be compatible with the two mental states having something in common. Thus they introduce the “moderate view” (2008: 71), which accepts that the good cases and bad cases “are different in significant mental respects, despite having a common mental element,” where this common mental element is in the picture to ground the phenomenal similarity of the two states. A yet more robust version of disjunctivism, then, holds that, despite cases of veridical perception and hallucination both being cases in which it seems to the subject as if P, they nonetheless do not have even phenomenal character in common.

In an attempt to impose some order, Martin characterizes disjunctivism as committed to the claim that the “most fundamental kind that the perceptual event is of, the kind in virtue of which the event has the nature that it does, is one which couldn’t be instanced in the case of hallucination.” (2004: 60). They key notion here is that of a “fundamental kind” – the kind in virtue of which the event has the nature it does. How do we determine the fundamental kind a particular mental state or event belongs to? By determining the “most specific answer to the question, ‘What is it?’” (2006: 361). So, for example, take our veridical experience of a bar stool. If the common kind theory were correct, then the “best candidate for the fundamental or essential kind” of both a veridical perception of a bar stool and a hallucination of a bar stool would be that they are both instances of the kind: experience (as) of a bar stool. Disjunctivism, however, allows that the “best candidate for the fundamental or essential kind” of a veridical perception of a bar stool is that it is an instance of the kind: veridical perception of a bar stool. Hallucinations, of course, do not belong to this kind (2004: 72). We will discuss the kinds that hallucinations do belong to in section 6.2.

So we have a number of different varieties of disjunctivism available; varieties that differ in the degree of similarities that the mental states involved in veridical perception and hallucination are allowed to share. However, as we shall see in the next section, not every type of disjunctivism just discussed will successfully legitimate the various motivations that have been cited as reasons for endorsing disjunctivism.

4. Arguments for Disjunctivism

Before we move onto reasons to think that disjunctivism is true, it is worth noting that its first outing post-Hinton was in fact as a component of an argument, due to Paul Snowdon, against the Causal Theory of Perception. But this argument does not require the truth of disjunctivism, merely its conceptual coherence, for which reason I mention it only briefly. The causal theory claims that “it is a conceptual requirement that, necessarily, if P (a subject) sees O (an object) then O is causally responsible for an experience (call it E) undergone by (or had by) P” where “experiences are amongst the events, the intrinsic natures of which are independent of anything outside the subject” (Snowdon 1990: 123). So the causal theory is committed, not only to a common factor conception of experiences, but also to the claim that this is a conceptual truth – something “immediately acknowledgeable by any person, whatever their education, who can count as having the concept in question” (1980: 176). Essentially, Snowdon’s argument consists in arguing that, even if disjunctivism turns out to be false, it will only be “scientifically established facts about perceptual and hallucinatory processes” that disprove it (1990: 130). But these are results that the man on the street could not be expected to know merely in virtue of having the concept of perception. So even if it is false, disjunctivism is not a conceptual falsehood and therefore the second claim of the causal theory – that the intrinsic nature of the experience a subject has when perceiving an object is independent of anything outside the subject – is not a conceptual truth as the causal theorist requires.

a. Epistemological Motivations

As Snowdon’s argument does not require the truth of disjunctivism, we still have been given no arguments for the thesis. One salient motivation has to do with epistemology. Consider a sceptical argument that runs as follows. When we hallucinate, the kind of experience we have clearly fails to put us in a position to know anything about the external world. The experience we have in the case of a veridical perception indistinguishable from this hallucination is an experience of the same kind. As the bad case experience fails to put us in a position to acquire knowledge, having the same kind of experience in the good case cannot place us in a better epistemic position. So even when we have veridical experiences, we are not in a position to know anything about the external world.

Disjunctivism offers to block this argument by denying the premise that the experience we have when we veridically perceive is the same as the experience we have when we hallucinate. This would not, of course, prove that we do know anything about the external world, merely that such knowledge is not impossible. Yet this would block the sceptic from using the impossibility of knowledge as a premise in an argument for this conclusion. In response, the disjunctivist’s opponent may point out that, given the acknowledged indistinguishability of veridical perception and hallucination, we cannot know, on any given occasion, whether we are hallucinating or perceiving veridically. So it is not after all clear that disjunctivism does provide any epistemic advantages. The disjunctivist might then reply that this misses the point. It is not that disjunctivism offers an argument to prove that we do have knowledge, rather it offers a rebuttal to an argument that we cannot. To illustrate this, consider the familiar sceptical claim that all of our experiences might have been just as they are even if we were in the clutches of Descartes’ demon. If the disjunctivist is correct, this is no longer possible – if any of my experiences are in fact veridical, then they could not have been as they are misleading. Suppose, then, that the sceptic were to reformulate the sceptical hypothesis as follows: all of your experiences might have been of the misleading kind. Now we can ask, so what? As long as they are not misleading, then many of our empirical beliefs will be justified. As McDowell puts it, this leaves the door open for us to hold that “our knowledge that [the sceptical] possibilities do not obtain is sustained by the fact that we know a great deal about our environment” (2008: 379).

An interesting question about the epistemological motivation for disjunctivism is that of which variety of disjunctivism it requires. In one sense, it clearly requires epistemological disjunctivism, according to which good cases and bad cases differ in epistemological significance. Yet having said this, we might also wonder to what extent two experiences that are the same in significant respects might be plausibly held to provide different levels of perceptual evidence. Could two experiences with the same constituents and phenomenal character be claimed to be significantly epistemologically different? If not, what about experiences that are metaphysically different but phenomenally similar? Or does the claim of significant epistemological difference require the most robust version of disjunctivism: phenomenal disjunctivism? The answers given to these questions will in turn depend on one’s position on other questions in epistemology, such as the nature of justification. For example, an externalist about justification can easily allow that two experiences that are metaphysically similar can differ in epistemological significance, yet one inclined to internalism about justification may need to go all the way to a phenomenal disjunctivism. How compelling we find the epistemological motivation will therefore depend on a range of other issues.

b. Modesty

Another argument that has been used to support disjunctivism is that, unlike common factor theories, it is not required to “attribute to responsible subjects potential infallibility about the course of their experiences” (2004: 51). This argument turns on what is required for a particular experiential occurrence to count as a “visual experience”, where this category includes veridical perceptions and hallucinations.

Martin begins by asking us to consider a veridical perception of a bar stool and a perfectly indiscriminable hallucination of such. Now ask, in virtue of what do these both count as experiences of a bar stool? According to the common factor theorist, veridical perceptions are experiences with certain positive characteristics that are both necessary and sufficient for that perception to qualify as an experience of a bar stool. Then, “when I come to recognize the possibility of perfect hallucination just like my current perception, what I do is both recognize the presence of these characteristics … in virtue of which this event is such an experience, and also recognize that an event’s possessing these characteristics is independent of whether the event is a perception or not.” (2004: 47). According to Martin’s kind of disjunctivist, however, nothing more needs to be said; something is an experience of a bar stool just in case it is indiscriminable from a veridical perception of a bar stool.

With these two explanations in hand, Martin then points out that as of yet, “nothing rules out as possible a situation in which [these positive characteristics] are absent but in which a subject would be unable to discriminate through reflection this situation from one in which a [bar stool] was really being seen.” (2004: 49). Now the disjunctivist’s conception of what is required for an event to qualify as visual experience would allow us to count such an event as an experience (as) of a bar stool simply in virtue of the fact that it is indiscriminable from a veridical perception of a bar stool. The alternative conception, however, could not count this as a visual experience. In order to rule out the possibility of such cases, Martin therefore suggests that the disjunctivist’s opponent will have to assume that a careful subject simply cannot fail to recognize the presence of positive characteristics when they are present, or the absence of such characteristics when they are absent. Thus unlike the disjunctivist, the common factor theorist has to immodestly attribute to subjects substantive epistemic powers. Disjunctivism is therefore a more modest and hence preferable theory.

c. Naïve Realism: Phenomenology

Another set of motivations for disjunctivism turn on the fact, noted in section 2 above, that naïve realism requires disjunctivism, and that naïve realism is the view of the ‘common man’ or, as Martin puts it, that it “best articulates how sensory experience seems to us to be just through reflection” (2006: 354). Yet as Hawthorne and Kovakovich point out, if it is true that the common man does indeed have a view of visual experience, which in itself is not obvious, it is unlikely to be specific enough to decide between philosophical theories of perception. For example, whatever force this motivation carries turns on the idea that the common man would endorse the naïve realist’s theory of the good cases. But it is entirely possible that the common man would also have views about, say, the nature of hallucination or the relationship between consciousness and the brain that are inconsistent with this view. If this were to be the case, then the appeal to the common man may well be indecisive. Finally, Hawthorne and Kovakovich argue that there would not be “much point in pursuing the philosophy of perception in a setting where it is assumed that [common sense] commitments will survive philosophical and scientific reflection. After all, we shouldn’t think that vulgar common sense has seen in advance how to handle various challenges to its commitments” (2006: 180)

Despite these difficulties, Benj Hellie has recently offered a phenomenological argument in favour of naïve realism. This argument turns on the premise that, “a judgment about an experience to the fact that it is F based on phenomenological study [by experts, under ideal circumstances] will be accurate” (2007a: 267). He then lists a number of judgments from such experts on phenomenological study, which he claims embody judgments that veridical visual experience is naïve realist in character. To give a flavour of these quotes, consider Levine’s claim that the “ripe tomato seems immediately present to me in experience […] The world is just there” (2006: 179) and Campbell’s claim that “the phenomenal character of your experience … is constituted by the layout of the room itself” (2002: 116).

An alternative phenomenological motivation is also developed by Martin. This motivation is distinctive, however, in that it turns on the phenomenology of sensory visual imagination rather than that of visual perception per se (2002: 402-19). In brief, Martin argues first for the Dependency Thesis – that imagining X = imagining experiencing X – and then for the claim that to imagine experiencing is to imagine how things would be immediately presented to us in such an experience. He then argues that the naïve realist can give a much better account of this imagined immediacy than can a representationalist because, according to naïve realism, the immediacy of a visual experience of X is explained by X’s being presented to the subject. So in imagining an experience of X, one thereby imagines X being presented to the subject and immediacy follows. The representationalist’s account of visual immediacy, on the other hand, turns on the fact that the attitude the subject bears to the relevant content is stative – i.e. committal to the truth of the content – whereas, in imagination, one does not bear a stative attitude to the imagined content. One “is not thereby in a state whose attitudinative aspect would give rise to the phenomenon of immediacy” (2002: 415). According to Martin, naïve realism therefore gives the correct account of the phenomenology of sensory visual imagination.

d. Naïve Realism: Demonstrative Reference

John Campbell (2002) has argued that a naïve realist conception of experience is a requirement for the very possibility of having thoughts about mind-independent objects at all. Campbell’s contention is that, if you are to know what my use of a demonstrative expression refers to, you have to be able to consciously single out the relevant object, an ability that requires a naïve realist conception of conscious visual experience. To illustrate this, Campbell uses an example of a party where you ask me questions about ‘that woman’. Even if it turns out that I can make reliable guesses about what the woman is wearing, drinking, and so on, Campbell suggests that if I cannot consciously pick out the woman you are talking about, then I do not know to whom you are referring (2002: 8-9). He concludes that conscious (visual) attention is therefore ordinarily required for us to have knowledge of the reference of demonstratives. This therefore places a condition on an adequate account of visual experience – it must explain how it can be the source of this kind of knowledge. Campbell then asks: what would experience have to be like for it to play the role of grounding our knowledge of the reference of a demonstrative? He then argues that, to know the reference of a demonstrative, we must interpret the demonstrative as “referring to a categorical object, not merely a collection of potentialities” (2002: 145). To see why, suppose I do have the ability to reliably guess what the woman you are talking about is eating, drinking and wearing. If all there was to knowing the reference of a demonstrative was to be aware of the various potentialities that the object has, I would therefore know the reference of your use of ‘that woman’. Yet as we saw, I do not know the reference of your demonstrative. What is missing, Campbell suggests, is experience of why these potentialities exist – experience of the categorical object that grounds these potentialities. So if experience is to explain our knowledge of demonstrative reference, then an adequate analysis of experience must account for the fact that experience is experience of the categorical. This is just the kind of account that is offered by naïve realism.

5. Objections to Disjunctivism

As we have seen, as the truth of naïve realism entails the truth of disjunctivism, then arguments for naïve realism are thereby arguments for disjunctivism. And indeed, the majority of arguments for disjunctivism appear therefore to require the most robust phenomenal version of the thesis. Yet as the entailment does not go in the other direction, an objection to naïve realism is not, thereby, an objection to disjunctivism. This section focuses only on objections to disjunctivism itself. For objections to naïve realism – objections, the success of which may remove some or all of the motivations for being a disjunctivist — see Objects of Perception.

a. The Causal Argument

As an argument against disjunctivism, the causal argument starts from the obvious truth that, in order for perceiving to take place, there must be chains of causation from the perceived object to the subject’s sense organs, and then to the subject’s brain. A simple version of the causal argument proceeds as follows. At the end of this causal chain is an experience. Suppose then that the intermediate stages of the causal chain were activated in a nonstandard manner – say, by direct stimulation of the brain. So long as the later stages of the causal chain were as they would have been in the good case, the same kind of experience will result. But this is just to say that the same kind of experience can be caused in both good cases and bad cases, contra disjunctivism.

As expressed here, this argument turns on a principle we might call the “same immediate cause – same effect” principle. It asserts that, so long as the neural stage in the causal chain prior to the experience is the same then, no matter whether that prior stage was produced by external objects or internal misfirings, the effect – the experience – will be the same in both cases. The issue then becomes one of whether or not we should accept this principle. And there are reasons to think that we should not. To adapt an example from Dretske, if forgers managed to reproduce the machine that prints legitimate banknotes, the banknotes the forgers print on it will still be counterfeit, even though the immediate “cause” of these banknotes is the same as the immediate “cause” of genuine currency. Or, to take a more philosophical example, considerations familiar from the work of Putnam (1975) suggests that what makes my thoughts about water is not a feature of their immediate causes, but their distal causes. So there are reasons why we might dispute the “same immediate cause – same effect” principle when the effects in question are taken to be experiences.

For this reason, some opponents of disjunctivism have resorted to a weaker version of the principle. A.D. Smith, for example, insists that “it is surely not open to serious question that [the same immediate cause – same effect principle] does apply with respect to the merely sensory character of conscious states” (2002: 203). Here is a nice passage in which this contention is laid out in detail.

Distal environmental causes generate experiential effects only by generating more immediate links in the causal chains between themselves and experience, namely, physical stimulations in the body’s sensory receptors … These states and processes causally generate experiential effects only by generating still more immediate links in the causal chains between themselves and experience – namely, afferent neural impulses, resulting from transduction at the sites of the sensory receptors on the body. Your mental intercourse with the world is mediated by sensory and motor transducers at the periphery of your central nervous system. Your conscious experience would be phenomenally just the same even if the transducer-external causes and effects of your brain’s afferent and efferent neural activity were radically different from what they are” (Horgan and Tienson 2002: 526-7).

The contention here is that, even if there are reasons to think that changes in a subject’s environment would affect the overall nature of the mental state that results from the same type of neural stimulation (perhaps because it could make a “seeing of water” experience into a “seeing of twater” experience), the “conscious [aspects of the] experience would be phenomenally just the same”. This result, of course, would suffice to refute the phenomenal version of disjunctivism, if not the thesis in its metaphysical and epistemological forms. Again, though, for this argument to succeed, the weaker principle – that “same immediate cause – same effect” is true for the phenomenal aspects of mental states – must be found to be acceptable. One consideration that has been cited in its favour is that it provides an explanation of how indiscriminable hallucinations are possible at all: “if it were not the case that perceptual processes, however stimulated, were sufficient to generate experience, it would be a mystery why [veridical-seeming] hallucinations should occur” (Robinson 1994: 152). However the legitimacy of this motivation can be challenged.

b. The “Screening Off” Objection

Even if the causal argument in this form is rejected, the disjunctivist is still not out of the woods. Suppose the kind of neural replication appealed to by the causal argument is at least possible in principle. And suppose, too, that the mental upshot of such neural replication would be an indistinguishable hallucination. Most theorists, I think, would accept these two plausible claims. Yet if they are accepted, the disjunctivist is still in difficulty, even though we haven’t yet mentioned the phenomenal character of the experiences. The problem is this. If an indiscriminable hallucination is produced by neural replication, then we might think that there must be an explanation of this indiscriminability: that the hallucinatory experience must have a property – call it property I – that explains why the hallucination is mistaken for a veridical experience. But in these neural replication situations – Martin calls them “causally matching” hallucinations (2004: 60) – it must be that the neural activity alone suffices for the experience to have property I. Now, if the same neural activity takes place in a case of veridical perception, then it would also suffice for the veridical experience to have property I. But then the disjunctivist’s opponent can argue as follows.

We have already accepted that property I – whatever this property may be – accounts for the fact that the hallucinatory experience seems, to its subject, just like a veridical perception. Now for the reasons just given, veridical experiences also have property I, together with whatever special phenomenal character they have by virtue of being veridical. But so long as I suffices to explain why the hallucination is taken to be a veridical experience, then I also ought to suffice to explain why the veridical perception is taken to be a veridical experience. Property I would therefore seem to “screen off” whatever additional characteristics the veridical experience may have from having any explanatory import. The disjunctivist needs to be aware of this threat in developing theories of hallucination as we shall see.

c. Matching Hallucinations to Perceptions

This objection takes, as a starting point, the idea that for any possible veridical perception, there is a hallucination that ‘matches’ or ‘corresponds’ to that veridical perception – the hallucination that would, from the subject’s point of view, seem just like that veridical perception. The challenge for the disjunctivist is to give an account of what this correspondence amounts to. Farkas puts the challenge this way:

take a particular veridical perception (VP) of a teacup in front of me, and the corresponding hallucination (H). H is not a perception of the teacup – but this is true of many other events as well. What else do we have to say about H to make sure that it is the hallucination corresponding to the VP in question? (2006: 205-6).

One plausible answer to this question, suggests Farkas, is that both good cases and bad cases have to “involve the same phenomenal properties” (2006: 207). Yet as she points out, this answer has “a metaphysical character,” indeed one that commits us to the existence of something that the two cases have in common. This is, therefore, an answer that the phenomenal disjunctivist, at least, cannot endorse. Farkas then goes on to canvas a number of non-metaphysical answers to this question and argues that they all fail to provide a plausible response. The conclusion drawn is that the only way we can provide an adequate account of what it is for a hallucination to correspond to a veridical perception of a particular kind is to accept, contra phenomenal disjunctivism at least, that the two states have something metaphysical in common.

6. Theories of Hallucination

Thus far we have seen that the disjunctivist has a negative claim to make about hallucination: that it is not an experience of the same kind as a veridical perception. But what else can the disjunctivist say about hallucination?

a. Positive Disjunctivism

The positive disjunctivist insists that there is a positive story to tell about the nature of the hallucinatory state. For example, one might insist that hallucination involves the awareness of something other than external objects – some object proxy, if you will. Michael Thau (2004: 195) suggests that this is the form of disjunctivism advocated by John McDowell. In presenting his disjunctive position, McDowell suggests that “an appearance that such-and-such is the case can be either a mere appearance or the fact that such-and-such is the case making itself perceptually manifest to someone” (1982: 472). Immediately following this presentation, McDowell goes on to say that “mere appearances” are the objects of deceptive experiences. So McDowell’s complete picture looks to be one on which we have one kind of experiential relation to two different kinds of objects: “facts made manifest” in the perceptual case, and “mere appearances” in the hallucinatory ones.

A related view is presented by Mark Johnston (2004), although it is unclear whether or not it really qualifies as a variant of disjunctivism. Johnston contends that, when we have a veridical visual experience, we are aware of an instantiated sensible profile: “a complex, partly qualitative and partly relational property, which exhausts the way the particular scene before your eyes is” (2004: 134). Importantly, the sensible profile that we are aware of, says Johnston, is a type not a token; had we stood before an array of different particulars instantiating the same sensible profile, what we are aware of – the sensible profile – would have been the same. Then, when you have a hallucination that is indiscriminable from this experience, “you are simply aware of the partly qualitative, partly relational profile. … When the visual system misfires, as in hallucination, it presents uninstantiated complexes of sensible qualities and relations” (2004: 135).

On Johnston’s view, there are, then, clear similarities between good cases and bad cases – in particular, in both cases the subject is aware of the same sensible profile. Yet there are important differences too. “When we see,” says Johnston, “we are aware of instantiations of sensible profiles. When we hallucinate we are aware merely of the structured qualitative parts of such sensible profiles. Any case of hallucination is thus a case of “direct” visual awareness of less than one would be “directly” aware of in the case of seeing” (2004: 137 emphasis added). The objects of hallucination are therefore “proper parts” of the objects of seeing (140). So Johnston’s view seems best described as a variant of the moderate view outlined in section 3 above. The difficulty faced by positive views is that they flirt with the screening off problem just noted. Focusing on the McDowellian view first, suppose that a certain pattern of neural activity suffices for one to be aware of “mere appearances” in the bad cases. But then, what about the same neural activity that occurs in the good case? If it is claimed that this does not suffice for awareness of mere appearances, then we might wonder why, “if the mechanism or brain state is a sufficient causal condition for the production of an image, or otherwise characterised subjective sense-content, when the [objects] are not there, why is it not so sufficient when they are present? Does the brain state mysteriously know how it is being produced … or does the [object], when present, inhibit the production of an image by some sort of action at a distance?” (Robinson 1994: 153-4). Yet if we do accept that the pattern of neural activity also suffices for the subject to be aware of “mere appearances” in the good cases, then as these suffice to explain how things are from the subject’s perspective in the bad cases, they should likewise suffice in the good cases. But if this is so, then an appeal to the subject’s being aware of “facts made manifest” in the good cases seems superfluous, at least for the purposes of characterizing how things are from the subject’s perspective.

It is less clear how Johnston’s view fares here. At a point in his paper, he asks: “Why isn’t awareness of a sensible profile a common act of awareness as between seeing and hallucination? It may be held to be … But it does seem that once we adopt the act/object treatment of visual experience it is more natural to individuate an act of awareness occurring at a time in terms of an object that includes all that one is aware of in the relevant time” (2004: 171). Given that, as noted above, the perceiver is aware of more than the hallucinator (in that the perceiver is aware of the particulars that instantiate the sensible profile whilst the hallucinator is aware of the sensible profile alone), his suggestion seems to be that, when we account for the perceiver’s awareness of the particulars, we thereby account for the perceiver’s awareness of the sensible profile. There is then no need to introduce an additional awareness of an (uninstantiated) sensible profile. Yet this may not convince his opponents. The objection remains: if neural activity suffices for awareness of an uninstantiated sensible profile in the bad cases, it should suffice in the good cases too, whether or not we need to appeal to this to explain the fact that the subject is aware of a sensible profile at all. So Johnston’s view may also be threatened by the screening off worry, even if it is in the sense that a subject’s awareness of a particular sensible profile is overdetermined.

b. Negative Disjunctivism

It is this concern – that any positive account of hallucination will play into the hands of the screening off objection – that motivates some disjunctivists to provide an essentially negative account of hallucination. In answer to the question, “What else can the disjunctivist say about hallucination?”, the negative disjunctivist says, nothing else – all that we can say about indiscriminable hallucinations is that they are not veridical perceptions but are indiscriminable from them. This approach is most closely associated with the work of M.G.F. Martin.

Given the threat of the screening off worry, Martin investigates whether there are any limitations to the general principle that common properties screen special properties off from being causally efficacious and concludes that there are. Consider the property of being an unattended bag in an airport, which causes a security alert. Sometimes objects with this property are harmless, but sometimes they contain a bomb. Now ask: does the property common to harmless and non-harmless objects – that of being an unattended bag in an airport – screen off the non-common property of being a bomb in an airport from being explanatory? Not at all. Instead, the only reason the common property of being an unattended bag in an airport has the explanatory role it does is because, sometimes, this property is correlated with the special property of being a bomb in an airport. In such a case, we can say that the explanatory potential of the common property of being an unattended bag in airport is “inherited from” or “dependent upon” the explanatory potential of the special property of being a bomb in an airport. As Martin concludes, common properties with “inherited or dependent explanatory potential offer us exceptions to the general model of common properties screening off special ones” (2004: 70).

In the discussion of Martin’s claim that disjunctivism is a more “modest” theory of visual experience than a common factor theory (section 4.2), we saw that Martin’s kind of disjunctivist accepts that a hallucination of a certain kind has the property of being indiscriminable from a veridical perception. Now although such indiscriminability properties are common to both good cases and bad cases – a veridical perception of an F is indiscriminable from itself – whatever explanatory potential indiscriminability properties have is inherited from the explanatory potential of the associated veridical experience.

Why did James shriek like that? He was in a situation indiscriminable from the veridical perception of a spider. Given James’s fear of spiders, when confronted with one he is liable so to react; and with no detectable difference between this situation and such a perception, it must seem to him as if a spider is there, so he reacts in the same way. (2004: 68).

Martin therefore suggests that, if the screening off worry is to be avoided, the disjunctivist must characterize the hallucinatory state purely negatively – must say that “when it comes to a mental characterization of the hallucinatory experience, nothing more can be said than the relational and epistemological claim that it is indiscriminable from the perception” (2004: 72). So whilst there is a kind which is shared by hallucination and veridical perception – the kind: being indiscriminable from a veridical perception – only for hallucinations is this their most fundamental kind. Where veridical perceptions are concerned, “being a veridical perception of a tree is a better candidate for being its fundamental or essential kind than being indiscriminable from being such a veridical perception” (2004: 72). This is how Martin avoids the screening off objection.

Negative disjunctivism is also endorsed by Brewer (2008: 173) and Fish (2008). Fish does say a little more on the question of what it is that makes hallucinations indiscriminable from veridical perceptions, however. According to Fish, for a hallucination to be indiscriminable from a veridical perception of a certain kind is for it to generate the same kinds of introspective beliefs that a veridical perception of that kind would have generated. Consider again James’s veridical experience of a spider. Normally, this would lead James to believe that he sees a spider. A hallucination qualifies as indiscriminable from such a veridical perception if it also yields such beliefs. It is the presence of these beliefs that then explains why hallucinating subjects behave as they do: as a hallucination of a spider leads James to believe that he sees a spider (by definition), so James will therefore react in the way he would if he really did see a spider.

c. Negative Disjunctivism and Indiscriminability: Objections

Given the negative disjunctivist’s characterization of the hallucinatory state as a state that is indiscriminable from a veridical perception of a certain kind, a lot hangs on the way in which the key notion of indiscriminability is understood. In discussing these issues, Martin suggests that a hallucination of an F “is such that it is not possible to know through reflection that it is not one of the veridical perceptions [of an F]” (2006: 364). We can therefore define indiscriminability as follows: x is indiscriminable from a veridical perception of an F if and only if x is such that it is not possible to know through reflection that it is not a veridical perception of an F. There are two key features of this definition that have been the source of objections. First, the restriction to the relevant knowledge being acquired ‘through reflection’; second, the question of how to interpret the modality present in ‘not possible to know’.

One way of coming to know that your experience is not a veridical perception of an F is by testimony. However, Martin suggests that, even if you know that your experience is not veridical in this way, it might still qualify as indistinguishable from a veridical perception. He therefore introduces the ‘through reflection’ clause in order to rule out knowledge from testimony as a defeater for indistinguishability (2006: 364-5). Sturgeon, however, argues that it is far from straightforward to spell out just what information should be disqualified by not being available ‘through reflection’(2006: 208-10). On the one hand, he suggests that the ‘through reflection’ restriction must be strong enough to rule out any of the routes by which a hallucinating subject might ‘figure out’ that they are hallucinating and hence must be taken to stipulate that the “information involved in background beliefs cannot be generally available to reflection …. Otherwise the possibility of everyday knowledge of [hallucination] will slip through the net [and] count as knowledge obtainable by reflection” (2006: 209).

On the other hand, he points out that when one hallucinates an F, one is thereby in a position to know a vast array of things. As a hallucination of an F is discriminable from veridical experiences of Gs, Hs, and Js, Martin’s definition of indiscriminability will require that, for each case, a subject hallucinating an F can know, by reflection alone, that his experience is not one of these veridical experiences. But Sturgeon suggests that this “is a huge amount of knowledge to be got solely by reflection … and not by reflection on the visual character of [the hallucination], recall. … The only way that could be true, I submit, is if background beliefs were generally available to reflection on context” (2006: 210). With these two results, Sturgeon presents Martin with a dilemma. On the one hand, to rule out the possibility we might simply use our background beliefs to figure out that we are hallucinating, the ‘through reflection’ clause must restrain us from making use of background beliefs. Yet on the other, to make sense of all the reflective knowledge Martin’s theory allows that we are in a position to acquire when we hallucinate, the ‘through reflection’ clause must allow us to make use of background beliefs. But this, suggests Sturgeon, is just to say that Martin cannot give an adequate account of the ‘through reflection’ restriction.

Another source of objections has stemmed from Martin’s interpretation of the ‘not possibly knowable’ condition. The concern is that we want to allow that creatures that lack the sophistication to know things might nonetheless have hallucinations. But given the centrality of the notion of knowledge in Martin’s definition of indistinguishability, if a creature cannot know things at all, then for any hallucination it might have, the creature cannot know that it is not veridically perceiving an F, or a G, or an H, and so on. So all hallucinations will be such that, for the creature, they will qualify as indiscriminable from each and every kind of creature perception.

In discussing this concern, Martin insists that whilst a creature “might fail to discriminate one experience from another, making no judgment about them as identical or distinct at all, that is not to say that we cannot judge, in ascribing to them such experience, that there is an event which would or would not be judgeably different from another experience” (2004: 54). In other words, Martin suggests that “not possibly known” should not be interpreted personally, such that a specific creature’s capacities are relevant to the question of what qualifies as being possible to know, but rather in an impersonal way. So in saying that a hallucination is not possibly known to be distinct from a veridical perception of a certain kind, Martin does not mean not possibly known by the subject but rather, not possibly known in some impersonal sense.

Siegel argues that this claim faces the crucial problem of explaining how we can pick out the hallucinatory ‘experience’ – the state or event that is reflected upon – in an appropriate yet non question-begging manner (2008: 212). Given Martin’s view, the state or event cannot be picked out in virtue of its having any robust features as this would conflict with the claim that nothing more can be said of the hallucination than that it is indiscriminable from the veridical perception. Yet we cannot pick out the relevant state in virtue of its indiscriminability property either. As we are trying to explain what it is for a state of the creature’s to have the indiscriminability property in the first place, we cannot get a fix on which state we are talking about by appeal to its being the one that has that property.

Fish’s view diverges from Martin’s on both of these questions. Where Martin endorses an impersonal sense of indiscriminability, Fish endorses a personal sense; where Martin rules out testimony, Fish rules it in. This does mean, of course, that Fish foregoes Martin’s explanations of the indiscriminability of both animal hallucinations and hallucinations in which the subject is aware that they are hallucinating. In the case of animal hallucinations, Fish responds by extending the claim that indiscriminability requires sameness of introspective beliefs to the claim that indiscriminability requires sameness of cognitive effects, where both behaviour and (in conceptually sophisticated creatures) introspective beliefs qualify as a species of cognitive effect. Then, where animals are concerned, a hallucination can qualify as indiscriminable from a veridical perception of a certain kind so long as it yields the kinds of behaviour that a veridical perception of that kind would have yielded.

When it comes to known hallucinations, Fish contends that we do not have to rule out testimony so long as we relativize the relevant effects to the overall cognitive context the subject is in. Consider a situation in which a subject is hallucinating but comes to believe, through testimony, that their experience is hallucinatory and therefore does not form the belief that they see something. Fish asks us to consider what would be the effects of a veridical perception of the relevant kind in a parallel situation in which a subject believes, through testimony, that they are hallucinating. He suggests that, in such a case, a veridical perception would likewise fail to yield the relevant kinds of belief. On these grounds, he therefore contends that the hallucination would still have the same cognitive effects as a veridical perception would have had, and thereby qualifies as indiscriminable from that perception.

Siegel also objects to Fish’s version of negative disjunctivism by pointing out that relativizing cognitive effects to particular contexts has an unappealing consequence: that there will be contexts in which even a veridical perception would not lead a subject to believe that they saw something. But in such cases, she contends, a hallucination that had the same effects as this veridical perception would have had will lack the resources to explain how this hallucination has a felt reality (2008: 217). Likewise, she contends that an animal that was lethargic or sick might have a hallucination and fail to engage in any kind of behaviour at all. Once again, Fish’s view doesn’t appear to have the resources to accommodate this.

7. Theories of Illusion

So given the different approaches to the bad case of hallucination, what can the disjunctivist say about the bad case of illusion? The two obvious possibilities are to place illusion into one of the two disjuncts that we already have: to treat illusions as either like hallucinations or like veridical perceptions.

a. Illusion as Hallucination

McDowell seems to endorse the former approach. Recall his claim that “an appearance that such-and-such is the case can be either a mere appearance or the fact that such-and-such is the case making itself perceptually manifest to someone” (1982/1998: 386-7). As the veridical disjunct contains cases in which a “fact” is made manifest then, given that there is no such thing as a non-obtaining fact, any scenario in which it appears to the subject that such-and-such is the case when it is not could not be a case of a fact being made manifest. So illusions looks to fall into the category of cases in which it merely appears as though a fact is made manifest along with hallucinations.

However, there are concerns with an attempt to treat illusions as hallucinations. Robinson protests that, “if all non-veridical perceptions were treated in the same way as hallucinations, then every case of something not looking exactly as it is would be a case in which one was aware of some kind of subjective content. Only perfectly veridical perceptions would be free of such subjective contents” (1994: 159). This leads A.D. Smith to ridicule the view: the “picture of our daily commerce with the world through perception that therefore emerges is one of a usually indirect awareness of physical objects occasionally interrupted by direct visions of them glimpsed in favoured positions” (2002: 28).

b. Illusion as Veridical Perception

So perhaps we would do better to bring illusion under the perceptual, rather than the hallucinatory, disjunct. The key disjunctions offered by both Snowdon and Child suggest they would prefer this approach. As illusions involve situations in which something does look to be F to a subject, but where that thing – the thing that looks to be F – is not really F, the fact that both Snowdon and Child characterize the perceptual disjunct as containing cases in which something looks to S to be F suggests that they view this disjunct as containing illusions as well as veridical perceptions.

Now of course, if illusion is treated as a special case of veridical perception, then the specific way in which illusion is treated will be dictated by the theory of the good cases. Yet as we are treating disjunctivism as not being committed to any particular theory of the good cases, this doesn’t yet tell us much about illusion. However, it is worth noting that, as one of the most significant motivations for disjunctivism is to make room for a naïve realist account of the good cases, as illusions are cases in which objects look to be a way that they are not, on the face of it, this approach to illusion would not obviously be available to a disjunctivist who also wanted to be a naïve realist about the good cases.

Having said this, in a recent paper, Brewer develops an account of illusion that treats it as a special case of veridical perception, understood in broadly naïve realist terms. Brewer’s view of good case experience is that “the core subjective character of perceptual experience is given simply by citing the physical object which is its mind-independent direct object.” (2008: 171). But how, we might think, could we give an analogous account of the core subjective character of illusion? Well, suggests Brewer, when seen from different points of view and/or in different circumstances, a certain kind of external object/property may have “visually relevant similarities” with paradigms of other kinds of object/property. These visually relevant similarities may lead us to take the kind of object/property we see to be an instance of the kind for which those visual features are paradigm – a kind that the object/property is not, in fact, a member of.

To grasp the notion of a kind for which certain visual features are paradigm, consider the process of learning concepts. Our parents or teachers guide our acquisition of kind concepts by making paradigm instances of those kinds salient. To teach a child the meaning of the term, “red,” for example, we do not show the child a red object in darkness, or make the child wear unusually colored spectacles; we show the child the red object in conditions in which it will be seen as paradigmatically red. This is because, in these conditions, the object has visual features that are paradigm for the kind: red.

Brewer then shows how this can accommodate various kinds of illusion – in this case, an illusion of color:

a white piece of chalk illuminated with red light looks red. The … proposal is that the core of the subjective character of such illusory experience is constituted by that very piece of chalk itself: a particular … mind-independent physical object. From the viewpoint in question, and given the relevant perceptual circumstances – especially, of course, the abnormally red illumination – it looks red. This consists in the fact that it has visually relevant similarities with paradigm red objects: the light reflected from it is like that reflected from such paradigms in normal viewing conditions (2008: 173).

On Brewer’s view, then, illusions are not really “illusory” at all. In the case just described, we are seeing the chalk as it is in those circumstances. So the illusion is really a special case of veridical perception. However, we would also say that the white chalk looks red. This, Brewer suggests, is to say no more than that, in the circumstances in which the white object is veridically seen, it has visually relevant similarities with paradigmatically red objects. That is all that we mean when we say that this is a case of illusion. Whether this kind of approach can be extended to accommodate all illusions remains to be seen.

8. Conclusion

As a theory of visual experiences, disjunctivism is very much in its infancy, and much interesting research remains to be done.

9. References and Further Reading

References marked (*) can be found in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) (2008) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press).

References marked (+) are reprinted in Byrne, A. and Logue, H. (eds.) (2009) Disjunctivism: Contemporary Readings (Cambridge MA: The MIT Press).

Introduction

  • (+) Hinton, J. M. (1967) “Visual Experiences” Mind 76, 217-27.
  • Hinton, J. M. (1973) Experiences: An Inquiry into Some Ambiguities (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • (*) Snowdon, P. (2008) “Hinton and the Origins of Disjunctivism” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 35-56.

Disjunctivism and Naïve Realism

  • (+) Martin, M. G. F. (1997) “The Reality of Appearances” in M. Sainsbury (ed.) Thought and Ontology (Milan: FrancoAngeli), 81-106.
  • Snowdon, P. (2005) “The Formulation of Disjunctivism: A Response to Fish” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 105, 129-41.

Types of Disjunctivism

  • (*) Byrne, A. and H. Logue (2008) “Either / Or” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 57-94.
  • Snowdon, P. (2005) “The Formulation of Disjunctivism: A Response to Fish” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 105, 129-41.
  • (+) Martin, M.G.F. (2004) “The Limits of Self-Awareness” Philosophical Studies 120, 37-89.
  • Martin, M.G.F. (2006) “On Being Alienated” in T.S. Gendler and J. Hawthorne (eds.) Perceptual Experience (Oxford: Clarendon Press), 354-410.

Arguments for Disjunctivism

  • (+) McDowell, J. (1982) “Criteria Defeasibility and Knowledge” Proceedings of the British Academy, 455-79.
  • (+) Snowdon, P. (1981) “Perception, Vision and Causation” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 81, 175-92.
  • (+) Snowdon, P. (1990) “The Objects of Perceptual Experience” Proceedings of the. Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volume 64, 121–50.

Epistemological Motivations

  • (+) Johnston, M. (2004) “The Obscure Object of Hallucination” Philosophical Studies 120, 113-83.
  • McDowell, J. (1986/1998) “Singular Thought and the Extent of Inner Space” in his Meaning, Knowledge and Reality (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press), 228-59.
  • (*) McDowell, J. (2008) “The Disjunctive Conception of Experience as Material for a Transcendental Argument” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 376-89.
  • (*) Pritchard, D. (2008) “McDowellian Neo-Mooreanism” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 283-310.
  • Wright, C. (2002) “(Anti-)Skeptics Simple and Subtle: G.E. Moore and John McDowell”, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 65, 330-48.
  • (*) Wright, C. (2008) “Comments on John McDowell’s ‘The Disjunctive Conception of Experience as Material for a Transcendental Argument’” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.)
  • Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 390-404.

Modesty

  • (+) Martin, M.G.F. (2004) “The Limits of Self-Awareness” Philosophical Studies 120, 37-89.
  • Hawthorne, J. and K. Kovakovich (2006) “Disjunctivism” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volume 80, 145-83.

Naïve Realism: Phenomenology

  • Hawthorne, J. and K. Kovakovich (2006) “Disjunctivism” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volume 80, 145-83.
  • Hellie, B. (2007) “Factive Phenomenal Characters” Philosophical Perspectives 21, 259-306.
  • Martin, M.G.F. (2002) “The Transparency of Experience” Mind and Language 17, 376-425.
  • Noordhof, P. (2002) “Imagining Objects and Imagining Experiences” Mind and Language 17, 426-455.

Naïve Realism: Demonstrative Reference

  • Campbell, J. (2002) Reference and Consciousness (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
  • Snowdon, P. (1992) “How to interpret ‘direct perception’” in T. Crane (ed.) The Contents of Experience: Essays on Perception (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 49-78.

The Causal Argument

  • Robinson, H. (1994) Perception (London: Routledge).
  • Smith, A. D. (2002) The Problem of Perception (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press).
  • (*) Smith, A. D. (2008) “Disjunctivism and Discriminability” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press),181-204.

The “Screening Off” Objection

  • (+) Martin, M.G.F. (2004) “The Limits of Self-Awareness” Philosophical Studies 120, 37-89.
  • Martin, M.G.F. (2006) “On Being Alienated” in T.S. Gendler and J. Hawthorne (eds.) Perceptual Experience (Oxford: Clarendon Press), 354-410.

Matching Hallucinations to Perceptions

  • Farkas, K. (2006) “Indiscriminability and the Sameness of Appearance” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 106, 205-25.
  • Hawthorne, J. and K. Kovakovich (2006) “Disjunctivism” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volume 80, 145-83.

Positive Disjunctivism

  • (+) McDowell, J. (1982) “Criteria Defeasibility and Knowledge” Proceedings of the British Academy, 455-79.
  • (+) Johnston, M. (2004) “The Obscure Object of Hallucination” Philosophical Studies 120, 113-83.

Negative Disjunctivism

  • (+) Martin, M.G.F. (2004) “The Limits of Self-Awareness” Philosophical Studies 120, 37-89.
  • Martin, M.G.F. (2006) “On Being Alienated” in T.S. Gendler and J. Hawthorne (eds.) Perceptual Experience (Oxford: Clarendon Press), 354-410.
  • (*) Fish, W.J. (2008) “Disjunctivism, Indistinguishability and the Nature of Hallucination” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 144-167.

Negative Disjunctivism and Indiscriminability: Objections

  • Siegel, S. (2004) “Indiscriminability and the Phenomenal” Philosophical Studies 120, 90-112.
  • (*) Siegel, S. (2008) “The Epistemic Conception of Hallucination” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 205-24.
  • Sturgeon, S. (2006) “Reflective Disjunctivism” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Volume 80, 185-216.
  • (*) Sturgeon, S. (2008) “Disjunctivism About Visual Experience” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 112-43.

Illusion as Hallucination

  • Robinson, H. (1994) Perception (London: Routledge).

Illusion as Veridical Perception

  • (*) Brewer, B. (2008) “How to Account for Illusion” in A. Haddock and F. Macpherson (eds.) Disjunctivism: Perception, Action, and Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press),168-180.
  • Fish, W.J. (forthcoming) Perception, Hallucination, and Illusion (New York: Oxford University Press).

Other References

  • Chalmers, D.J. (2006) “Perception and the Fall from Eden” in T.S Gendler and J. Hawthorne (eds.) Perceptual Experience (Oxford: Clarendon Press), 49-125.
  • Dretske, F. (1969) Seeing and Knowing (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul).
  • Locke, D. (1975) “Review of Hinton’s ExperiencesMind 84, 335, 466-468.
  • Horgan, T. and J.L. Tienson (2002) “The Intentionality of Phenomenology and the Phenomenology of Intentionality” in D. J. Chalmers (ed.) Philosophy of Mind: Classical and Contemporary Readings (New York: Oxford University Press).
  • Putnam, H. (1975) “The Meaning of “Meaning”” Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science 7:131-193.
  • Thau, M. (2004) “What is Disjunctivism?” Philosophical Studies 120, 193-253.

Author Information

William Fish
Email: W.J.Fish ‘at’ massey.ac.nz
Massey University
New Zealand

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
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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.
  • Neurath, Otto. 1931/2/1959. “Sociology and Physicalism.” Logical Positivism, A.J. Ayer, ed. New York: The Free Press. Originally published in Erkenntnis, 2.
  • Neurath, Otto. 1983. Philosophical Papers, 1913-1946. Dordrecht: Reidel.
  • Oppenheim, Paul and Hilary Putnam. 1958. “Unity of Science as a Working Hypothesis.” Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, 2, 3-36.
  • Place, U.T. 1956. “Is Consciousness a Brain Process?” British Journal of Psychology, 47, 44-50.
  • Putnam, Hilary. 1975. “The Nature of Mental States.” Mind Language and Reality: Philosophical Papers, Vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Originally published as: “Psychological Predicates.” Art, Mind, and Religion, W. Capitan and D. Merrill, eds. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1967.
  • Schaffner, Kenneth. 1967. “Approaches to Reduction.” Philosophy of Science, 34, 137-147.
  • Sklar, Lawrence. 1967. “Types of Inter-theoretic Reduction.” The British Journal for the Philosophy of Science, 18, 109-124.
  • Smart, J.J.C. 1959. “Sensations and Brain Processes.” The Journal of Philosophy, 68, 141-156.

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.

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