Ethics, Hermeneutics, Historiography
Our ethical development, or what Aristotle would call our ethos — our piece of Hegelian Spirit, as it were — builds on our emotional development. A relatively harmonious emotional constitution will be naturally open to the influence of ethical development grounded in mutual recognition.
It seems to me that this is already enough for a fully rich account of a human being. If we have ethos, then things like will, ego, intellectual soul, and mind-as-container seem superfluous.
In the development being pursued here, reason, self-consciousness, agency, and responsibility all end up being trans-individual and social things. My emotions are basically mine, but my thoughts, commitments, and actions and their consequences involve more than just me. At the same time, though, as I put it once before, these things that involve more than just me actually say more about who “I” am than my inner state says about “me”. Who we are as ethical beings involves much more than personal identity and what is strictly ours. (See also Ethos, Hexis; Apperception, Identity; Expansive Agency; The Ambiguity of “Self”; Essentially Self-Conscious?; Ego.)
If personal identity is mainly emotional, while reason is at root trans-individual, it should make perfect sense that a Kantian unity of apperception or rational “I” would be quite different from a personal identity. In my view, there is no such thing as rational personal identity. There is emotional personal identity, there is rational coherence of thoughts, and there are various ways in which these may be interwoven. (See also Ethos, Hexis; Soul, Self; Empirical-Transcendental Doublet; Ego; What Is “I”; Psyche, Subjectivity; Individuation; Mind Without Mentalism; Subject.)
At the risk of some repetition, and putting it very simply this time, my own view is that common-sense personal identity is centered in the emotions, and in what Brandom would call our sentience, and Aristotle and Averroes would have called our soul. Reason, on the other hand, while it does in one aspect get secondarily folded back into the individuality of our Aristotelian soul, is at root trans-individual and social. (See also Ethos, Hexis; Parts of the Soul; What Is “I”; Psyche, Subjectivity; Individuation; Subject; Mind Without Mentalism; Ego.)
In the 13th century, Christian theologians worried in varying degrees about the way “the” Commentator, Averroes, tended to separate intellect from the individual human soul (see digression on this aspect of Averroes in What Is “I”?) — enough so that the reception of Aristotle into the Latin world was for a time threatened. Aquinas wrote a famous little treatise in 1270 On the Unity of the Intellect, mustering as many arguments as possible for a reading of Aristotle that avoided this separation, and gave each soul its own individual intellect. Due to the minimalist nature of Aristotle’s own account, the argument has continued to the present day. Both sides of the dispute have some textual basis on their side. Supported by Augustinian orthodoxy and the writings of Avicenna, the theologians generally argued for a strongly unified intellectual soul. Part of their concern seems to have been a clearly nonphilosophical one, having to do with moral justification of the possible eternal damnation of a human. More purely philosophical readers of Aristotle tended to be less worried about these matters.
The French Thomist scholar E. H. Wéber wrote a couple of fascinating books, L’Homme en Discussion a l’Université de Paris en 1270 (1970) and La Personne Humaine au XIIIe Siècle (1991), about the way Aquinas in this context also, rather unexpectedly, drew on the early Christian neoplatonic writings attributed to a fictitious Greek disciple of the apostle Paul called Dionysius the Areopagite.
Both Albert the Great and Aquinas made considerable use of pseudo-Dionysius in their theology. A bit like Augustine in this regard, pseudo-Dionysius had a strong neoplatonic notion of divine illumination in the soul. As with intellect in Averroes, this also comes from outside, but unlike anything in Averroes, it involves a direct relation between God and the soul. Wéber argued that this played a larger role in the thought of Aquinas than has been generally recognized, and it does seem to me that when Aquinas talks about the natural light of reason, it has something of the character of a divine illumination, quite different from the mainly linguistic, social, and ethical view of reason I find in Aristotle. This view of reason as divine illumination in the soul did not require any “separate” intellect, leaving Aquinas free to argue that both the active and the potential intellect were strictly parts of the individual soul.
Wéber recounts that Aquinas (like Albert) was initially only moderately concerned about the views of Averroes on the soul, but later took a stronger position, harshly condemning this aspect of Averroes’ thought. Politically speaking, it seems that Aristotle had to be separated from Averroes on this matter, in order to make Aristotle safe for Christianity at the time. Matters of theological diplomacy were an important practical part of the unity of truth in Aquinas. Whatever we think of this particular development, we should be grateful to Aquinas for his role in historically securing Latin acceptance of Aristotle. (See also Archaeology of the Subject; Intelligence from Outside; Parts of the Soul; God and the Soul; Fortunes of Aristotle; Errors of the Philosophers; Subject; Mind Without Mentalism. )
I have previously argued that Aristotle’s relative lack of engagement with mathematics was based not on any deep-seated antipathy, but rather on an accurate practical assessment of how little the mathematics available in his lifetime had to offer for explaining why things happen as they do in the world of becoming. In the middle ages, some scholastics began to develop aspects of a mathematical physics.
At Merton College, Oxford, in the 14th century there was a group of scholars who came to be known as the “Calculators”, including Thomas Bradwardine 1300 – 1349), William Heytesbury (1313 – 1373), Richard Swineshead (mid-14th century) and John Dumbleton (1310 – 1349). Building in part on the earlier work of Walter Burley, they discussed applications of mathematics to various physical problems. Bradwardine’s mathematical work was also taken up by John Buridan’s student Nicolas of Oresme (1320 – 1382), and by the unorthodox Italian scholastic Biagio da Parma.
The major work in optics by the Iraqi Ibn al-Haytham or Alhazen (965 – 1040) was also taken up by several Europeans, including Roger Bacon and Biagio da Parma. This laid the ground for the theory of perspective used in Renaissance painting.
From the middle ages through the Renaissance, Italy was host to a flourishing development of relatively naturalistic Aristotelianism. Especially in northern Italy and unlike most of the rest of Europe, universities there tended to be dominated by medical rather than theological faculties. Albert the Great and Averroes were among the strongest influences on this tradition, and many of the Italians did not shy away from the controversial aspects of Averroes. Contemporary scholars debate how “Averroist” particular figures were, but it is no accident that the first printed editions of the collected works of Aristotle (16th century) included the commentaries of Averroes, and were published in northern Italy.
The long list of people who taught in Italy and have been described by scholars as broadly Averroist (with different caveats for each) includes John of Jandun (1285 – 1328), Marsilius of Padua (1275 – 1342), Taddeo da Parma (early 14th century), Gaetano da Thiene (1387 – 1465), Nicoletto Vernia (1442 – 1499), Agostino Nifo (1473 – 1545), and Marcantonio Zimara (1460 – 1532).
An important freethinking non-Averroist Aristotelian in the Renaissance was Pietro Pomponazzi (1462 – 1525). Other Italian scholastics who were largely naturalistic in their approach included Pietro D’Abano (1257 – 1313) and Biagio da Parma (1350 – 1416).
Leading Italian Aristotelian logicians included Paul of Venice (1369 – 1429), who wrote a giant summa of logic. Giacomo Zabarella (1533 – 1589) wrote extensively on logical methodology and natural philosophy, and also influenced German Protestant scholars..
Aquinas was Italian, and Italy was also home to the important Thomist, Thomas Cajetan (1469 – 1534).
In the 15th century, older Greek commentaries on Aristotle were rediscovered by Italian scholars. Some were misled into thinking that the heavily neoplatonizing readings of a commentator like Simplicius (490 – 560) must be closer to the original Aristotle than those of the much later Arab, Averroes.
Along with the more Augustinian Roger Bacon, in the mid-13th century Albert the Great was among the first of the Latins to lecture on works of Aristotle newly translated from the Arabic. Reportedly, he dressed as an Arab while doing so. In the late 20th century, Pope John Paul II singled out Albert as a patron of the reconciliation of science and religion.
Albert was also the teacher and mentor of Thomas Aquinas. Commentaries on Aristotle by the young Aquinas include lengthy sections largely borrowed from the commentaries of Albert. After Aquinas had died at a relatively young age, some of his teachings were included by the bishop of Paris in the sweeping condemnation of 1277 (see Errors of the Philosophers), and the elderly Albert traveled from Germany back to Paris to defend his student.
Unlike Aquinas, Albert developed a pattern of distinguishing between purely philosophical and theological discourses. He would say, “now I speak as a philosopher”, and then “now I speak as a theologian”. There was still significant overlap between the two, but this lent authority to the idea of allowing space for purely philosophical discourse. Some later scholastics preferred Albert to Aquinas for this reason.
Among the German Dominicans, there was a significant “Albertist” school. The independent-minded Albertist Dietrich of Freiberg (1250 – 1310), who also made scientific contributions, criticized Aquinas for misusing Aristotelian concepts in his theological account of the Eucharist. Contemporary scholars like Alain de Libera and Kurt Flasch have also brought to light broadly Albertist roots of the profound Christian neoplatonic spirituality of figures like the great Meister Eckhart (1260 – 1328). (See also Fortunes of Aristotle.)
Latin scholasticism actually evinced more concern with fine points of philosophical argument than any broad philosophical tendency prior to modern analytic philosophy. Many authors followed a pattern in which some assertion would be introduced, followed by arguments for and against the assertion, followed by replies of each side to the arguments of the other, thus simulating a formal debate. Only then would the author conclude with “I say…” and give his own reasons. This resembles what happens when people play chess against themselves, still trying to win every time they turn the board around. It promotes a kind of intellectual honesty and thoroughness.
In the 2nd century BCE, the skeptical Platonist Carneades had bewildered the Romans by arguing both sides of a question with equal vigor. Latin scholastics did take a position by the end of their discourses, but scholars have sometimes wondered if all of these conclusions should be taken at face value, because sometimes earlier arguments for an opposed point of view seem stronger. For some authors, making a strong case for an argument and then appearing to reject it may have been a way to preserve controversial arguments for posterity.
This was a particular historical form, broadly influenced by both Platonic and Aristotelian dialectic. Various conventions in the use of natural language were developed to promote unambiguous interpretations of logical meaning. The style in which arguments were presented can sometimes seem imposing due to its complex semi-formal character, particularly in authors like Aquinas, but the spirit of debate was quite lively.
I have noted that the Arabic tradition had tended to downplay the role of dialectic and practical judgment in Aristotle, in favor of stricter deductive “science”. The Latin tradition absorbed this reverence for deductive science, while re-establishing a strong role for a kind of dialectic.
Having laid out some preliminaries, I’ve begun to circle back to more questions of historical detail related to the development here, and it seems fitting to summarize the motivations driving these more historical notes. History is all about the details, but in any inquiry, what are actually higher-order questions about methodology ought to inform primary investigations. We never just have data; it always has to be interpreted, and this involves questions about methodology. With history, this often involves critical examination of the applicability of categories that may tend to be taken for granted. Thus, I am adding notes about the application of various categories or concepts in particular historical settings, and about historical details that seem to have larger methodological significance.
I’m looking back at the history of philosophy (and, to some extent, broader cultural developments) from a point of view inspired by the “inferentialism” of Brandom (taking this as a general name for his point of view), as well as by my own ideas for a revitalized Aristotelianism. In Tales of the Mighty Dead and elsewhere, Brandom himself has effectively placed the historical roots of his development in the broad tradition of early modern philosophical rationalism, including the work of Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz. I find standard connotations of the term “rationalism” rather problematic, and want to separate Descartes — of whom I am much more sharply critical than Brandom seems to be — from Spinoza and Leibniz, for whom I find additional reasons to be sympathetic. Brandom has contributed to a new understanding of Kant, and has developed a landmark reading of Hegel. I want to help support the broad thrust of these with historical considerations, while reconnecting them with fresh readings of Aristotle, Plato, and other historical philosophers. With some caveats and in spite of Brandom’s own brief comments, I also want to suggest a possible rapprochement with key insights of 20th century French “structuralism”.
A key point common to most of the tendencies mentioned above is an emphasis on the role of difference in making things intelligible. In the context of philosophical arguments, this means that critical distinctions are as important as positive assertions. Contrasts not only greatly facilitate but largely shape understanding. Brandom himself has developed the contrast between inferentialism and the representationalism of Descartes and Locke. He has made large use of Wilfrid Sellars’ critique of a “Myth of the Given” associated with most varieties of empiricism, and has also referenced the critique of psychologism developed by Frege and others in a logical context.
I have been using the term “mentalism” for a privileging of contents that are supposed to be immediately present to a personal “mind” that is itself conceived mainly in terms of immediate awareness. It seems to me that Descartes and Locke’s version of this was a historically specific combination of all the above notions from which an inferentialism would seek to distinguish itself — representationalism, the Myth of the Given, and psychologism. I have been concerned to point out not only that Cartesian-Lockean mentalism has historically specific antecedents that long predate modernity (going back to Augustine, with some foreshadowing in Plotinus), but also that a proto-inferentialist countertrend is actually even older, going back to Plato and Aristotle’s emphasis on the primacy of reason and reasoned development.
In A Spirit of Trust, Brandom has among many other things expanded on Hegel’s critique of Mastery. I find this to be of tremendous importance for ethics, and consonant with my structuralist sympathies. I have been concerned to point out how extreme claims of mastery are implicit in the various historical kinds of voluntarism, which all want to put some notion of arbitrary will — or authority attributed one-sidedly to such a will — ahead of consideration of what is reasonable and good.
Usual generalization caveats apply to statements about “isms”. In any particular case where the terms seem to apply, we need to look at relevant details, and be alert to the possibility that all aspects of a generalized argument may not apply straightforwardly. (See also Historiography; History of Philosophy.)
The Postmodern Peripatetic 