Al-Rāzī (Great Medieval Thinkers) 9780197555033, 9780197555040, 9780197555064, 0197555039

Table of contents :
Cover
Series
Al-Rāzī
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Series Foreword
Acknowledgments
1. Doubts about Razi
2. God
3. Soul
4. Matter
5. Time and Place
6. Prophecy
7. Medicine
8. Ethics
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Al-​Rāzī

GREAT MEDIEVAL THINKERS Series Editor Brian Davies Fordham University

DUNS SCOTUS Richard Cross

BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX Gillian R. Evans JOHN SCOTTUS ERIUGENA Deirdre Carabine ROBERT GROSSETESTE James McEvoy BOETHIUS John Marenbon PETER LOMBARD Philipp W. Rosemann ABELARD AND HELOISE Constant J. Mews BONAVENTURE Christopher M. Cullen AL-​KINDĪ Peter Adamson ANSELM Sandra Visser and Thomas Williams HUGH OF SAINT VICTOR Paul Rorem JOHN WYCLIF Stephen E. Lahey JOHN BURIDAN Gyula Klima AVICENNA Jon McGinnis ROBERT HOLCOT John T. Slotemaker and Jeffrey C. Witt ROBERT KILWARDBY José Filipe Silva PETER ADAMSON Al-​Rāzī

Al-​Rāzī

•

Peter Adamson

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Adamson, Peter, 1972– author. Title: Al-Rāzī / Peter Adamson. Description: New York : Oxford University Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020040669 (print) | LCCN 2020040670 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197555033 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197555040 (paperback) | ISBN 9780197555064 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Rāzī, Abū Bakr Muḥammad ibn Zakarīyā, 865–925 Classification: LCC B753.R384 A635 2021 (print) | LCC B753.R384 (ebook) | DDC 181/.07—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040669 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/202004067 DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.001.0001 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Paperback printed by Marquis, Canada Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America

To my mother, Joyce Adamson

Contents

Series Foreword by Brian Davies  ix Acknowledgments  xiii

1. Doubts about Razi  1 2. God  24 3. Soul  48 4. Matter  71 5. Time and Place  99 6. Prophecy  121 7. Medicine  152 8. Ethics  173 Notes  197 Bibliography  223 Index  237

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Series Foreword

Many people would be surprised to be told that there were any great medieval thinkers. If a great thinker is one from whom we can learn today, and if “medieval” serves as an adjective for describing anything which existed from (roughly) the years 600 to 1500 ad, then, so it is often supposed, medieval thinkers cannot be called “great.” Why not? One answer often given appeals to ways in which medieval authors with a taste for argument and speculation tend to invoke “authorities,” especially religious ones. Such subservience to authority is not the stuff of which great thought is made—​so it is often said. It is also frequently said that greatness is not to be found in the thinking of those who lived before the rise of modern science, not to mention that of modern philosophy and theology. Students of science are nowadays hardly ever referred to literature earlier than the seventeenth century. Students of philosophy are often taught nothing about the history of ideas between Aristotle (384–​322 bc) and Descartes (1596–​1650). Contemporary students of theology are often encouraged to believe that significant theological thinking is largely a product of the nineteenth century. Yet the origins of modern science lie in the conviction that the world is open to rational investigation and is orderly rather than chaotic—​a conviction which came fully to birth, and was systematically explored and developed, during the Middle Ages. And it is in medieval authors that we ix

x  Series Foreword find some of the most sophisticated and rigorous discussions ever offered in the areas of philosophy and theology—​not surprisingly, perhaps, if we note that medieval philosophers and theologians, like their contemporary counterparts, were often university teachers (or something like that) who participated in an ongoing worldwide debate and were not (like many seventeenth-​, eighteenth-​, and even nineteenth-​century philosophers and theologians) working in relative isolation from a large community of teachers and students with whom they were regularly involved. As for the question of appeal to authority:  it is certainly true that many medieval thinkers believed in authority (especially religious authority) as a serious court of appeal. But as contemporary philosophers are increasingly reminding us, authority is as much an ingredient in our thinking as it was for medieval authors. For most of what we take ourselves to know derives from the trust we have reposed in our various teachers, colleagues, friends, and acquaintances. When it comes to reliance on authority, the main difference between us and medieval thinkers lies in the fact that their reliance on authority (insofar as they display it) was often more focused and explicitly acknowledged than it is by us. It does not lie in the fact that it was uncritical and naive in a way that our reliance on authority is not. In recent years, such truths have come to be recognized at what we might call the “academic” level. No longer disposed to think of the Middle Ages as “dark” (meaning “lacking in intellectual richness”), many university departments (and many publishers of books and journals) now devote a lot of their energy to the study of medieval authors. And they do so not simply on the assumption that medieval writers are historically significant, but also in the light of the increasingly developing insight that they have things to say from which we might learn. Following a long period in which medieval thinking was thought to be of only antiquarian interest, we are now witnessing its revival as a contemporary voice—​one with which to converse. The Great Medieval Thinkers series reflects and is part of this exciting revival. Written by a distinguished team of experts, it aims to provide substantial introductions to a range of medieval authors. And it does so on the assumption that they are as worth reading today as they were at the time when they wrote. Students of medieval “literature” (e.g., the writings of Chaucer) are currently well supplied (if not over-​supplied) with secondary works to aid them when reading the objects of their concern. But those with an interest in medieval philosophy and theology are by no means so fortunate when it

Series Foreword  xi comes to reliable and accessible volumes. The Great Medieval Thinkers series aspires to remedy that deficiency by concentrating on medieval philosophers and theologians, and by offering solid overviews of their lives and thought, coupled with contemporary reflection on what they had to say. Taken individually, volumes in the series provide valuable treatments of single thinkers, many of whom are not currently covered by any comparable volumes. Taken together, they will constitute a rich and distinguished history and discussion of medieval philosophy and theology considered as a whole. With an eye on college and university students, and with an eye on the general reader, authors of volumes in the series strive to write in a clear and accessible manner so that each of the thinkers they write on can be learned about by those who have no previous knowledge of them. But each contributor to the series also intends to inform, engage, and generally entertain even those with specialist knowledge in the area of medieval thinking. So, as well as surveying and introducing, volumes in the series seek to advance the state of medieval studies both at the historical and the speculative level. The subject of the present one is an important figure in the history of science and philosophy in the Islamic world. Abū Bakr Muḥammad ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī (c. 865–​925) was a professional medical doctor with lots of “hands-​on” experience with patients. Honored as “the Galen of the Arabs,” he was highly respected by medieval physicians writing in both Latin and Arabic. But, as Peter Adamson explains, he also reflected extensively on philosophical and theological questions. Al-​Rāzī’s philosophical writings (as opposed to his medical ones) are now largely lost. We have to reconstruct his philosophy and theology from discussions of it coming from those who disagreed with him in his own day and after his death. Adamson attempts such a reconstruction. He also aims to identify sources on which al-​Rāzī drew when it comes to his philosophy and theology. What follows is the first book ever to be devoted to al-​Rāzī’s philosophy as a whole, while also discussing his medical thinking. It is a historically erudite and highly sophisticated study of al-​Rāzī and should serve as an authoritative text for many years to come. I might add that it is written with great clarity. Adamson is an excellent guide to al-​Rāzī both for specialists in medieval philosophy and for students approaching medieval philosophy and theology as beginners. Brian Davies

Acknowledgments

This book has been a long time in the writing. I  was first prompted to undertake it thanks to a suggestion from Dimitri Gutas, who has been supportive of the project over the decade and more that it has taken to come to fruition. Over these years I have benefited from discussion with many scholars, too many to name here, but I  would particularly like to thank Fedor Benevich, Cornelius Berthold, Hans Hinrich Biesterfeldt, Sonja Brentjes, Charles Burnett, Riccardo Chiaradonna, Ursula Coope, Hans Daiber, Aileen Das, Brian Davies, Matteo Di Giovanni, Thérèse-​ Anne Druart, Lenn E.  Goodmann, Bink Hallum, Rotraud Hansberger, Dag Nikolaus Hasse, Inna Kupreeva, Andreas Lammer, John Marenbon, Jon McGinnis, Stephen Menn, Jan Opsomer, Peter E.  Pormann, Ulrich Rudolph, Ayman Shihadeh, Bethany Somma, Richard Sorabji, Tony Street, Sarah Stroumsa, Philip van der Eijk, Sophia Vasalou, Raphaela Veit, Sarah Virgi, and especially Pauline Koetschet and Marwan Rashed, who both read the final manuscript and made very useful comments upon it. Gregor Schwarb also gave me helpful feedback on ­chapter 6. I owe a special debt to Hanif Amin Beidokhti for his help with Persian primary and secondary literature, and for extensive discussion of this material; and to Peter Tarras for his help with the index and catching errors in the final manuscript. I also profited greatly from Arabic and Persian reading groups

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xiv  Acknowledgments in London and Munich, and would like to thank all participants of these sessions, as well as audience members at the many talks in which I tried out my ideas about al-​Rāzī. The book project, and more generally my research over the time of writing the monograph, has been supported by several funding bodies, which I  gratefully acknowledge:  the School of Advanced Studies at the University of London, the Leverhulme Trust, the DFG, and the European Research Council (under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program, grant agreement No. 786762). As always, my greatest debt is, however, to my family: my wife Ursula, daughters Sophia and Johanna, my brother Glenn, my father David, and my mother Joyce. This book is dedicated to her, since she like al-​Rāzī was a doctor who offered spiritual support to patients.

• 1

Doubts about Razi

Abū Bakr Muḥammad ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī was born around the middle of the ninth century ad in the Persian city of Rayy. Located to the south of modern-​day Tehran, Rayy sat at the foot of the Elborz mountain range along the coast of the Caspian Sea, with a desert plateau flanking the city to the south.1 Thanks to this location between mountain and desert, the spot was settled since before recorded history. Its strategic position meant that in the early Islamic period, it benefited from the trade route between Iraq and central Asia and suffered as the site of various military encounters. The Arab armies of the initial Islamic conquests pacified the town in about 640 ad, and changed its name from Raghā, as it had been known in the Sasanian period, to Rayy. It was then a key site in the conflict between the caliph ʿAlī and the Khārijites, who used it as a base. Yet it is not until about 700, which is year 81 of the Islamic calendar, that we have the first Arab-​style coins being found there and the beginning of large-​scale Arab settlement. In the ninth century, it was used as a staging ground by the caliph al-​Mahdī and was even briefly named after him (Muḥammadiyya, after the caliph’s given name Muḥammad).2 An earthquake destroyed much of the city in 861 ad. Then Turkish forces, invading from Khurāsān, took charge of Rayy, only to be dislodged by the Sāmānids who held the city toward the end of al-​Rāzī’s life. Through Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0001.

2  Al-​ Rāzī all this upheaval, the city remained prosperous and important. We have a description from the first half of the tenth century which describes five gateways allowing entry through its fortified walls, and a main avenue “where a watercourse ran bordered with trees without interruption, and where the town’s markets were held.”3 No less a figure than the caliph Hārūn al-​Rashīd named Rayy as one of the four most important stops along the Silk Road, along with Damascus, Raqqa, and Samarqand. I begin with this brief look at the city of Rayy to convey something of the cultural context of al-​Rāzī’s thought. We need to bear in mind that in his lifetime stability was available only through military dominance, and that his home city was a nexus of trade between west and east, a Persian town where Islam was a relatively recent import. I also begin with Rayy because it gives our protagonist his name: “Rāzī” means “from Rayy.” This can lead to confusion, because a number of other thinkers of the Islamic world hailed from this city, and two of them are important for our story. The Ismāʿīlī philosopher Abū Ḥātim al-​Rāzī is a major source for our al-​ Rāzī’s thought, and even offers firsthand reports on a debate between the two men. The later and more famous Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī is a far less hostile witness, and records a good deal of valuable information about al-​Rāzī’s ideas. To help keep things clear, I will henceforth refer to the central figure of this book simply as Razi, and usually call the other two men Abū Ḥātim and Fakhr al-​Dīn. But never mind how best to start this book or what to call its main character. The more urgent question is, why write a book about Razi at all, especially one devoted primarily to his philosophical thought? He is indisputably a major figure in Islamic intellectual history, but his claim to that title rests above all on his achievements in medicine. Referred to by the medical historian Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa as the “Galen of the Arabs (Jālīnūs al-​ ʿarab),”4 Razi was, along with Avicenna, the most influential medical author of the formative period in the Islamic world. He was avidly read by later doctors in the Islamic world, and had a second afterlife in Latin translation under the name “Rhazes.”5 When it comes to his philosophy, though, the picture is more ambiguous. His ideas were perceived by some as heretical, and he seems to have inaugurated no real school or tradition of philosophy, even if later sources sometimes speak generically of his “followers.” Razi seems to fall outside the mainstream of Neoplatonizing Aristotelianism

Doubts about Razi   3 that takes us from al-​Kindī, the first self-​consciously Hellenizing philosopher of the Arabic tradition, to al-​Fārābī and then Avicenna. Because of his rather anomalous intellectual stance, and above all because of the shockingly irreverent views he supposedly expressed regarding Islam, he has attracted attention especially as a “freethinker.”6 But I  have my doubts about this approach. Not that I  wish to question Razi’s originality. To the contrary, he was a highly and self-​consciously creative philosopher who apparently took great delight in provoking his contemporaries. As we will see in Chapter 6, he saw uncritical acceptance of the beliefs of others (taqlīd) to be a cardinal intellectual sin. He was, no less than Aristotelians like al-​Fārābī and Avicenna, wholly committed to the use of human reason in an effort to discern the nature of the cosmos, God’s relation to His creatures, and the path to human happiness. My doubts have rather to do with the way that his project has been framed as an anti-​Aristotelian and anti-​religious polemic. I am also skeptical when it comes to the presentation of Razi as a shockingly forthright critic of the Islamic revelation. In general, I will be presenting a less outrageous but, I hope, more historically plausible picture of Razi’s thought. The interpretation will put particular emphasis on the positive inspirations of Razi’s doubtlessly innovative philosophical system, rather than simply contrasting him to Aristotelian falsafa.

1.1. Razi’s sources A clue to the most important such inspiration is already to be found in that honorific, “Galen of the Arabs.” Of course this title refers to Razi’s expertise as a doctor. But I believe that his deep engagement with Galen also provides the most important key to unlock the meaning of Razi’s philosophy. This is not a new idea. Galenic sources for Razi’s cosmology and other aspects of his thought have been explored by other scholars, including Mehdi Mohaghegh, Meir Bar-​Asher, and more recently Pauline Koetschet.7 This book will, however, chart in an unprecedented way the pervasive presence of Galen in Razi’s philosophy, as well as in his medical corpus. It was Galen who inspired Razi to develop a cosmology loosely based on Plato’s Timaeus, which Razi may have known solely through the intermediary of Galen’s paraphrase and commentary on that dialogue.

4  Al-​ Rāzī Of course this does not mean that Razi was a slavish follower of Galen, or of the Galenic Plato. It’s already been mentioned that he rejected taqlīd, the uncritical acceptance of authority, and emphasized the need for every intellectual to think for himself. But actually this very insistence on the independent use of reason was itself a Galenic inheritance. In a brilliant paper published some years ago, Stephen Menn pointed out that Galen encouraged his readers to value, but also to question, authority.8 Menn drew out the consequences of this especially for al-​Ghazālī, and later Descartes, but it applies at least as much to Razi and Avicenna. It is no coincidence that both of them were major medical authors, hence steeped in the writings of Galen, and that both of them were ostentatious in their reworking of an inherited philosophical paradigm. In the case of Avicenna, that paradigm came from Aristotelianism; in the case of Razi, it came from Plato by way of Galen. The most powerful testimony to this attitude of respectful creativity in Razi’s own corpus comes from his Doubts about Galen, especially its opening sections. Here he excuses himself for being so critical of the great Galen, but without actually apologizing. He writes: The art of medicine, as a sort of philosophy, does not permit [simply] agreeing to authorities or accepting their teachings (taslīm al-​ruʾasāʾ wa-​ l-​qubūl min-​hum), taking it easy on them and failing to investigate them critically. No philosopher would wish for his disciples and students to do this, just as Galen himself says in his book On the Usefulness of the Parts. He rebukes those who expect their followers and partisans to accept their teachings without demonstrative proof (bi-​lā-​burhān). (Doubts §1.1)

The reference at the end of the passage to “demonstrative proof” is a Galenic reference within a Galenic reference, since for this concept Razi looks above all not to Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics but Galen’s Book of Demonstration (both were entitled Burhān in Arabic). That Galenic work is described, a bit later in the Doubts, as “according to me the most exalted and most useful of books, after those sent by God (Doubts §2.1).” What Razi learned from Galen was to seek confirmation of authoritative teachings through proof, and where this is lacking, to say so. Razi’s irreverence was, then, itself a tribute to the influence of Galen upon him. We will have many more opportunities to observe him drawing on Galenic and Platonic sources in his philosophy. As for other possible sources within the Greek background, Aristotle plays an unrecognized,

Doubts about Razi   5 though firmly subordinate, role within Razi’s cosmology. For Razi, Aristotelian place and time are real, yet “relative,” comprehensible only with reference to more fundamental principles that are “absolute” and “eternal” (see Chapter 5). For the truly primary principles he looks especially to Plato’s Timaeus. Matter too is understood along the lines of an atomist theory loosely based on the geometrical atomism of the Timaeus, with the Aristotelian elements supervening on the more fundamental atoms (Chapter 4). Thus Aristotelian physics is neither ignored nor straightforwardly rejected by Razi, but incorporated into a new physical theory of Platonic inspiration. A number of studies by Lenn Goodman have pointed to another possible source of inspiration for Razi’s philosophy, namely Epicureanism.9 Here again I  have doubts. In fact, my skepticism about Goodman’s influential interpretation was one of the factors that first got me interested in working on Razi in the first place. Before explaining why I  reject his reading, I should begin by praising Goodman for helping to bring Razi to wider awareness, and also by saying that I can see why Razi’s writings may have reminded him of Epicurus, the great exponent of hedonism in the ancient world. Razi was an atomist, believed in “spontaneous” free motion, and had a therapeutic approach to ethics, all points that ring Epicurean bells. We’ll be discovering in this book that all these aspects of his thought had other sources, though, and motivations very different from those that drove the Epicureans. As we’ll see in section §8.3, Razi had a complex attitude toward pleasure and sometimes does talk as if we should use pleasure as an ethical guide or goal. This is, however, misleading, as is clear from passages in which Razi forthrightly rejects the idea that pleasure is the greatest good. Nor does he share the most distinctive thesis of Epicurean hedonism, namely that the absence of pain is in itself the highest pleasure. For Razi, the total absence of pain is entirely compatible with the total absence of pleasure; this would just be the “neutral state” that results from the replenishment of bodily deficiencies. I pointed all of this out in an article published some time ago, but in a more recent article of his own Goodman has stood by his earlier reading.10 Responding to the point that it is unclear how Razi could have known anything about the Epicureans, he admits that when he first set out his interpretation, he wasn’t really concerned with this issue.11 But upon further reflection, and drawing on an important study by Y. Tzvi

6  Al-​ Rāzī Langermann that I have also found very useful,12 Goodman suggests that Razi may have been aware of ancient atomic theories through Galen, a point on which we both agree with Langermann. But as we’ll see in section §4.3, the Doubts about Galen shows that Razi was motivated to defend atomism at least in part because he knew that Plato had an atomic theory. Insofar as Epicureanism is relevant here, it is relevant only indirectly, as one of the schools Galen had in mind in his own rejection of atomism. On the question of pleasure, Goodman now makes a crucial concession that was absent in his previous studies, namely that Razi was not in fact a hedonist. He does continue to believe that Razi would see the absence of pain as pleasant and even a “hedonic maximum,” but as already mentioned, this is incorrect:  Razi held that the neutral state is neither painful nor pleasant. More importantly, though, Goodman admits that for Razi “making pleasures the sole ends worthy of choice in their own right would mean giving up the role of reason,” and sees him as “disavowing” hedonism.13 This puts him in the uncomfortable position of insisting that Razi’s ethical teaching was in some significant sense Epicurean, despite its rejection of the most central and indeed defining position of Epicurean ethics. Goodman thus retrenches to broader, less doctrinal resonances with Epicurus, writing that Razi had a “prudential” and “therapeutic” approach to the ethical life. Goodman is importantly right here. But I would add two caveats. First, this approach was common to all the schools in the Hellenistic period, including Platonism as it developed in later antiquity; the Epicureans had no monopoly on the idea of ethics as therapy.14 Second and relatedly, this approach to ethics is something Razi could find closer to hand, in Galen. Indeed Razi was only one of several authors around his time to follow Galen in treating ethics as a kind of therapy.15 In pointing out the Hellenistic tone of Razi’s Spiritual Medicine, Goodman’s interpretation was on to something from the very beginning, it’s just that he fixated on the wrong historical anchor for Razian ethics. Another, equally surprising Greek source who may have influenced Razi is a rough contemporary of Galen, the Platonist Plutarch. I say this is surprising because Plutarch does not usually feature in discussions of Greek philosophy as received into Arabic. However, the Fihrist of Ibn al-​Nadīm, which as we’ll see shortly is an invaluable source of information about Razi’s writings, tells us that he wrote a “commentary (tafsīr) on Plutarch’s commentary on the Timaeus.”16 And actually we know that the name of

Doubts about Razi   7 Plutarch was known to Razi. Pauline Koetschet has pointed out that in an abridgement of one of Galen’s medical treatises, Razi refers to him as the author of On the Opinions of the Philosophers. This doxographical collection is, however, a work that was falsely ascribed to Plutarch and would not have communicated to Razi any of Plutarch’s genuine teachings.17 If Razi really read a commentary by Plutarch on the Timaeus that would be a very different matter, and there are indeed certain resonances between Razi’s cosmology and that of Plutarch, especially insofar as Plutarch offered a theodicy that involved reference to the malign influence of a world soul.18 What about influences from closer to home, in the Islamic world? As we will see at various points, Razi’s interlocutors were not the Hellenizing philosophers called falāsifa. Rather, we find him arguing in person with, or writing works of disputation against, such figures as the Muʿtazilite theologian Abū l-​Qāsim al-​Balkhī, known as al-​Kaʿbī,19 and the aforementioned Ismāʿīlī thinker Abū Ḥātim al-​Rāzī. It’s interesting that al-​Kaʿbī was from Balkh, since men from that city seem to have played an outsized role in Razi’s intellectual career. Ibn al-​Nadīm says that Razi studied with a certain al-​Balkhī, and goes on to report that the latter was widely traveled and well trained in philosophy. It is also suggested that Razi tried to claim some of al-​Balkhī’s books for himself.20 Who is this al-​Balkhī? A strong possibility would be Abū Zayd al-​Balkhī, to whom Razi elsewhere refers as his shaykh.21 Ibn al-​Nadīm does go on immediately to discuss another figure named Shuhayd ibn al-​Ḥusayn al-​Balkhī, but this is probably a different person, in fact another person with whom Razi disputed, as Ibn al-​Nadīm says.22 Happily, we have a record of Razi’s debate with Shuhayd on the question of pleasure (discussed in Chapter 8, §8.3). The notion that Razi learned philosophy from Abū Zayd al-​Balkhī presents an opportunity to inscribe him into the story of “mainstream” falsafa after all, because Abū Zayd was himself the student of none other than al-​Kindī. And it gets better:  according to the historian al-​Masʿūdī, Razi was the “starting point (mabdaʾ)” for the “views and approach (raʾy wa-​ṭarīqa)” of the Christian Aristotelian philosopher Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī.23 While this doesn’t necessarily mean that Razi was Ibn ʿAdī’s teacher, it prompts an intriguing thought. Was there a four-​generation sequence of masters and disciples spanning the formative period of philosophy in the Islamic world: al-​Kindī, Abū Zayd, Razi, and Ibn ʿAdī? In the history of teacher-​student chains that wouldn’t be quite at the level of Socrates, Plato,

8  Al-​ Rāzī Aristotle, and Alexander the Great, but still! Perhaps we should restrain our enthusiasm, though. Razi’s philosophy does not have much in common with the thought of Ibn ʿAdī, whose primary concerns lay with logic, Aristotelian exegesis, and Christian apologetics. More fruitful might be the comparison with Abū Zayd and thus, indirectly, with al-​Kindī. I have argued elsewhere, writing together with Hans Hinrich Biesterfeldt, that the handling of the emotions in Razi’s ethical writings is reminiscent of Abū Zayd’s treatment of the same issue in his one surviving treatise.24 On the basis of what we have seen so far, the cosmological side of Razi’s thought seems to be based on Greek sources and not inspiration from his immediate historical context. Yet there is one final possible influence to consider: a philosopher named Īrānshahrī, whose name probably indicates an origin at Nishapūr or nearby, as the name “Īrān Shahr” was used for this city.25 Unfortunately, Īrānshahrī’s works are wholly lost, so we are dependent on later authors for our knowledge of his thought. Al-​Bīrūnī, whom we will shortly meet as a valuable source of information on Razi, refers in several works to Īrānshahrī as a scholar of diverse religions and also astronomy—​not coincidentally, fields that were of great interest to al-​ Bīrūnī himself. The astronomical side of his thought is also mentioned by Quṭb al-​Dīn al-​Shīrāzī. Things become more relevant to our own concerns when we turn to two other sources, Abū l-​Maʿālī and Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, who as we will see is a major but hostile witness for Razi’s own philosophy. In his encyclopedic study of religions, Bayān al-​adyān, written in the early 1090s, Abū l-​Maʿālī has a brief but informative discussion of Īrānshahrī. 26 He depicts him as a more striking and controversial figure than the astronomer and student of religions we find in al-​Bīrūnī. He tells us that Īrānshahrī claimed to be a prophet who received a revelation from an angel named Hastī. Citing Qurʾān 43:45 (“ask the messengers we sent before you”), he presented himself as one in a chain of prophets also including Muḥammad. Furthermore, he asserted that “all religions are but one (yekī pīsh nīst),” and are divided only by disagreements between human worshippers. In light of this report it is surprising to find that Nāṣir-​e Khusraw is positively inclined toward Īrānshahrī.27 In his Zād al-​musāfir, he contends that Razi simply took the core of his philosophical cosmology from his teacher Īrānshahrī, albeit with modifications that turned a basically acceptable doctrine into outright heresy. This is chronologically plausible, as we know from reports on Īrānshahrī’s astronomical interests that

Doubts about Razi   9 he discussed an eclipse that occurred in 259 ah (873 ad). This puts his floruit in the second half of the ninth century ad, when Razi would have been a young man. As for the content of Īrānshahrī’s philosophy, Nāṣir-​e Khusraw tells us that he postulated eternal matter, time, and place, just like Razi. Eternal place was even qualified as “absolute” by Īrānshahrī and equated with void, two features that will also be prominent in Razi’s account of place. Why then does Nāṣir-​e Khusraw prefer Īrānshahrī to Razi? One difference between their systems is that Razi recognizes an eternal soul, which as we’ll see is responsible for initiating the creation of the universe. This gave Razi the basis of a novel theodicy which admitted that the world is too full of suffering to have been created by an omnipotent, benevolent God—​a major addition to Īrānshahrī’s theory as Nāṣir-​e Khusraw presents it. More important for understanding Nāṣir-​e Khusraw’s attitude may be that Īrānshahrī described the other eternal principles as manifestations of God’s power. This too is a crucial difference between him and Razi, who apparently made time, place, matter, and soul to be simply independently existing eternal principles, thus, as far as Nāṣir-​e Khusraw was concerned, violating the central Islamic tenet of God’s uniqueness (tawḥīd). Unfortunately, Nāṣir-​e Khusraw is the only source to report on these aspects of Īrānshahrī’s philosophy. Given Nāṣir-​e Khusraw’s hostility toward Razi, one might distrust his claim that much of Razi’s own system was effectively plagiarized from a teacher. As already mentioned and as documented in the rest of this book, the details of that system were clearly inspired by other sources, including Plato’s Timaeus, making a further inspiration in Īrānshahrī look rather superfluous. But then perhaps Īrānshahrī was already interested in fusing Greek philosophy with Islamic religious ideas,28 and Razi carried on this project from his teacher. It should also be noted that Īrānshahrī’s fascination with the diversity of religions, and his view that there is a single truth captured by all religions, is also Razian in spirit. As we’ll see in Chapter 6, Razi pointed to the agreement between the deliverances of reason and various religious revelations, including that of Islam. So, while the exact degree of his dependence on Īrānshahrī will remain unclear without further textual discoveries, it seems plausible that Razi’s general approach to philosophical cosmology and the relation between philosophy and religion was consonant with that of his putative teacher.

10  Al-​ Rāzī

1.2.  The biographer-​bibliographers Let us now turn to Razi’s body of work. Frustratingly, the aspects of his thought that are most likely to intrigue the historian of philosophy were set forth in treatises that are now mostly lost. As a result, our main task in this book will be the reconstruction of a philosophical system, rather than a minute exegesis of extant writings. In this respect, working on Razi resembles more, say, working on the early Stoics than on Plato or Aristotle, or for that matter Razi’s near contemporaries al-​Kindī or al-​Fārābī, for both of whom we have a large number of extant philosophical works. An exception to this rule is Razi’s ethical thought, which is preserved in two treatises of unequal length. But before introducing these treatises and the other, mostly indirect, evidence for his philosophy, I would like first to say something about general reports of Razi’s life and career, several of which also include lists of his books, giving us a valuable insight into the range of topics he tackled in his prodigious writings.29 Among the biographer-​bibliographers who report on Razi, we have already mentioned Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa; other witnesses include Ṣāʿid al-​ Andalusī, Ibn al-​Qifṭī, and somewhat earlier, Ibn Juljul.30 All of them wrote histories of learned men, or specifically about doctors. Their reports overlap, but each adds some useful information, and should therefore be consulted along with the two most important sources of all. These are, first, the Fihrist (Catalogue) of the tenth-​century bookseller Ibn al-​Nadīm, which is in general the most important trove of information about Arabic philosophy in its earliest stage. Ibn al-​Nadīm offers a substantial report on Razi, including the earliest compilation of work titles.31 Second, there is another Fihrist devoted solely to Razi, written by the great polymath al-​Bīrūnī, a contemporary of Avicenna who is famous for, among other things, his pioneering presentation of the culture of India to a Muslim audience.32 An important thing to note about these two sources, as well as Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, is that they have no particular animus against Razi. In fact, they seem to admire his accomplishments, especially in medicine. Given Razi’s notoriety as an unorthodox freethinker or even heretic, this is an important historical datum. Ibn al-​Nadīm, the closest to Razi in time, does not so much as mention that Razi may be religiously suspect. To the contrary, he is happy to quote another man reporting on Razi’s generous character

Doubts about Razi   11 and compassion for the sick. This same report mentions Razi’s industry as a scholar, saying that he was constantly writing or copying texts by hand, which along with excessive consumption of beans caused Razi to go blind as an old man.33 This is probably inspired by Razi’s own statement to the same effect in his Philosophical Life (Works 110: the passage doesn’t mention beans, but in this same work he does discuss whether philosophers should adopt vegetarianism). Somewhat later, al-​Bīrūnī and Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa do take up the issue of Razi’s notorious beliefs, which may suggest that the charge of heresy took a while to become associated with his name. Particularly revealing are the comments of al-​Bīrūnī, who excuses himself for writing a work devoted to Razi’s thought by saying that he is merely responding to a request from an honored patron: If I did not have such esteem for you, I would not have done this [sc. written about Razi], because it could involve attracting the enmity of his opponents who might think that I am among his supporters (shīʿa), and those who equally value what he managed to get right through his efforts, and what he was led to say out of whim (hawāʾ) and excessive zeal (taʿaṣṣub), to the point that he disgraced himself with sin, and out of obstinacy in matters of religion did not refrain from being neglectful, heedless, and careless.34

He goes on to mention “unseemly” and “stupid” remarks of Razi’s in a work about prophecy. Al-​Bīrūnī nonetheless has positive things to say about Razi as a personality and author. He is especially impressed by a lost work called On Divine Science and Razi’s criticism of Manicheanism. His overall assessment is that Razi “was not a deceiver but let himself be deceived.”35 As for Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, he interrupts his list of Razi’s books upon reaching the title What He Wishes to Reveal in Allegation about the Shortcomings of the Saints (ʿuyūb al-​awliyāʾ), and adds the following: Whether he [really] wrote this book, God only knows. It could well be that some malicious enemies of Razi wrote it and ascribed it to him. For my part I have not seen this book or heard such a view from Razi; in fact Razi would be above taking up this issue or writing such sentiments.36

On the other hand, Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa is willing to report the far more critical attitude of Ṣāʿid al-​Andalusī, according to whom Razi was incapable of reaching “the ultimate goal” of theology (al-​ʿilm al-​ilāhī):

12  Al-​ Rāzī This disturbed his thinking and led him to take on foolish opinions and adopt wicked teachings. He criticized people whom he did not understand, along whose paths he could not be guided.37

In general, then, it would be fair to say that in reports later than Ibn al-​ Nadīm it is clear that Razi’s reputation has become a problem for those who cherish his work, with the partisans of Razi probably motivated to save his important medical writings from the stain of his daring cosmological theses and problematic remarks about religion. A less favorable version of the same contrast can be found in a characteristically rude remark made more or less in passing by Avicenna, while responding to a question from al-​Bīrūnī: Muḥammad ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī bit off more than he could chew in his attempts to deal with theology, and even exceded his abilities when lancing abcesses and examining urine and feces. He certainly disgraced himself and exhibited his ignorance in what he endeavored and aimed to do. (Works 290)38

If the rest of this book is even halfway successful, it will show that this judgment was unfair. Whatever we make of Razi’s philosophical ideas, Avicenna was on shaky ground in questioning his medical expertise, which dominates all our biographical information on Razi. He was, al-​Bīrūnī tells us, born in 865 ad (251 ah) in Rayy; he died in the same city in 925 ad (313 ah). According to Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, he became the head of the hospital named after ʿAḍud al-​ Dawla, a member of the Buwayhid clan who ruled over Iraq from 979 ad to his death in 983, and sponsored cultural advancements in Baghdad more generally (for instance, he was a patron of the great poet al-​Mutanabbī). Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa’s care as a biographer is on display in this part of his report about Razi. He relays no fewer than three separate accounts of Razi’s connection to the hospital, one of which includes the entertaining detail that Razi left meat in all the quarters of the city and then had the hospital built in the place where the meat spoiled most slowly.39 The three stories are in some tension with one another, since others have him joining the hospital when it is already a going concern. Similarly, the various reports about Razi do not agree about when, or why, he came to devote himself to medicine.40 One suggestion, found in al-​Bīrūnī, is that he suffered from eye inflammations because of his study

Doubts about Razi   13 of alchemy, and this led him to investigate medicine in search of a cure. Elsewhere we hear that he began his studies with the “intellectual sciences” and also adab (belles-​lettres)—​he is said to have written poetry—​or perhaps music was his first love. It seems clear that he ran a hospital at Rayy as well as at Baghdad. From this part of his career, again in Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, we have the picturesque story of how patients consulted him:  he would only meet with those who had first asked his junior students, and then his senior students, and failed to get a satisfactory diagnosis from both. Like many a doctor nowadays, Razi was himself apparently a reluctant patient. We’re told that when he went blind, he declined to undergo eye surgery on the grounds that he had already seen enough of this world (dunyā). This might be nothing more than a creative elaboration on the various stories of his eye troubles, which could all be variations inspired by Razi’s own remarks about his failing sight in the Philosophical Life. On the other hand, the mordant remark fits well with Razi’s broadly pessimistic attitude toward embodied existence. Let us now turn finally to the meatiest parts of these reports on Razi, namely the overlapping lists of his books recorded by Ibn al-​Nadīm, al-​ Qifṭī, al-​Bīrūnī, and Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa. Though the lists provide only titles, they arguably give us our best insight into his intellectual project as a whole, given that the direct tradition for his philosophy is extremely incomplete and the indirect tradition marked by tendentious and hostile reporting. To a large extent, it must be said that they simply bear out the impression of Razi we have already gleaned from the biographical reports. Many of the titles concern medicine in general and Galen in particular. One lost work would have shown Razi in philological mode, supplementing Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq’s catalogue of Galen’s works. (This is another case of his imitating Galen, who likewise did philological work on Hippocrates and other predecessors.) Also relevant here is the very first item on Ibn al-​Nadīm’s list: a treatise called On Demonstration, which is presumably somehow related to Galen’s work of the same title,41 which we have seen Razi praising so effusively. Al-​Bīrūnī gathers no fewer than 56 works on medicine, beginning with the enormous Compendium, on which more later, and going on to dedicated works on topics in anatomy like the heart and the ear, on measles, diet, drugs, sexual impotence, allergies, poisons, the effects of the seasons on health (“why one falls ill in autumn”), and much more. There is also an abiding concern with medical methodology and its defense, with entries on

14  Al-​ Rāzī how to identify good doctors, why relatively untrained people may be successful in treating the sick, and the high standing of medicine as a science. The titles furthermore confirm Razi’s role as a controversialist, with works of refutation and dispute aimed at Manicheans, theologians, and even the great literary figure and exponent of kalām, al-​Jāḥiẓ. On the philosophical front, we learn already from Ibn al-​Nadīm’s list that Razi accepted the immateriality of the soul, the proof of God from the world’s good design, and a distinction between absolute and particular matter (Kitāb al-​Hayūlā al-​muṭlaqa wa-l-juzʾiyya), which I take to mean atoms and composite substances (see section §4.2).42 Ibn al-​Nadīm’s list concludes with two titles on astrology and the stars as living beings, concerns that do not emerge in our other sources on Razi’s thought. But Razi’s interest in alchemy, which is well attested in his extant corpus, is also clear.43 For instance, a title mentioned by Ibn al-​Nadīm speaks of alchemy as something “closer to the necessary than to the impossible.”44 Perhaps the most important lesson to take from the book lists is the heterogeneous and diverse range of Razi’s interests. Medical topics take up the lion’s share, followed by philosophy and religion, then alchemy; but he wrote on many other topics, too, including mathematics, logic, and poetry. This picture fits tolerably well with Razi’s presentation of his own writing career toward the end of his own Philosophical Life (at Works 108–​ 109). Given the context, he especially stresses his achievements in philosophy. The title On Demonstration is given pride of place, being the first book mentioned, just as in Ibn al-​Nadīm. He also refers to writings on alchemy and his extensive output in medicine. As for mathematics, he admits, “I have looked into it only to the extent that was necessary for me, without devoting my time to becoming proficient with it, but purposefully, and not out of any inability to do so” (Works 109.11–​12). As this remark suggests, Razi was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He duly concludes the brief survey of his own writings with the remark, “if I have not reached the level of knowledge that merits my being called ‘philosopher (faylasūf),’ I’d like to know who in our present time has done so!” (Works 109.14–​16). Interestingly, he sees his expertise in medicine and alchemy as bolstering his claim to this title, a reminder that what “philosophy” meant in the Islamic world was not necessarily what it means for us. Rather, for Razi and his contemporaries falsafa signified scientific inquiry in general, especially insofar as this inquiry drew on Hellenic sources.

Doubts about Razi   15

1.3.  The direct tradition The short treatise just quoted, the Philosophical Way of Life (al-​Sīra al-​ falsafiyya),45 is one of only two philosophical works by Razi to be preserved in its entirety. The other is a treatise of ethical advice called The Spiritual Medicine (al-​Ṭibb al-​rūḥānī).46 Though the Philosophical Way of Life is a polemical work, consisting of Razi’s defense against charges of hypocrisy, these two writings do not present the most contentious aspects of his thought, namely his views on prophecy and cosmology with its five eternal principles. For that we will need to turn to the indirect tradition. Nonetheless there are strong links between the cosmology and the ethical writings, especially the idea of the soul’s needing to liberate itself from the body and its concerns.47 The fact that these links remain tacit probably explains the survival of the two ethical treatises, whereas the explicitly cosmological writings and works of religious polemic are lost. The provocative nature of these lost writings attracted enemies, one of whom even attacked the apparently rather innocuous Spiritual Medicine. This was the Ismāʿīlī author Ḥamīd al-​Dīn al-​Kirmānī, who died almost exactly a century after Razi in 1021 ad, and wrote a refutation of it called the Golden Sayings (al-​Aqwāl al-​dhahabiyya).48 Since the two ethical treatises are the only substantial, complete works on philosophy to have survived from Razi’s pen, Paul Kraus’s pioneering 1939 edition is mostly made up of collected testimonies from the indirect tradition (see §1.4). He does, however, also include two other pieces from the direct tradition, which are found together in a single Istanbul manuscript (Ragıp Paşa 1463) where they are ascribed to Razi. One looks to be a lengthy fragment from an otherwise lost work, and is transmitted under the title Treatise on Metaphysics (Maqāla fī-​mā baʿd al-​ṭabīʿa).49 I discuss this text in section §2.5, and explain why I incline toward accepting its authenticity. As for the other text in the manuscript, it is very short: only a couple of pages long, it itemizes the signs that a political leader is favored by God. Since Ibn Abī Uṣaybīʿa mentions a title that fits the text perfectly,50 its authenticity seems fairly secure. Unfortunately, nothing else remains of Razi’s political thought, with the arguable exception of a point he made in the debate with Abū Ḥātim, lamenting the tendency of religious divisions to lead to warfare between the adherents of various sects (Proofs 181–​182, discussed at §6.2). Thus there

16  Al-​ Rāzī will be no chapter in what follows on political topics, so it makes sense to discuss the little text on the signs of leadership here, especially because it needs to be read in the context of Razi’s life story. The piece recognizes ten signs that are propitious for political success, namely:

(1) Sudden transformation, in which the ruler increases in knowledge: this is the most powerful of the ten signs; (2) Events unfolding harmoniously, apparently by chance; (3) Character traits conducive to leadership; (4) Love of leadership; (5) Patience; (6) Veracity and good memory; (7) Being agreeable with close associates; (8) The associates in turn show deference and concern for the ruler; (9) Lack of grudges and resentment; (10) Inclination toward justice and hatred of injustice.

These are explicitly signs of divine favor. Actually the knowledge mentioned under point 1 is explicitly said to arise either by nature or from a divine source (Works 136.8–​9:  ʿan ayy sabab kāna, ilāhī kāna aw ṭabīʿī). But signs 6 and 10 are ascribed to guidance from a divine power. None of this is surprising, either in broader cultural terms—​in this period the idea that successful rulers must be favored by God was a truism—​or in terms of Razi’s philosophy as a whole, since he certainly accepts a providential role for God. Still, the list of signs is not best understood as a meditation on God’s intervention in human political affairs. It is more like a miniature “mirror for princes,”51 intended to convey a set of values that good rulers should adopt or at least aspire to. Admittedly, several of the signs are out of the control of the ruler. In particular, the second entry specifies that things should go well without his attention or influence. Razi gives the following example: The most exalted of the ancient kings looked to the food that their chefs set before them, which had been selected according to the whims of the [chefs], without [the kings] having requested or ordered it, to seek confirmation of their fortune and dominion, rather than looking to other, greater and more exalted matters, such as disasters that befall enemies, or the ruin of [their] opponents, antagonists and rivals. (Works 136.18–​137.2)

Doubts about Razi   17 In other words, if you want to know whether you’re favored by God, see whether other people give you things to eat that you might have chosen yourself. Furthermore, it is emphasized regarding point 1 that the increase in knowledge should be nearly miraculous in its suddenness and derivation from an outside source. But for the most part, this list doubles as a catalogue of personal traits a ruler should deliberately cultivate. As such catalogues go, this one is not without a sense of political realism. Point 4 emphasizes that the ruler must have a powerful love or lust (ʿishq) for power, “to the point that he cannot envision living without it and has concern for nothing else.” This must show that he is intended to rule since “nature does nothing in vain,” a rather creative application of the famous Aristotelian maxim (Works 137.7–​9). But the most obvious indication that Razi intends his remarks as persuasion aimed at a powerful reader comes in point 7: Another sign of this is the inclination to be agreeable with companions, associates and supporters, and to care that things should go well for them, so as to win their friendship and loyalty to him. For this indicates that he has been given a lasting power, which makes them serviceable and binds them to himself, so that they will not abandon him or harbor wicked grudges against him, and will wish only to live alongside him and with his support. As a result they are sincere in fighting his enemies and they sacrifice themselves in his stead. (Works 137.20–​138.4)

This passage, along with point 8, which continues to speak of reciprocal support of the ruler by his companions, looks to be a rather blunt appeal to the ruler to show beneficence to his advisors, among whom we may presumably count Razi himself. If we had to guess at the treatise’s intended recipient, we would do well to select Abū Ṣāliḥ al-​Manṣūr, a Sāmānid prince who became governor of Rayy. The biographers tell us that Razi struck up a friendship with this potentate. Razi dedicated to him one of his most important medical works, named after the governor: the Book for al-​Manṣūr (Kitāb al-​Manṣūrī). This biographical detail also provides a possible context for one of the more interesting remarks in Razi’s Philosophical Way of Life: I did not associate with the ruler (al-​sulṭān) by bearing arms or by being in charge of his affairs. My association with him was rather as a doctor and a boon companion (munādim), who had freedom of discretion on

18  Al-​ Rāzī two points:  treating him at times when he was ill and healing him as concerned his body, or when he was healthy in body, providing him with companionship and counsel (as God knows of me!) concerning whatever I  anticipated would bring a healthy benefit both to him, and to his subjects. I am not to blame for his evil behavior—​for his amassing wealth and lavishly spending it, or for [his] quarrelling with the people, his disputes with them and oppressing them. (Works 109.19–​110.3)

Razi’s defensive tone here strongly suggests that he had attracted criticism for his coziness with a powerful patron, with the most likely candidate again being al-​Manṣūr, though there is evidence of his association with other powerful men, even a caliph at whose request he wrote an abridgement of a work by Galen.52 Razi also reflects on the relation between the ruler and his doctor in his Letter to One of His Disciples (Risāla ilā baʿḍ talāmidhihi), where he stresses the importance that the king follow medical advice and states that the doctor outstrips other members of the court in importance, because he ministers to the king’s soul and not only his body.53 The Book for al-​Manṣūr brings us to a far more abundant part of Razi’s surviving literary output and his most lasting achievement:  his contributions to the history of medicine. The treatise he dedicated to his patron is one of several general works on the topic. These also include, at the concise end of the scale, a medical Introduction, and very much at the other end of the scale, the gargantuan Compendium (Kitāb al-​Ḥāwī fī l-​ṭibb), whose modern edition spans twenty-​five volumes, and which gathers notes made by Razi on the basis of his medical reading and practice.54 Another medical author, al-​Majūsī (d. ca. 983 ad), noting the chaotic organization of this compilation, perceptively noted that it must have been written either as a set of notes for Razi himself to consult (probably the right hypothesis), or in preparation for an ambitious work that was not completed and brought into order before Razi’s death.55 Other general works on medicine are the just mentioned Letter to One of His Disciples and a treatise On the Secret of the Medical Art (Sirr ṣināʿat al-​ṭibb).56 Then there are numerous works preserved on specific topics, such as smallpox, sex, and even eating berries before one eats melons.57 Such occasional works could grow out of disputes with other scholars, an activity in which Razi seems to have taken great delight. One gets the impression that, when he was not at the hospital, he was most likely to be found at a majlis, that is, a discussion session that may have been hosted by a

Doubts about Razi   19 member of the aristocracy. Perhaps the most famous example for historians of philosophy is a majlis debate in which a grammarian humiliated Abū Bishr Mattā, a Christian scholar who helped found a school of Aristotelian philosophy in Baghdad.58 The contentious nature of that encounter gives us some sense of the kind of debates Razi too may have experienced. In a short epistle on a medical topic (on cooling down the body by either putting on or removing clothes), Razi explicitly mentions that he was led to take up the issue by a question posed at a majlis.59 Here he gives no sign that the occasion in question was particularly contentious, though he does complain that his audience had some difficulty following his account. But the same kind of setting was the scene for his confrontation with Abū Ḥātim, whose report of their debate is one of our most important sources bearing on Razi’s cosmology.60 One appealing feature of that report is the sense it conveys of what it might have been like to attend a majlis, especially when Abū Ḥātim describes how the session broke up in acrimony when Razi scandalously illustrated the fall of the soul into matter by comparing it to a chief judge suffering flatulence (see §3.1). A final work on medicine that we must particularly stress is the aforementioned Doubts about Galen (Shukūk ʿalā Jālīnūs), which is much more than just a list of disagreements with Galen’s medical teachings. It touches on many philosophical topics, such as the eternity of the world, the relation of soul to body, and Razi’s understanding of vision.61 We will thus have a number of opportunities to refer to the Doubts in this book, and not only when looking at philosophically intriguing aspects of Razi’s medical writings (Chapter 7). Here we are in the fortunate position of being able to draw on an excellent new edition, translation, and commentary by Pauline Koetschet (cited simply as Doubts throughout this book). Her lengthy introduction is essential reading for Razi’s philosophy as a whole.

1.4.  The indirect tradition Though we do have quite a few writings from Razi’s own pen, it would be impossible to reconstruct his philosophical teachings (apart from ethics) without drawing on the indirect tradition, that is, reports on his ideas found in other authors. Most of the main sources have already been mentioned. A striking fact is that several of them were Ismāʿīlīs, that is, members of

20  Al-​ Rāzī a branch of Shīʿī Islam that around this very time was reaching the apex of its worldly success by controlling Egypt under the Fāṭimid caliphate.62 Philosophers affiliated to this group were among Razi’s most forthright critics. First we have Abū Ḥātim al-​Rāzī, an Ismāʿīlī missionary who as just mentioned reports on a face-​to-​face debate (or perhaps debates) he conducted with Razi, in a treatise called On the Proofs of Prophecy (Aʿlām al-​nubuwwa, hereafter Proofs).63 The entire work is essentially an attack on Razi, albeit one with lengthy digressions on such topics as images in the Qurʾān, proofs of Muḥammad’s prophecy, and so on. After reporting their personal encounter in the opening book, Abū Ḥātim proceeds by summarizing claims made by Razi in writing and then refuting them at great length: typically one page worth of Razi corresponds to an entire book of refutation by Abū Ḥātim. This is our main source for Razi’s supposed polemic against the prophets, which is mentioned under several variant titles by the biographer-​bibliographers.64 Proofs is not Abū Ḥātim’s only foray into heresiography. He also devoted a section of his lexicographical encyclopedia, the Book of Decoration (Kitāb al-​Zīna) to this enterprise.65 In the relevant section of that work, Abū Ḥātim writes as a compiler, itemizing various sects and their beliefs without indicating where his own sympathies lie. The tone of Proofs is very different, betraying as it does a personal animus against Razi and his critique of prophecy. As we saw, Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa suspects that such a critique was ascribed to Razi only to besmirch his reputation, but given the contemporary testimony of Abū Ḥātim it seems clear that he was responding to a genuine work by Razi. Equally, it would be foolhardy to take Abū Ḥātim as a straightforward and trustworthy witness. The whole point of Proofs is to offer a counterpolemic against Razi’s polemic, and he takes every opportunity to depict Razi as both heretical and confused. In Chapter 6, I argue that Proofs can be used with due caution for reconstructing Razi’s religious critique, but that the target of this critique may have been substantially narrower than Abū Ḥātim would have us believe. In fact it seems likely that Razi’s intended target, or one of them, in his book about religious inspiration was the sort of imamite teachings espoused by the Ismāʿīlīs. This would explain Abū Ḥātim’s vigorous response to Razi and also the fact that later Ismāʿīlīs followed with their own criticisms. We’ve already mentioned the attack on Razi’s Spiritual Medicine by Ḥamīd al-​Dīn al-​Kirmānī. But more important for present purposes is

Doubts about Razi   21 Nāṣir-​e Khusraw (d. after 1073 ad), whose Zād al-​musāfir (Provision of the Traveler, hereafter simply Provision), written in 1061 ad, is one of the most valauble indirect sources for Razi’s cosmology, though no less hostile than Ḥamīd al-​Dīn. As we’ve seen, Nāṣir-​e Khusraw presents Razi as having taken over the teachings of Īrānshahrī, distorting them into a heretical doctrine that undermines God’s uniqueness as sole eternal principle. Nāṣir-​e Khusraw evidently knew Razi’s writings well: he draws on several of the latter’s lost treatises, including at least the work on pleasure written in refutation of Shuhayd al-​Balkhī, and another treatise On Theology (Kitāb al-​ʿilm al-​ilāhī).66 The latter may be the same as the work mentioned by Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa under the title On Theology According to the Opinion of Plato. As suggested earlier, this is an accurate identification of Razi’s inspiration for the cosmological theory set out in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw’s testimonies. It is not always easy to be sure whether the details of this theory found in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw and other indirect sources were taken from other works. For instance we know from the book lists that Razi did write a work on the topic of matter, or two such works (al-​Bīrūnī mentions both a short and long book on the topic), or even three separate ones (matter was the topic of a discussion by Razi of the theologian al-​Miṣmaʿī, a title also reported by al-​Bīrūnī). If we accept the testimony of the book lists at face value, then Razi composed at least one exposition of his entire system, the aforementioned On Theology, and then numerous other texts on elements of the system like void, the soul, God’s providence, and matter. Following this general assumption, Kraus’s edition of the indirect testimonies groups them under thematic headings associated with titles known from the book lists. Since I am rather agnostic about which fragments or testimonies come from which hypothetical treatises—​and since the system is, as far as we can tell with such incomplete evidence, not one that underwent significant alteration from one work to another—​in the rest of this book I simply cite the material by referring to the source author who reports it. I prefer this strategy also because the various sources are not equally hostile toward Razi. Alongside unfriendly witnesses, we must count not only the two Ismāʿīlīs but also several other sources, including Ibn al-​ Ḥasan al-​Marzūqī al-​Iṣfahānī (d. 1030)  and Ibn Ḥazm. The former was a grammarian and philologist whose Kitāb al-​Azmina wa ’l-​amkina (Book of Times and Places) has a report on Razi which describes his theory as “raving talk (hadhayān)” (Works 197.5). The latter, Ibn Ḥazm, is much

22  Al-​ Rāzī better known. A foremost exponent of the ẓāhirī jurisprudential school, he lived in Andalusia and in his Book of Distinction presents material taken, he says, from Razi’s On Theology (Works 170.10, 174.6), which he himself has refuted elsewhere. The topics covered include absolute time and space (“void and duration”), two of Razi’s five principles, as well as the destiny of souls separated from bodies. His comments on this topic may simply be an elaboration of what he could read in Razi’s Philosophical Life.67 Ibn Ḥazm is, it should be noted, unusual in associating other named figures with Razi’s teachings (Works 170.7–9, 174.3–​4). Much less unsympathetic to Razi are al-​Bīrūni, whom we have already discussed and who also records some elements of his cosmological theories, and our final witness:  Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī. He was a major figure of twelfth-​century theology, whose enormous body of writings have recently become a topic of abiding interest among historians of philosophy.68 Marwan Rashed made a significant contribution to the study of Razi by discovering new testimonies on his thought in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Exalted Topics for Inquiry in Theology (al-​Maṭālib al-​ʿāliya min al-​ʿilm al-​ilāhī).69 This finding was particularly valuable in shedding new light on Razi’s debates with contemporary theologians and casting doubt on the earlier reports concerning Razi’s religious polemic (see Chapter 6). Fakhr al-​Dīn’s approach to Razi is unique among our sources. He is neither openly hostile like the Ismāʿīlīs and others just mentioned, nor is he defensive and apologetic like al-​Bīrūnī and Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, who primarily admired Razi as a doctor. Fakhr al-​Dīn’s relative neutrality as a reporter goes together with his method as a thinker. His approach, on show most expansively in the Exalted Topics but also in his other theological summae, is to raise “problems” or “topics for inquiry” (hence the title, Maṭālib) and then dialectically to explore all that there is to be said for all positions concerning the problem.70 Razi serves a useful purpose for him, since he adopted positions taken rarely or not at all by other authors. To give just one example, when Fakhr al-​Dīn takes up the question of time in his Exalted Topics, he first raises the question of whether time exists, here following Avicenna and before him Aristotle. Among those who affirm its existence he distinguishes two groups: You should know that there are two groups of people who accept duration: those who hold that the knowledge of its existence is immediate (badīhī) and necessary, with no need for proof or demonstration; and

Doubts about Razi   23 those who do think it is established by proof and demonstration. The first group includes Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī, among others.71

He here accurately reports that Razi considered the existence of time to be simply obvious, and hence in need of no proof but only considerations that call attention to its evident existence.72 Notice that he even uses the term “duration (mudda)” here, which other sources confirm as one term used by Razi for absolute time. Fakhr al-​Dīn goes on to list a number of considerations for this view, before going on to offer positive proofs. At no stage does he apologize for bringing the notorious Razi into the discussion or, for that matter, even explicitly pass judgment on whether time’s existence is in fact obvious. In fact, Fakhr al-​Dīn himself inclines toward a view much like Razi’s, on which time is independent of that which is in time. He even sees this as a “Platonic” theory, as Razi had done.73 None of this, it should go without saying, is to discount the importance of other sources for establishing the contours of Razi’s philosophy, and especially his doctrine of the five eternals. It is, however, to say that Fakhr al-​Dīn is an unusually reliable source, which makes a welcome relief from the succession of authors who tell us what Razi believed only for the sake of conveying just how appalling those beliefs were.

• 2

God

In the first book of his Physics, Aristotle takes up the question of how many principles are needed to explain nature. One is not enough, because in order to have change we need to have contraries. Nor are two sufficient, since two contrary principles would simply nullify one another. Rather we need three:  two contraries and a subject upon which they can act (Physics 1.6, 189b1). Razi would think that Aristotle did not go far enough. There are in fact no fewer than five principles, a position reported by all our major sources on his cosmology. A pithy but informative version is to be found in al-​Bīrūnī: Muḥammad ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī has taken from the ancient Greeks five principles of things, which include the Creator, praise be to Him, universal soul, primary matter, and absolute place and time. He built his own teaching (madhhab) on this and made this its foundation. He distinguished between time (zamān) and duration (mudda) on the basis that number applies to one but not the other, because that to which number attaches is finite—​just as the philosophers made time the duration of what has a beginning and an end, whereas eternity (dahr) is the duration of what has neither beginning nor end. He said that with respect to this existence, the five [eternals] are necessarily existent. That in it which is sensible is matter, which has received form through composition. This

Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0002.

God  25 [sc. matter] is in place; so doubtlessly there is place. The variation in the states that come to it [sc. matter] is among the consequences of time, for some of them [sc. the states] come earlier and some later; through time are known the old and the new, what is relatively older and newer, and what is simultaneous. So there can be no doubt about [time]. In existence are living beings, so there is doubtless soul. And among them [living things] there are intellectual things, and there is art (ṣinaʿa) of the highest perfection, so there is no doubt that there is a Creator who is wise, knowing, perfect, benevolent in the highest degree possible, emanating the power of intellect in order that there may be liberation (takhlīṣ). (Works 195)

Much of the rest of this book will in effect be a commentary on this passage, as we examine the argumentative support for and further implications of the claims reported by al-​Bīrūnī. Despite its brevity, the passage manages to pack in a concise argument for each of the five eternals, and also to connect the theory (rightly, as we shall see) to the ethical goal of the soul’s “liberation” from the body.

2.1.  Why five principles? A similar summary from al-​Iṣfahānī, however, suggests a more abstract rationale for the whole scheme: Among those who claimed that the eternal is more than one, there were four groups. The first said that the eternal is only twofold: the agent and constituent (mādda), by which is meant matter (hayūlā). The second are those who allege that the eternal is threefold: agent, duration and void. The third are those who allege that [the eternal] is agent, constituent, void, and duration. The fourth is a group whose leader is Muḥammad ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī the doctor, for he added rational soul, so with his raving talk he got the number of the eternal up to five. The explanation of their doctrine is that of the five things that are everlasting (lam yazal), two that are not alive and neither, namely the Creator and the soul. One is passive and not alive, namely matter, from which all existing bodies are generated. And two are neither alive, nor active, nor passive, namely void and duration—​and further drivel that one cannot bear to set one’s hand to explaining, one’s tongue to uttering, or one’s heart to imagining! (Works 197)

26  Al-​ Rāzī Given the evident hostility of our witness, one might be inclined to discount this evidence. But the detail that Razi sought to classify his principles in terms of whether or not they are “active” is intriguing. With the contrast between that which acts and that which is acted upon, Razi seems to echo Aristotle’s contrast between the contraries and the passive subject upon which they act. This is an especially appealing thought given that Razi calls his passive principle “matter,” which was also the standard Aristotelian interpretation of the “underlying subject” proposed in the Physics. Furthermore, this classificatory scheme is confirmed by evidence in Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī’s Compendium (Muḥaṣṣal): They posited five principles, two of which are alive and active, namely the Creator and the soul, which is the principle of life, that is, human and heavenly spirits; one of which is passive without being alive, namely matter; and two that are not alive and neither active nor passive, namely eternity and space. (Works 213)

In light of this we might suppose that Razi derives his five principles through the sort of conceptual division we see in a near contemporary thinker of Latin Christendom, John Scotus Eriugena, who begins his Periphyseon by asserting that there must be four types of thing: creating but not created, both creating and created, not creating but created, and neither creating nor created.1 Indeed, this is apparently confirmed elsewhere by Fakhr al-​Dīn. The passage in question offers the most useful and detailed discussion of the Razian understanding of God available to us, and I will be drawing on it extensively in this chapter.2 His account begins as follows: They say:  the existent is either productive of an effect (muʾaththir) without being affected, and this is the Creator, the exalted; or is affected, without producing an effect, and this is matter; or it is both affected and productive of an effect, and this is soul. So [the soul] can receive an effect (athar) only from the world of the divine, and can produce an effect only in matter.3 As for what is neither productive of an effect nor affected, this is void and duration. They say: these four types arise in accordance with a division (taqsīm) made by the intellect. Furthermore, there is proof (dalīl) of their existence. (Exalted Topics 403)

So according to Fakhr al-​Dīn, Razi has a twofold method for establishing his five eternals. One the one hand, he can offer a “proof” of each

God  27 individually, which is the strategy we see in the opening passage from al-​ Bīrūnī. On the other hand, he appeals to a purely abstract process of division, much like Eriugena. There is, however, a discrepancy. Al-​ Iṣfahānī and Fakhr al-​ Dīn’s Compendium both state that soul is active like God, whereas the latter’s Exalted Topics put soul into its own category by making it also passive. So we have two versions of the scheme: Al-​Iṣ fahānī, Fakhr al-​Dī n 1 Active:4 God, soul Passive: matter Neither active nor passive: time and place. Fakhr al-​Dīn 2 Active: God Both active and passive: soul Passive: matter Neither active nor passive: time and place.

This second version looks more plausible as an abstract division, since the first version lacks one possible combination (both active and passive) and avoids the unwarranted assumption that there should be two active principles. On the other hand, in both versions we get the equally unwarranted positing of two items that are neither active nor passive.5 More fundamentally, one misses a justification for the whole strategy. What licenses us to infer the eternal existence of such principles from the mere fact that they cover the conceptual bases, so to speak, by representing the possible combinations of agency and passivity? On balance, then, it looks as if Razi thinks it is at least a virtue of his theory that it provided principles of all possible kinds, in respect of passivity and agency. But he would do well to supply arguments for each of his five principles. And this, as we see in our opening quote from al-​Bīrūnī and will see further in the coming chapters, is exactly what he does. In this chapter, we will begin to look at the two active principles, God and soul. In particular, we will deal with the question of why Razi thinks it is necessary to posit two such principles, rather than contenting himself with a single active cause. The move is a striking, not to say extraordinary, one. (Notice that al-​Iṣfahānī stresses the addition of soul as Razi’s distinctive, and especially appalling, contribution to the supposed tradition of those who invoke multiple principles.) Living in a culture where thinkers of three faiths were

28  Al-​ Rāzī using philosophical and theological arguments to establish the uniqueness and oneness of God as a Creator, Razi insisted that God is not the only agent involved in the generation of the universe. His reasons for doing so are complex, but they boil down to one fundamental issue: Razi assumes that God is perfectly wise, and does not think that the world we see can have been produced by a perfectly wise Creator acting on His own. It is too full of evil and suffering, and is furthermore inescapably the product of arbitrary decision-​making, which Razi takes to be inconsistent with God’s mercy, justice, and wisdom. This underlying rationale for the doubling of active cause is no less striking and extraordinary than the doubling itself. There may be no other medieval philosopher, whether in the Islamic world or in Greek or Latin Christendom, who was so impressed by the imperfection of the universe. Rather than assuring us that the world is (despite powerful evidence to the contrary) perfect, or at least as good as any world can be, Razi tries to absolve God from responsibility for choosing to creating it. He thus preserves God’s wisdom at the cost of admitting a second active cause for the universe. Or to put it another way, he sacrifices God’s uniqueness (tawḥīd) to save divine justice (ʿadl).6 When Fakhr al-​Dīn goes on from the classificatory passage just cited to explain Razi’s basis for positing each of the five principles, he declines to report any argument for God’s existence. Instead, he just says, “as for the eternity of the Creator, the proof of this is well-​known (mashhūr).” And indeed, Razi seems to feel less pressure to argue for this principle than the other four, so that our sources do not offer much in the way of proofs for God’s existence. This is unsurprising, since Razi’s cosmology is set out in a highly dialectical fashion. His likely opponents are not atheists, but theologians and philosophers who want to insist that God is the only principle. Nonetheless, we do find him giving positive reasons to accept that God exists and is perfectly wise. Our opening passage from al-​Bīrūnī says that without God there would be no “intellectual things” and no “art of the highest perfection,” suggesting that we need a wise, intellective principle to explain the possibility of wisdom and intellect in other things. In his commentary on Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Compendium, al-​Kātibī states that for Razi, God’s perfect wisdom means “that He does what is most fitting and beautiful, and emanates onto matters those forms that are most fitting for them” (Works 203). Finally, the creation of the world itself is said to show that there must be a creating God (Fakhr al-​Dīn, Exalted Topics, 403). Elsewhere Fakhr

God  29 al-​Dīn tells us that Razi compared the wise construction of the human body to the design of a jug whose proportions and handle enable the user to pour water out of it with ease. From this Razi concluded that humans must have a “wise and powerful” Creator (Exalted Topics vol.1, 224–​225).7

2.2.  The need for a foolish active cause This may seem paradoxical: if Razi is so impressed by the iniquities of the world, how can he also praise God as a wise and benevolent Creator and appeal to design arguments to prove His existence?8 It’s here that the soul comes in. As explained at length in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Exalted Topics, Razi posits a “foolish soul” in addition to a “wise Creator,” precisely so that he can explain both the imperfections and perfections that we see in the universe, with God getting none of the blame for the former and all the credit for the latter. As Fakhr al-​Dīn puts it on Razi’s behalf, “all the instances of good or relief that happen in this world are on account of (bi-​sabab) the arrangement (tadbīr) of the wise God, but all the iniquities and dangers that occur in it are on account of matter’s not receiving the beneficial in its entirety (al-​ṣalāḥ al-​kullī)” (413). This leaves the soul responsible for all unwelcome features of the universe, because it was soul that undertook to expose itself to the dangers posed by entanglement with matter. Apparently Razi was not bashful in enumerating these dangers, as reported by an indignant Maimonides: Al-​Razi wrote a well-​known book called On Metaphysics. Among other mad and foolish things it contains also the idea, discovered by him, that there exists more evil than good. For if the happiness of man and his pleasure in the times of prosperity be compared with the mishaps that befall him—​such as grief, acute pain, defects, paralysis of the limbs, fears, anxieties and troubles—​it would seem as if the existence of man is a punishment and a great evil for him. This author commenced to verify his opinion by counting all the evils one by one. By this means he opposed the correct view of the benefits bestowed by God and His evident kindness, namely that God is perfect goodness and that all that comes from Him is absolutely good. (Works 179–​180)9

The ending remark in Maimonides’ report is precisely wrong. In fact, Razi’s cosmology sought above all to ensure that God is the source of good

30  Al-​ Rāzī things, and nothing else. But the rest of his testimony has the ring of truth. Razi had good reason to stress the evils in the world, since it is on this basis that he asserts the existence of the second of his five principles, soul. It is furthermore plausible that he would have named such phenemona as pain and paralysis as examples. Razi’s work as a doctor may have given him such a vivid awareness of human suffering that he was moved to design an entire cosmology to explain how such evils could be possible. In the same spirit, Fakhr al-​Dīn has him saying that a “proof that the intention to bring the world into being would be inappropriate for the wise agent is that this world is full of pains and illnesses (al-​ālām wa-​l-​asqām)” (Exalted Topics 409). In fact, this is only one of three main arguments provided by Razi to show that the universe cannot proceed immediately from a perfectly wise God who always chooses what is best. Rather, there must be a second active cause, one capable of taking unwise and arbitrary actions. The three considerations are as follows (Exalted Topics 407–​409, cf. Works 207–​209):



(1) The universe is assumed to be created with a first moment in time (for more on this, see §2.4). But the moment at which the universe would be created must be chosen at random, and this is something that a wise God cannot do. (2) The universe contains too much suffering to have been created by a wise God. (3) A wise Creator would not fashion a creature (ʿabd) with needs and only later allow the needs to be satisfied, since this is pointless.

All three problems are supposed to be dealt with by positing a foolish, ignorant soul as a further agent alongside God. The soul, unlike God, might randomly choose a moment for the production of the universe, as required by point (1), and would also be likely to bring about useless and even contraproductive states of affairs, as demanded by (2) and (3). This happens when the soul conceives a powerful desire or passionate love (ʿishq) to be “mixed” together with matter.10 To understand Razi’s argument, we need to consider what it means for God to be “wise (ḥakīm)” and for the soul, conversely, to be “foolish (safīh)” and “ignorant (jāhil).” Fairly obviously, it means that God has more knowledge than the soul. In particular, God is able to foresee the consequences of possible actions, where the soul cannot. Thus He knows in advance that the soul’s love for matter will lead to disaster.11 Less obviously, a wise

God  31 agent is one who is never “frivolous (ʿabīth),” that is, never does anything without good reason. This point is made repeatedly in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s report (Exalted Topics 405, 408, 410, 412–​413). It is this constraint on wise action that prevents God from choosing an arbitrary moment for creating the world, and from creating need in His creatures only so He can satisfy it, something Razi compares, again echoing his medical mindset, to cutting open a man’s belly only to heal it afterward (Exalted Topics 413). This constraint on divine action is familiar from the philosophical tradition, and in particular from arguments for the eternity of the world. Al-​Ghazālī identifies it as the most compelling, albeit still sophistical, consideration offered by the philosophers in support of the eternity of the world. The world’s having been created with a first moment of time would require that God chose that first moment; but all moments have an equal claim to be chosen, so He would need to choose randomly.12 This thought process is also unfolded in some detail in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s report, which winningly remarks that “youths and crazy people change from action to inaction for no reason,” but not the wise (Exalted Topics 408). The argument is already known from antiquity, when it was discussed by Augustine and, more pertinently as a possible source for Razi, Proclus and his critic John Philoponus. Richard Sorabji has dubbed it the “why not sooner?” argument.13 Razi’s treatment of the “why not sooner?” issue is distinctive in at least two ways. First, he characteristically gives very concrete examples to make the point, which imply that even the wise human falls short of the perfect wisdom of God. For a wise man might play with the hairs of his beard or yank a plant out of a roadside for no reason. But these are things he would only do absentmindedly, “as if unaware,” so that his actions are “not in keeping with the rule (qānūn) of wisdom and that which is for the best” (Exalted Topics 405). The example of toying with one’s beard is intriguing, since it is also discussed in Razi’s Spiritual Medicine as an example of “trifling and frivolity” (Works 77–​80): he speaks of a king who was shamed by a courtier into giving up the beard-​twirling habit.14 Especially noteworthy here is that in both contexts, Razi uses the word “frivolity (ʿabath).” When Razi applies this concept in discussing the role of the Creator, it seems likely that he is alluding to a verse of the Qurʾān (23:115), in which God says: “did you suppose we created you frivolously (ʿabathan) and that you would not be returned to us?” The verse is perfect for Razi, capturing as it does the

32  Al-​ Rāzī impossibility of God’s doing anything uselessly or without reason, and the promise that humankind will be mercifully released from its current condition and brought back to the divine world. Indeed, one might even suspect that the material reported here in the Exalted Topics was, to some extent, an explicit or implicit commentary by Razi on this verse. That suspicion is only strengthened by the fact that just a few pages later, Fakhr al-​Dīn tells us that Razi engaged in exegesis of other Qurʾānic verses in defense of his cosmology (Exalted Topics 418).15 Second, the “why not sooner?” argument normally appears as a consideration in favor of the world’s eternity. Yet this is not how Razi deploys it, even though he agrees with eternalists that a wise God could not arbitrarily choose a first moment for creation. Nor can Razi exploit a possible escape suggested by al-​Ghazālī and other anti-​eternalists, by saying that time only starts to exist with the universe. After all, according to him, time is one of the five eternals. Instead, he turns the argument on its head. The eternalist argues:

(a) Any moment at which the universe might begin to exist would be chosen arbitrarily. (b) A perfectly wise agent cannot make arbitrary choices. (c) God is perfectly wise. (d) Therefore God does not begin to create the universe. (e) Therefore the universe has no beginning, i.e., is eternal ex parte ante.

Razi is with the eternalist all the way through step (d), but instead draws the following conclusion:

(e*) Therefore the agent who began to create the universe was not God.

It was instead a foolish agent, namely the soul. The arbitary moment is chosen not for any good reason, but because soul just “happened to incline towards matter” (Exalted Topics 411).

2.3. Razi’s theodicy Similarly, the soul is responsible for the presence of suffering in the universe. Our physical universe in general, and living bodies in particular, are

God  33 the product of the soul’s mixture with matter. Sadly, matter cannot “receive combination [with the soul] in an ideal and perfect way that would free [the soul] from all manner of harm” (Exalted Topics 411). It is crucial for Razi’s theory that it would be better if this had never happened at all. If, on balance, the soul’s combining with matter were a good thing, then the existence of suffering would be no obstacle to giving God the credit (and blame) for creating the universe as we see it.16 For a wise agent might well decide to do something that, on balance, is more good than bad. Thus, Maimonides was right to claim that for Razi, “there exists more evil than good” in the world (Works 179, cited earlier in §2.2). This is the thrust of Razi’s problem (2), which says that the suffering we see in the universe is inconsistent with its having been chosen by a wise, benevolent God. Problem (3) adds that, whatever benefit the soul can get out of embodiment presupposes a “need” that would then have to be satisfied. The need itself would constitute a kind of “harm” until it is remedied, and in any case it constitutes another act of “frivolity” to bring about need just so one can satisfy that need (Exalted Topics 409). In light of these points, we can see that Razi’s postulation of an eternal soul is first and foremost a theodicy. It reconciles the existence of evil with the perfect wisdom and benevolence of God, and without justifying evil or explaining it away, as do most traditional theodicies.17 Instead, he accepts that it would be better for the universe not to exist. Breathtaking though this may be in his cultural context, it is not unique. Razi would be in agreement with figures from the Gnostic and Zoroastrian tradition. Within the framework of today’s debates over the problem of evil, meanwhile, Razi’s position is most reminiscent of the free will defense, which traces evil to the malign effects of creaturely choice. But there is a significant difference. Whereas the contemporary free will defense usually assumes the burden of justifying God’s decision to create free creatures despite His knowing that they would (or at least might) go wrong, Razi gives the freely choosing soul its own ontological autonomy. It is an eternal principle, and is not caused by God. Thus God is freed from all culpability. His role is solely to step in once the soul has made its unwise choice, and ensure that the results are as good as possible, even if still more bad than good. We have seen talk of God’s emanating beneficial forms onto creation, and one might plausibly suppose that such positive features of the world as physical beauty and cosmic order are to be ascribed to benificent divine

34  Al-​ Rāzī influence. But God’s primary way of rescuing the situation is to give soul a means by which it can escape from the situation it has put itself in: intellect or reason (ʿaql; see also Works 206). [God] knew that it was preferable and more beneficial that the union with those bodies, to which the soul sought to attach itself, should be as close as possible to being beneficial, and as far as possible from receiving corruption, so that the goods would be many, and the iniquities few, insofar as was possible. And then He, may He be exalted, emanated the light of reason upon the substance of the soul (yafīḍu nūr al-​ʿaql ʿalā jawhar al-​nafs), so that, thanks to the light of reason, it might become clear to [the soul] that the iniquities that arise in this union are greater than the goods that arise in it. At which point the soul’s nature would become averse to mixture with matter, and would return to its own world which is free and purified from any inclination towards the world of matter. (Exalted Topics 412)

This fits well with the opening of Razi’s ethical work the Spiritual Medicine, which likewise speaks of ʿaql as the greatest gift of God to humankind, and also with the talk of the soul’s “liberation” in his Philosophical Life (for more on the connections between his cosmology and his ethics, see §8.4). But there is an obvious objection to this story, one raised by both Abū Ḥātim and Fakhr al-​Dīn (Proofs 18, Exalted Topics 415). Since God, according to Razi, knew that the soul would let itself in for pain and suffering by entering into a composition with matter, why didn’t He stop it from doing so? The answer is that He allowed it to happen as a kind of learning experience for soul. In one of the more memorable passages of Abū Ḥātim’s report of his debates with Razi (Proofs 18–​19), the latter compares this to a father who might allow his child to enter a beautiful garden that turns out to be full of thorns and stinging insects. There’s a very similar analogy in Fakhr al-​Dīn (Exalted Topics 416), in which a father allows his son to venture to a foreign country despite knowing it is a vicious place.18 Again, the wise father would allow the son to go. In this second parable there is even a feature that represents the role of reason: the father would send a wise advisor to help the son avoid getting into too much trouble, and to help him return to his homeland in the end. In both stories, the tough love of the father allows the child to see the error of his ways. Just so, the use of reason allows the soul to realize that composition with matter was a mistake. Thereupon it acquires a new “inclination” or “desire,” this time for liberation from its travails.

God  35 In both parables, Razi helps himself to the assumption that the child’s (or the soul’s) desire for getting into trouble is a powerful one that the father (or God) cannot eliminate in any other way. This seems problematic. If it is the “light of reason” that allows us to see the iniquity of attachment to matter, why can’t God simply bestow this light upon the soul before it makes its fateful choice? Apparently the soul must first undergo distress to bring home the lesson if reason is to prevail. But why should this be? One answer might be that the light of reason is not active knowledge, but a capacity for reflecting on the information at one’s disposal. Since the soul begins in an ignorant state, it must be confronted with the dire consequences of matter before reason can determine that the soul’s overall good will be achieved not with the pleasures gained through attachment, but through liberation followed by restful existence in its proper realm.19 Another relevant consideration can be taken from Razi’s psychological theory. As we’ll see (§3.3), he follows Plato in holding that the human soul has a threefold structure, with reason needing to govern the lower irascible and desiring powers. Admittedly, it’s not clear whether this structure is meant to apply to the eternal soul of which we have been speaking. But if so, it would make good sense of God’s decision. Bestowing reason on the soul will only help if the soul can use it to extinguish its passionate longing (ʿishq) for composition with matter. But Razi is well aware that the lower soul does not immediately respond to rational argument (see §8.2). Instead, one must appeal to the values that are recognized by that soul as important, notably the avoidance of pain. In this light, we can see that the desiring aspect of soul may need to be exposed to the pain and suffering of attachment with matter before the soul in its entirety can be freed of its longing for embodiment. Though neither this nor the previous line of thought is spelled out in any of our sources, Razi could appeal to either of them in support of his claim that God cannot simply eliminate the wicked desire from soul, but must first allow that desire to be satisfied.

2.4.  The non-​eternity of the world When we think about the Greek sources of Arabic debates over the eternity of the world, the names that leap to mind are the eternalists Aristotle and Proclus and the anti-​eternalist Philoponus. Certainly all these authors were influential, and were used by authors prior to and contemporaneous with

36  Al-​ Rāzī Razi, like al-​Kindī and Saadia Gaon.20 As so often, though, it turns out that on this topic the most important Hellenic thinker for Razi is Galen. This may seem surprising, since Galen mentions the eternity of the world as the sort of undecidable issue that philosophers waste their time discussing.21 However, he does have the honor of being mentioned at the very beginning of that classic treatment of the eternity question, al-​Ghazālī’s Incoherence of the Philosophers: In his book entitled What Galen Believes as Sound Judgment, Galen adopted a noncommittal position on this question, [stating] that he does not know whether the world is eternal or created, that perhaps he can prove that [the answer] is unknowable to him, not because of any shortcoming on his part, but because of the inherent difficulty of this to [human] minds.22

Here al-​Ghazālī is apparently referring to the passage of Galen’s On My Own Opinions that is also cited by Razi at Doubts (§2.2), which apparently read, “I do not know whether the universe is created and whether there is anything outside (the universe) or not.”23 Razi complains that this and a similar remark in On Medical Experience24 are inconsistent with the fourth book of Galen’s On Demonstration, now extant only as fragments and testimonia. Supposedly it argued in favor of the world’s eternity in the following way: If the world were subject to corruption, then the bodies in it would not remain just as they are (bi-​ḥāl wāḥida bi-​ʿaynihā), nor would the distances between them, their magnitudes, and their motions. Furthermore the water that was in the sea before our time would have disappeared. Yet none of these things stops being as it is or changes, as astronomers have observed for many thousands of years. (Doubts §2.1)

Furthermore, Razi tells us, Galen assumed that if the universe does not corrupt it was never generated, because that which is incorruptible must also be ungenerable.25 The tension between Galen’s agnosticism in other texts and his eternalism in this passage is puzzling. But it is other testimony concerning On Demonstration itself that really shows something to be amiss. As noted in a study of the problem by Pauline Koetschet,26 we learn from Philoponus’s Against Proclus on the Eternity of the World that in On Demonstration, Galen was trying to show that neither side of the eternity debate has a strong proof on its side. Even more decisive is the

God  37 testimony of Galen himself. In On Marasmus, he remarks in passing that in On Demonstration he has shown that the principle just mentioned, that everything generated is destroyed, is “neither scientific nor necessary,” but merely “probable (pithanon).”27 Koetschet argues persuasively that the pro-​ eternity considerations offered by Galen were actually part of a dialectical argument. Perhaps because of his incomplete access to the fourth book of On Demonstration, Razi was under the impression that Galen was actually trying to establish the eternity of the world, where in fact Galen was only (as typical for this work) presenting a supposedly demonstrative argument in order to then show its weaknesses. This is consonant with conclusions I have drawn elsewhere about the passage, though I suggested that when Razi remarks that someone might say Galen was “unable to say for sure that the world is incorruptible, but rather just looked to see where one would need take premises from” (Doubts §2.6), he shows awareness that the passage could be read more dialectically.28 On the other hand, he responds to this possible objection by insisting that Galen was in On Demonstration “taking non-​principles as principles and drawing inferences not implied by the premises.” The upshot, in any case, is that Razi ironically winds up arguing in the spirit of Galen, and not against Galen’s actual position. His refutation is directed against the following line of thought:



(1) Observations made by past generations show parts of the universe29 (e.g., the heavens, the earth, and the waters in the sea) to be unchanging. (2) What is unchanging is incorruptible. (3) What is incorruptible is ungenerable.

Therefore the universe is ungenerable. We know already that Razi was committed to a temporal beginning for the universe, so it is unsurprising that he wants to challenge the argument he finds in Galen. Happily, from his point of view, that argument looks weak at every point. We know that Galen himself questioned the credentials of premise (3). Razi instead aims his fire mostly at premises (1) and (2), so that his discussion is after all not merely an unwitting recapitulation of the Galenic response to Aristotle. Premise (1), as Koetschet has pointed out, must be inspired by a passage in Aristotle’s On the Heavens,30 which gives the following rationale in support of the eternity of the cosmos:

38  Al-​ Rāzī The mere evidence of the senses is enough to convince us of this, at least with human certainty. For in the whole range of time past, so far as our inherited records reach, no change appears to have taken place either in the whole scheme of the outermost heaven or in any of its proper parts. (On the Heavens 1.3, 270b11–​16, Stocks trans.)

Razi is presumably unaware that this is Galen’s source, yet he astutely focuses on the very thing highlighted by Aristotle:  the role of sense-​perception. Razi offers various objections to this attempt to ground eternalism in empirical evidence. It must be said that these objections are rather convincing. The things to which Aristotle refers may change so slowly that their alteration would not be apparent even over many generations. Furthermore, in the case of the heavens, the magnitudes involved cannot be measured with perfect accuracy (we could not perceive it if a mountain-​sized chunk were removed from the sun). Both considerations undermine premise (1), by suggesting that the sum of our empirical evidence is inadequate to prove that any part of the universe is unchanging. More intriguing is Razi’s way of casting doubt on premise (2): a thing might endure for any length of time without change, but still be susceptible to sudden destruction, like a glass being smashed or a castle suddenly collapsing because of a landslide (Doubts §2.3). I say this is “more intriguing” because it suggests that no amount of empirical evidence, however exact, could rule out the possiblity of the world’s corruption. Even if we knew for sure that the heavens have remained unchanged for the last million years, that would not rule out their suddenly being destroyed tomorrow. The mere abstract possibility of such an event would suffice for Razi argument, but he hints that he is thinking of something more specific: “it is in this way that the world corrupts, according to those purveyors of religion who speak of its corruption, that is, by way of being suddenly demolished (intiqāḍ), not by withering away” (Doubts §2.3). As the pejorative reference to “purveyors of religion (mutadayyinūn)” makes clear, Razi is not asserting that this will actually happen. He just says it is a possibility that the supposedly Galenic, in fact Aristotelian, argument has not ruled out. The idea that the universe could be destroyed by some external force, like a smashed glass, reappears further in the following: It is incorrect to say that the world is not corrupted, unless it is correct to say that it is unlimited or that there is nothing else other than it (and he [sc. Galen] ought to know that the same can be said about incorporeal

God  39 substances). So then if [the world] is limited, or if there is something other than it, it will be incorrect to say that it is not corrupted, unless it is right to say that this other thing is incapable of corrupting it, and that its [sc. the world’s] substance is not at all receptive of change or decay. (Doubts §2.5)

This is rather puzzling, and not just because of the tangle of negations. Razi is clearly raising the possibility of some corrupting force external to the cosmos. But what is the relevance of the universe’s being “limited,” and what is the purport of the parenthetical remark about incorporeal substances? The passage can be clarified by turning to the late antique arguments to which Razi is alluding. In particular, we need to look at the eighth argument of Proclus’s On the Eternity of the World. It asserts as a premise that “everything corrupted is corrupted by something different from itself, by something acting extrinsically (ἐκ τινος ἀλλοτρίου προσβάλλοντος ἔξοθεν), and is corrupted into something different from itself.”31 But the universe already contains all things and there is nothing “different from it” (note that in the passage just cited from Doubts, Razi twice says shayʾ ghayrihi). Hence there is nothing that can corrupt it, or into which it could corrupt. Therefore the universe is incorruptible; and as we know, that which is incorruptible is also ungenerable. If we now turn to John Philoponus’s response to this argument in his Against Proclus on the Eternity of the World, we will see the relevance of Razi’s emphasis on the finiteness of the universe. At first glance, the point may seem to be that an infinitely large cosmos would leave no room outside it for an extrinsic cause of corruption. But the discussion in Philoponus suggests a different explanation. Delighting as usual in turning his opponent’s words against him, he points out that Proclus himself thinks that the finiteness of the universe means that it must depend on a higher cause for its everlasting existence. Thus, “even should there be nothing to attack the world and destroy it, the very finite [nature] of its power . . . becomes the cause of its passing out of existence; for if the world does not perish . . . it is not on account of there being nothing else outside of it that it does not perish but because immortality comes to it from that which always is.”32 Here we have the line of thought expressed by Razi. It is not enough to exclude an external cause. One must also deny that the universe, being finite, has an intrinsic tendency toward corruption, or as Razi puts it, it must not “be receptive of change and decay.” Of course, if the universe depends for its continued existence on some cause “different

40  Al-​ Rāzī from it,” then that cause could allow the universe to corrupt simply by withdrawing its support. This thought would be nicely captured by Razi’s earlier example of the castle which collapses because the ground under it gives way. More generally Razi, like Philoponus before him, is pointing out that the universe’s eternity or lack thereof may depend on causal factors outside it. If so, observations concerning the apparent permanence of the ocean’s waters or the heavenly bodies cannot hope to decide the issue. That the causal factors may be supernatural is suggested by the rather obscure reference to incorporeal substances in our passage. The point would be that when we say there is “nothing else other than” the universe, we also need to rule out such incorporeal things. Then we have the previous allusion to the “purveyors of religion” who think the universe will simply be destroyed suddenly. Presumably the thought is that God has the power to destroy the universe, and even if He never does so, it is up to Him to decide. One could extract the same lesson from Plato’s Timaeus, which has the Demiurge announce that he will never destroy what he has made: it is only his will that guarantees its eternal future existence (41b). But with its hints that the universe depends on the continued support of incorporeal causes, Razi’s treatment here in Doubts fits well into a trend we see elsewhere in Arabic philosophical literature.33 Where Philoponus still devoted extensive discussion to the intrinsic destructibility of the cosmos, this comes to seem less important in the Islamic world. Al-​Kindī even asserts that the heavens are naturally incorruptible, but adds the caveat that they will exist only so long as God allows.34 Eternalism will live on, but usually on the basis that God’s very existence guarantees the existence of the cosmos, rather than on the basis of the nature of the cosmos itself.

2.5.  On Metaphysics The explanatory power of nature is questioned more directly in On Metaphysics, which seems to be a large fragment from a longer work. It has been given book-​length analysis by Giulio Lucchetta, who sees no reason to doubt the manuscript’s ascription of the text to Razi.35 The title under which it has been transmitted is not one we find in the book-​lists of Ibn al-​Nadīm and al-​Bīrūnī, which might occasion some disquiet. Yet there are reasons to suspect whether the title that has come down to us was

God  41 originally attached to the work. It is a poor fit for the surviving content, which covers miscellaneous topics in natural philosophy, not metaphysics. The first section is about nature in general, the second on embryology, the third on the infinity of the universe. Furthermore, our text seems to begin in medias res, and if its beginning was lost, why think that the correct title was preserved? Kraus thus seems right (Works 113–​114) to suggest that the label On Metaphysics was added later. We know that Razi wrote a work or works on natural philosophy; perhaps this is a lengthy fragment from one of these.36 Though the problem of the title is easy to solve, its authenticity has not been accepted on all sides. Miyān Muḥammad Sharīf dismisses it as spurious without explanation.37 Alessandro Bausani, worried that it does not conform to Razi’s usual doctrine, suggests that it may have been written at a different period of Razi’s career, possibly a juvenile work.38 It seems to me likely that it is indeed a work by Razi, which matches his intellectual profile rather better than Bausani suggests. Particularly characteristic of Razi, at least at first glance, is the middle section on embryology (on which see, in this volume, §7.4). The sarcasm directed here at Galen and other authors is reminiscent of the Doubts. In the other two sections, which I  will discuss in what follows, the author shows considerable knowledge of Graeco-​ Arabic works on natural philosophy, which fits well with Razi’s boasts in the Philosophical Life concerning his mastery of this field (Works 109). The author also knows and opposes the eternalist arguments of Aristotle and Proclus, which we’ve just seen to be at least in the background of the discussion of eternity in Doubts.39 Finally, On Metaphysics alludes to several authors who wrote in Arabic (like Thābit Ibn Qurrā and al-​Kindī), all of whom are early enough that their works could be known to Razi. The range of sources on which our author draws is, therefore, at least compatible with Razian authorship. What of the supposed doctrinal disagreements between On Metaphysics and the rest of the Razian corpus? In terms of philosophical method, the work is highly dialectical, and in this respect reminscent of Razi’s Doubts. We just saw how there, he appeals to “purveyors of religion” for the idea of the sudden destruction of the universe, his point being simply to establish that this is a possibility that the eternalist needs to eliminate. On Metaphysics unfolds in much the same way, criticizing Aristotelian philosophers for failing to rule out certain rival positions. We can see this at the very outset of the first section, which questions the theory of nature found in

42  Al-​ Rāzī Aristotle and his followers. Alluding to Physics 2.1, 193a3–​4, the author of On Metaphysics reports Aristotle’s claim that “nature stands in no need of proof, since it is evident.” He acidly replies that “something is not true just because people grant it,” a Razian thought if ever there was one (see §6.2 in this volume for his rejection of taqlīd). He then adds: What would you think if your opponents said that they need no proof for their assertion that there is no nature? One may dispense with proof only for things that have been directly experienced, and for the intellectual first principles of demonstrations. But nature is not available to sense-​perception, nor is the knowledge of it a principle for the intellect. (Works 116)

Like the Razi of Doubts and the Galen of On Demonstration, the author of On Metaphysics adopts a strict, empirically based methodology, sitting in judgment on positions taken by the ancients and finding that they fall short of proof. The author cites other, unnamed philosophers who did feel the need to provide an argument for nature, unlike Aristotle himself. They pointed to such phenomena as the rectilinear motion of the elements to show that there is an underlying “nature” that gives rise to these actions. To them, the author suggests replying as follows: One may say to them, “on what basis do you deny that God, great and exalted, is all by Himself that which necessitates the powers of all other actions, and the natures of things? If we do not go along with what you say regarding nature, then they may be due to Him and not to it [sc. nature].” (Works 116–​117)

Unlike the remark about not simply accepting what others say, this looks to be an alarmingly un-​Razian thought. He is no occasionalist but ascribes causal power to other principles, such as the soul. He also concedes explanatory power to the four-​element theory, even if he sees elemental properties as derivative of atomic structure rather than as fundamental, as the Aristotelians claimed (for more on this, see §4.2). We should not, however, leap to the conclusion that Razi could not have written these lines. The author may be thinking of contemporary mutakallimūn, who do hold that God directly intervenes in the universe to cause all events. And again, he need not be agreeing with that thesis. The point may simply be that the Aristotelians owe us a refutation of occasionalism.

God  43 But however dialectical the text may be, we must still ask ourselves why the author is troubling himself to raise doubts against this particular Aristotelian doctrine. As we read on, it becomes increasingly clear that the author does have a positive agenda. He wants to argue that postulating nature as a fundamental principle is otiose, because the supposed functions of nature can more plausibly be ascribed not just to God, but to God and the soul. Seen in this light, the first section turns out to make perfect sense as a composition by Razi. It would show that we should not postulate nature as a third “active principle,” so as to bring the total number of principles to six. The relevant background is provided by texts from the Aristotelian tradition which spoke of nature precisely as an active principle. One key target is John Philoponus who, as we read in On Metaphysics, made nature “a power that penetrates through bodies and governs them” (Works 118).40 In the passage cited here, Philoponus goes on to make nature closely akin to soul, since it does for the inanimate what soul does for the animate. This makes even clearer nature’s potential claim to be a further principle: if its function is like that of soul, then it has just as much right to the title as soul does. Philoponus’s idea was picked up in the Arabic tradition, as we can see from texts written by various of the Baghdad Peripatetics. Yaḥyā Ibn ʿAdī, for instance, says that nature is an active (fāʿil) principle which has a role analogous to that of the soul.41 In Arabic Neoplatonic works, meanwhile, nature is also sometimes given the status of a hypostasis distinct from soul.42 The author of On Metaphysics rejects this sort of account, drawing attention to what he identifies as an internal contradiction in the Aristotelian theory: You describe nature the way you would describe a living being, as choosing, knowing, and wise. You say that it [sc. nature] does nothing without wisdom and right reason, and that it aims at an end, making one thing so that another may exist. For example it makes the eye for the embryo for the sake of vision, and the hand for the sake of grasping, and the teeth for chewing. . . . Yet at the same time, you claim that it [sc. nature] is dead, lifeless, unsensing, bereft of power, choice and knowledge. (Works 118)

By ascribing life, wisdom, and so on to nature, the philosophers make it sound very much like God, except that nature is “immanent” or “imprinted” (maṭbūʿ) upon bodily things whereas God is separate (Works 120). This is not, however, to say that the author wants simply to transfer all of nature’s

44  Al-​ Rāzī supposed tasks to God, even if that impression is given by the occasionalist-​ sounding passage at Works 116–​117, cited earlier. Some purportedly “natural” phenomena are rather to be explained with reference to soul: On what basis do you deny that the composition of the man is due to the rational soul rather than nature, and that the powers of growth and nutrition are due to it rather than nature? We turn the tables on you, ascribing to the soul what is due to nature, just as you ascribe to nature what is due to the rational soul. (Works 119)

Choice is also highlighted as a capacity distinctive of soul, and something of which nature is incapable (Works 118, 121–​122). Now, one could easily take all this to be more dialectical argumentation. The author clearly accuses the Aristotelians of self-​contradiction—​ they make nature both alive and dead—​and challenges them to prove that nature, not God or soul, is responsible for the good design and activity of natural things. Indeed, the very point just mentioned, that natural action is to be contrasted with voluntary action, is supported with an allusion to fire’s inability to do anything but heat. The contrast and even the example are taken from Aristotle himself.43 So this is another case where the author uses his opponents’ ideas against them, restricting himself to an internal critique of the Aristotelians’ position. Yet the author does seem to be speaking for himself in passages like the following: To sum up, nothing can act, aim at an end, exert will, or affect anything unless it is something choosing and alive. But what is imprinted (maṭbūʿ)44 is dead, and may not be described in this way. (Works 122)

To this one may add that the author of On Metaphysics unhesitatingly points out that the natural world is full of defects. He recalls Theophrastus’s examples of apparent exceptions to Aristotelian teleology, such as the long horns of stags, which easily get tangled in trees (Works 123).45 The author of our text, then, knows and dialectically engages with both Aristotelian philosophy and Hellenic medical literature; is at least open to the idea that the natural world is imperfect; invokes God and soul as the sole active principles responsible for life, choice, and the traces of wisdom in the cosmos; and to judge by his sources must have written around the turn of the tenth century. In short, the first section gives us ample reason to think that On Metaphysics could indeed be by Razi. What of the third section, which deals with the infinity of the universe? At first glance, it looks even more straightforwardly Razian, as the author

God  45 devotes most of his attention to arguing against the eternity of the universe. Closer inspection reveals some apparent discrepancies, though, especially on the topics of time and place. Place actually comes into the discussion first, because the author is here concerned to refute not only arguments in favor of an eternal world, but also those in favor of an infinitely extended world (and at Works 132–​133, an infinite number of worlds). Some have tried to support this idea with a rather naive inductive proof: we never see a body that has no further body beyond it. This, says the author, would be like a person who grew up among a uniformly black population thinking that all humans are black (the same example is used again at Works 131), or like someone from a rural village who has never seen the coast, and thinks that the land must extend indefinitely in all directions (Works 127–​128). On the one hand, this response may remind us of Razi’s treatment of the eternity of the universe in Doubts. There he stressed the incapacity of empirical evidence for settling the question. Far in the past, before the observations available to us, maybe the heavens or seas have changed after all. So here, if we go far enough in space, we may find that the universe has a limit. On the other hand, we know that Razi did think that “absolute place” or void was unlimited (Works 254; see further §5.4 in this volume). Why would he be arguing here in favor of a limited universe? Well, Razi does believe that the physical cosmos has an “edge.” Only the surrounding void is infinite. But at the end of the third section the author seems to be rejecting that picture as well. He mentions a proof already used by the Stoics in favor of their own, very similar cosmic picture (a finite cosmos surrounded by infinite void—​though unlike Razi their cosmos is made of continuous matter rather than atoms). If someone at the edge of the cosmos stuck out their hand beyond that edge, it would have to move into empty space (Works 134). Instead of signaling eager agreement, as we might expect Razi to do, the author rather noncommitally mentions two possible responses that others have made. Still, the passage is explicitly dialectical, with the author simply setting out rival arguments without necessarily taking any firm view on the issue himself. Between these two briefer forays into the topic of infinite space, there is a more substantial discussion of infinite time (Works 128–​132). The author explicitly cites arguments from Aristotle, Thābit ibn Qurra, and al-​Kindī (appearing in the unlikely guise of an eternalist). He also alludes at one point to a treatment of Proclus which he has composed earlier (Works 129). From Aristotle, he considers two main arguments: that there can be no first

46  Al-​ Rāzī motion, since there would be an earlier motion needed to cause the supposedly first motion (Physics 8.1, 251a23–​28); and that time cannot begin since there would, absurdly, need to be a point “before” time began, but “before” implies time (Metaphysics 12.6, 1071b7–​10). In both cases, the author’s responses may seem difficult to reconcile with Razian authorship, but the contradictions are merely apparent. To the argument against a first motion, he says:  “what we say is that the body and the motion were originated (ḥādithān) together. We have undermined [the preceding argument] already, by saying that the Creator, the great and exalted, possesses an action after not having acted, so He changed” (Works 128). There’s no problem with the first claim, but didn’t we see Razi taking great pains to avoid a spontaneous act of creation by God? Not exactly. What we saw him denying is that God on His own chooses an arbitrary moment to act after not acting. In the Razian cosmology, God does begin to create after not creating, but this change is triggered by a foolish choice on the part of soul. So what the author says here is not inconsistent with Razian doctrine. What of the argument against a first moment of time? The author claims to have dealt with this elsewhere, in a rebuttal of Proclus, but fortunately sees fit to add more (Works 128–​129). He flatly says that “time is finite,” and illustrates the possibility of time’s beginning with the example of a day: Saturday has a beginning and an end, and these terminal points do not themselves arise in time. By analogy, the time of the entire universe could have a beginning that is not originated in time. Besides, the Aristotelian claims that place has a limit, and there is no difference between saying that there is a time before every time and saying (as did the naive argument considered earlier) that there is a further place outside every place.46 This looks to be in flat contradiction to Razi’s thought. He insists on the eternity of time, even though he denies the eternity of the universe. It should, however, be noted that he argues for the possibility of time’s beginning by alluding to the beginning of a distinct segment of time, namely a day. In Razi’s physics, such a segment of time—​a “relative” time—​is a part of absolute time or eternity, which is marked off by some motion. A day, for instance, is demarcated by one motion of the sun around the earth (see further §5.3 in this volume).47 It is significant that the argument here in On Metaphysics establishes only the possibility that relative time can begin, since for Razi the time of the entire cosmos is such a relative time. To put

God  47 the same point in another way: for Razi, Aristotle has a superficial understanding of time according to which time is always relative and delimited, since it is the measure of motion. And on this conception, time can indeed begin, along with the motion of what it measures. That is all the author of On Metaphysics shows here, and it is all he needs to show if he is to maintain that the universe had a beginning.

• 3

Soul

The topic of the soul illustrates particularly well the challenging nature of our evidence concerning Razi’s thought. Of course, reports about the theory of the five eternals include mention of the soul, because the soul is one of those five eternals. But we also find treatments of the soul in On Spiritual Medicine and in Razi’s medical corpus. Thus in trying to reconstruct Razi’s psychology there are three bodies of evidence to draw on. Bringing together all this information into a single philosophical account is no easy matter. Doing so requires answering three main questions, which will occupy us in this chapter. First, soul as it figures in the theory of the five eternals is apparently a single “world soul.” What is the relation between this soul and individual souls, which are the topic of psychological discussions in the ethical and medical contexts? We have no explicit evidence that bears on the question, but as we’ll see, it is possible to make some educated guesses. Second, in various reports of Razi’s views and in the Spiritual Medicine, we find a strong commitment to the immateriality of soul, or at least rational soul. Can this be reconciled with the apparently materialist psychology of the medical writings? Third and finally, Razi is notorious for having endorsed a theory of reincarnation. If he really did so, that would constitute another piece to be fit into the puzzle. Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0003.

Soul  49 Aside from these philosophical issues, we will also need in this chapter to determine the sources Razi drew on and how he modified them, as was his wont. Here there is little doubt that, as so often, Razi was influenced especially by Plato and by Galen. The richest section on psychology in the Spiritual Medicine (Works 27–​31) is explicitly designated by Razi as an account of the views of Plato (and of Socrates, 31.3). Razi does not come right out and say that he agrees with these views, only that he admires them. But as we will see, Razi endorses the Platonic account. As for Galen, he played a role in the transmission of Plato’s ideas, and he is of course the primary source for the psychology found in the medical works. Yet in Doubts about Galen, Razi actually criticizes the Galenic position on soul as being insufficiently Platonic.

3.1.  Soul as an eternal principle Al-​Iṣfahānī’s report on Razi’s theory of the five eternal principles situates Razi within a schematic account of “four sects (firaq)” which postulate eternal principles in addition to God. One sect recognizes matter in addition to an agent. Another adds void; a third adds both void and duration. Then there is Razi: his contribution, which differentiates him from the other three sects, is to postulate “rational soul (al-​nafs al-​nāṭiqa)” as an eternal principle alongside God, matter, void, and duration (Works 197, cited earlier, §2.1). We need not uncritically accept this idea of a succession of groups outdoing one another’s heresies by multiplying eternal entities. But al-​Iṣfahānī is on to something, because soul is indeed a particularly distinctive element in Razi’s theory. Among the five eternals, it is soul that introduces an element of dynamism and unpredictability. Without soul, there would be no physical cosmos and no change apart from random atomic motion. This is not to say that soul’s dynamism and unpredictability are an entirely good thing. Far from it: as we saw in the previous chapter (§2.2), soul is postulated as a principle precisely so that its ignorance and foolishness may facilitate the Razian cosmogony. To recapitulate, this allows Razi to solve the “why not sooner?” problem, namely that a perfectly wise God cannot be supposed arbitrarily to choose a particular moment for the creation of the cosmos. Furthermore, Razi believes that the world is so full

50  Al-​ Rāzī of suffering that it cannot be produced solely by a wise and benevolent Creator. Faced with the choice between denying God’s wisdom and benevolence and denying his uniqueness as an eternal principle, Razi takes the latter course. As we have seen, he blames the presence of suffering on soul’s unwise involvement with matter. The soul’s foolishness thus not only explains the arbitrary selection of a moment for creation, but also dissolves the problem of evil. We might wonder why Razi needs to posit an eternal soul to solve these problems. Couldn’t he suppose that God creates soul, perhaps bestowing upon it free will as well as existence, and that soul then determines the first moment for the creation of a world full of suffering? This would bring Razi’s view closer to the version of the free will defense that is deployed against the problem of evil in contemporary philosophy of religion. But the proposed solution would in fact solve nothing. If God creates a non-​eternal soul, then the soul too will have a first moment of existence, and we are back to the problem of God’s choosing that moment arbitrarily. Likewise, if God creates soul, and soul proceeds to give rise to suffering, then we still have the problem of why God chooses (now more indirectly) to initiate a process which yields suffering. Is postulating an eternal soul any better? Perhaps the involvement of an unwise soul does help to explain why the world has suffering in it, despite being the creation of a wise God. But things are not so clear with the “why not sooner?” dilemma. Why is soul able to choose a first moment arbitrarily, whereas God cannot? In Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Compendium we are told that Razi considered this problem, and provided the following answer: This objection is inadmissable from the theologians, because they hold that someone with the power to act and to choose may prefer one thing he can do over another, without any preponderating factor. So why wouldn’t they permit that in the case of the soul? It is also inadmissable from the philosophers, because they allow what comes before to be a preparatory cause for what follows. So why wouldn’t they allow one to say that the soul is eternal and has countless notions (taṣawwurāt) arising one after another, but what comes earlier always causes what follows, until the soul arrives at this notion that leads it to attach [to matter]? (Works 210.2–​211.4, McGinnis and Reisman trans., modified)

Razi’s point against the theologians (mutakallimūn) is fairly straightforward:  since they accept that a perfectly wise God can do something

Soul  51 arbitrary, they should a fortiori admit that a foolish soul can do the same. As for the philosophers (falāsifa), Razi seems to assume that they rule out all uncaused events. Causes are first said to be “preparatory (muʿidda)” for their effects, but the last phrase suggests a stronger relation of necessitation between cause and effect. These philosophers are thus thoroughgoing determinists, so against them Razi cannot invoke spontaneous action on the part of the soul. Instead he suggests, rather obscurely, that the soul is subject to a (presumably eternal) sequence of “notions,” each of which gives rise to the next. This train of thought terminates in soul’s idea that it should attach itself to matter. Characteristically, Razi is here indulging in a dialectical form of argument. The “train of thought” is offered not as a possibility that Razi himself necessarily endorses, but simply as one that the philosophers cannot rule out. Similarly, we know that Razi does not believe that God can do things arbitrarily, yet he is happy to seize on the theologians’ admission that this is possible. Given this admission on their part, it would be hypocrisy for them to object to the Razian account. The upshot is that we remain in the dark regarding Razi’s own view as to how soul attaches to matter at an arbitrary moment. For further light we can turn to a passage in Abū Ḥātim’s account of their debate about the five eternals. Abū Ḥātim puts it to Razi that the soul’s desire to attach to matter must have been either “innate (gharīzī)” or “by compulsion (qasrī).” If the former, then soul would attach to matter eternally; if the latter, God must have compelled soul to attach to matter. In either case, Razi is refuted (Proofs 20–​21 = Works 311). Razi’s response combines many of the features that make him such a distinctive thinker: a willingness explicitly to go beyond his authorities; an interest in things medical; and a taste for the scandalous. He says that he has improved upon the views of “the ancients (al-​qudamāʾ)” by making a “subtle (laṭīf)” distinction between three types of motion (Proofs 21 = Works 311). The ancients recognized only two kinds of motion, namely “natural” and “by compulsion” (here “natural,” ṭabīʿiyya, is apparently a synonym for Abū Ḥātim’s “innate”). To these Razi has added a third kind, namely al-​ḥaraka al-​faltiyya. The word falta means an unexpected event, but has the connotation of a mistake or unintentional error. Thus, we might translate the phrase “motion by way of a slip.” Abū Ḥātim, reasonably enough, asks for clarification of this idea, and Razi is happy to supply an example. Pointing out a judge who is present at

52  Al-​ Rāzī the court where the debate takes place, Razi asks Abū Ḥātim to imagine that the judge has eaten gassy food. The judge struggles to contain his flatulence, but the buildup of gases is too much for him and he eventually breaks wind. This too is “motion by way of a slip” (Works 312.9–​12). Predictably, the choice of example causes some outrage. After a last objection from Abū Ḥātim, their conversation is interrupted by another doctor who is present, who castigates Razi for his irreverence. Obviously this part of Abū Ḥātim’s account is meant to show Razi in a bad light, yet it has an unmistakable air of authenticity. The example of flatulence seems like one that could occur to a doctor, and it also illustrates—​in a way that manages to be both subtle and crude—​the nature of soul’s decision to attach to matter. Like a burst of unwanted flatulence, this sudden attachment is both spontaneous and regrettable. One might wonder, though, why Razi does not simply invoke the notion of voluntary action. Both he and Abū Ḥātim speak as if the ancients conceived of nothing apart from natural and compelled motion. Certainly this dichotomy can be found in Aristotle (for instance at Physics 230a30–​31), but it is also clear that for Aristotle voluntary actions are neither natural nor compelled. He contrasts actions that proceed from habit to natural motions at Nicomachean Ethics 2.1, giving the example of the stone that moves down by nature and cannot be habituated to move up (1103a21–​22). But neither are virtuous and vicious activities compelled; rather, they involve choice and are voluntary (κατὰ προαίρεσιν καὶ ἑκούσιοι, Nicomachean Ethics 3.5, 1113b5). Razi’s predecessors and contemporaries in the philosophical tradition duly spoke frequently of will or choice, commonly used terms being irāda and ikhtiyār. Already in a musical treatise by al-​Kindī we find the phrase “voluntary motion (ḥaraka irādiyya),”1 and al-​Fārābī distinguishes between theoretical and practical philosophy by saying that the latter deals with things subject to our will.2 In a summary of Razi’s own views, Fakhr al-​ Dīn ascribes to him the view that God exercises choice (mukhtār, at Exalted Works 403.3). Then in Razi himself we find the expression “voluntary motion (ḥaraka bi-​irāda or irādiyya)” in his medical Introduction and in the Spiritual Medicine,3 while On Metaphysics contrasts natural action like the heating of fire to the way animals act, which involves ikhtiyār4—​which is to say nothing of invocations of freedom among the Muʿtazilite theologians whom Razi debated. Clearly then, Razi was comfortable with the notions of ikhtiyār and irāda, so he could have invoked choice instead of falta as a

Soul  53 “third kind of motion.” If he failed to do so in the case of soul’s attachment to matter, it was perhaps because he wished to emphasize that the soul’s action here was an almost random lapse, not a thoughtful action.5 Such inexplicable arbitrariness is impossible for God, given His perfect wisdom, but possible for an unwise agent like the soul. Despite this crucial difference between soul and God, the two principles in fact have a good deal in common. We already know that Razi identifies soul and God as the two principles which are “alive and active.” They form a duo which is contrasted to matter (non-​living, passive) and space and time (non-​living, neither active nor passive). And according to al-​Iṣfahānī, there is another feature shared by God and soul in Razi’s cosmology: both are capable of “emanating” life (Works 197). In a strikingly Neoplatonic image, this is compared to the radiation of light from a light source. Equally important for Razi’s theory of soul is the close association drawn between soul and life. God and soul are distinguished from the other three eternals in that they are alive, and as living principles they bestow (whether by emanation or not) life on other things. Al-​Bīrūnī reports a Razian argument for the existence of soul: if there are living substances, there must be soul to provide the life of those substances (Works 195.9–​10). In a claim which resonates with Plato’s Phaedo, Razi says in the Spiritual Medicine that soul has life “essentially (min dhātihā)” (Works 30.15). The upshot of these comparisons is that soul, considered as an eternal principle, is very much like a lesser or defective God. Like God, it is innately living and active. But unlike God, it is ignorant—​at first.

3.2. Eschatology Al-​Iṣfahānī usefully summarizes soul’s oscillation between foolishness and wisdom: [The soul] alternates between ignorance and intellect, like a man who forgets at one time but is aware at another. This is because when it [the soul] looks to the Creator, who is pure intellect, it intellects and is excellent, but when it looks to matter, which is pure ignorance, it forgets and is neglectful. (Works 197.12–​15)

Again, we see that Razi (especially as he is presented in al-​Iṣfahānī) helps himself to a fundamental Neoplatonist idea, in this case the soul’s position

54  Al-​ Rāzī between matter and intellect. Of course, in orthodox Neoplatonism God is not identified with intellect, but rather transcends intellect. In this respect, Razi may seem to be departing from the Platonic tradition, and uncharacteristically adopting an Aristotelian position instead. But here too he may have been following the Neoplatonic sources available to him. Although al-​ Kindī does distinguish God from both intellect and soul, like Plotinus did, the Arabic translation of Plotinus executed in his circle tends to collapse the distinction between God and intellect.6 Fakhr al-​Dīn provides some confirmation for the idea that Razi’s psychology is influenced by Neoplatonism. He writes that, according to Razi: [God], may He be exalted, emanated the light of intellect upon the substance of the soul (yafīḍu nūr al-​ʿaql ʿalā jawhar al-​nafs), so that, thanks to the light of intellect, it might become clear to [the soul] that the harms inflicted in this union [with body] are greater than the goods that arise in it. (Exalted Topics 412.8–​10)

According to this testimony, Razi fused the traditional imagery of Neoplatonism (the talk of light and “emanation”) with his own distinctive theodicy. Of course it was standard for Platonists to urge us to turn away from the body and toward the divine. But here and elsewhere Razi puts an unusual amount of emphasis on the preponderance of harm and suffering in this world, and the role of ʿaql (“reason” or “intellect”) as the indispensable means for escaping that harm and suffering (see also §8.4 in this volume). It is ʿaql that teaches us to resist the allure of the material world and its pleasures. This is why, in the opening passage of the Spiritual Medicine, Razi describes ʿaql as the greatest gift of God to humans (Works 17). Similarly, in the testimony just cited, Fakhr al-​Dīn claims that for Razi, the soul acquires ʿaql as a light shed upon it directly by God. As in the Spiritual Medicine, this gift is to be used for understanding and ultimately escaping the snares of bodily existence (“the harms inflicted in this union”). The eschatological aspect of Razi’s psychology is abundantly attested in other reports of his views on the five eternals. Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Compendium, for instance, says of Razi’s theory: [After arranging the material world, God] caused intellect (ʿaql) and perception (idrāk) to emanate onto the soul, which became the reason for the soul’s recollection of its world, and for its understanding that as long as it remained in the material world, it would never be unfettered from pain. When the soul realizes that and understands that in its own world

Soul  55 it would have pleasures free from pain, it will yearn for that world, and rise up after its separation [from matter] and remain there forever and ever in the utmost joy and happiness. (Works 206.1–​207.2, McGinnis and Reisman trans., modified)

The Platonic resonances (emanation, recollection) are almost too obvious to need pointing out. But it’s worth dwelling on an interesting feature of Razi’s psychology, namely that intellect and “perception (idrāk)”—​this need not mean sense-​perception, but could refer to cognition more generally—​ are given to the soul as an extrinsic gift. That is, soul does not possess intellect by its own nature but rather as something given to it by God. This too is confirmed by other reports, for instance in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: [God] originated man and sent down intellect from the substance of the divine to the man in this world, in order that the soul might be roused from its slumbering in the shape of man, and in order that it might see, by the command of the Creator, mighty is He, that this world is not its place, and that its falling into error, in the way we have mentioned, was the reason for the creation of this world. And intellect said to man, “because soul attached itself to matter, let it think that when it separates [from matter] nothing [of the matter] will exist anymore, in order that, once the soul of man knows about this situation we have indicated, it will come to understand the higher world and be wary of this world, seeking to return to its own world which is the place of rest and blessedness.” (Provision 111.12–​17 [= Works 285])7

Here we see again how intellect helps soul to free itself from matter, and also that intellect is extrinsic to soul. Razi even imagines intellect as a distinct “character” which can give advice. As so often, his position contrasts with that of the Aristotelians. The Aristotelian tradition did postulate separate intellects superior to soul, and Aristotle himself speaks of intellect and contemplation as divine (e.g., at Nicomachean Ethics 10.7, 1177b28). But Aristotle and his followers also assume that intellect is innately present in soul, even if only potentially. Razi, by contrast, makes intellect divine and not something that belongs to the very nature of soul. This only stands to reason, given his emphasis on the foolishness of soul as an eternal principle. Foolishness is, as it were, the natural condition of the soul and the state in which it remains when left to its own devices. Only when soul begins the process of returning to its own world does it overcome this foolishness. And that, as we have just seen, can happen only through

56  Al-​ Rāzī the divine gift of intellect. Here it is worth once more mentioning al-​Kindī. For him it is soul, rather than intellect, whose “substance originates from the substance of the Creator, the exalted One, just as the light of the sun originates from the sun.”8 Like most Aristotelians and Platonists, al-​Kindī has a fundamentally optimistic outlook on the nature of soul. It is naturally capable of intellection and has knowledge ready to hand within itself, knowledge that needs merely to be recollected. By contrast, Razi’s theodicy and eschatology lead him to identify ignorance as soul’s default condition and even its most important feature. Both philosophers would agree that the soul’s ultimate purpose is to achieve “likeness to God.” But for al-​Kindī this means the soul’s discovery of its innate godlikeness, whereas for Razi it means the soul’s attaining a godlikeness it originally lacks, and would continue to lack if not for God’s wise and generous intervention.

3.3. Individual soul Looking further into Razi’s eschatology would take us into his ethics, since it is there that he explains in detail how ʿaql guides soul toward liberation from the body and its concerns. His ethical writings will be discussed in detail later (see Chapter 8). But there is a more basic, and more metaphysical, problem that should be dealt with now. This problem must be solved before we can relate Razi’s psychology to his ethics by way of his eschatology. After all, his ethical writings are offered to individual readers, and give advice on how they can live better and escape from body. Thus, in ethical contexts he is concerned with the individual soul. But the psychology as I  have presented it so far relates rather to soul as a single, eternal principle. Unsurprisingly, Razi seems to see a close connection between individual soul and soul as principle. One sign of this is the very fact that he envisions the same eschatology for both kinds of soul. But what is the metaphysical relation between soul as eternal principle and individual human souls? Unfortunately this question is never addressed directly in the Razian corpus. Nonetheless, we can make some educated guesses, once we have looked a bit at the nature of the individual soul in Razi. Let’s begin with the faculties possessed by individual human souls. In chapter two of the Spiritual Medicine, Razi sets out an account of the tripartite soul taken from Plato, “the shaykh of the philosophers, and the

Soul  57 greatest among them” (Works 27.14; the account runs from here to 31.3, where the whole view is also ascribed to Socrates). As in Plato’s Republic and Timaeus, the three souls (anfus) are rational, irascible, and appetitive. Like other authors of the Arabic tradition, Razi does not hesitate to align this tripartion with the Aristotelian division of soul into rational, animal, and vegetative (27.15–​17). The account goes on to say that the two lower souls exist only “for the sake of (min ajli) the rational soul,” and arise because of this soul’s connection to body. Appetitive or vegetative soul ensures that the body is nourished, while irascible or animal soul is needed to help the rational soul combat the desires that arise from the appetitive soul (28.1–​6). We then arrive at the following important passage: According to [Plato] these two souls, the vegetative and irascible, lack the special sort of substance which survives after the corruption of the body, like the substance of the rational soul. Rather, one of them, the irascible, is the whole mixture (mizāj) of the heart, while the other, the appetitive, is the whole mixture of the liver. The whole mixture of the brain, though, is according to [Plato] the first instrument and tool used by the rational soul. (Works 28.6–​10)

Here Razi’s Plato draws a firm contrast between rational soul and the two lower souls. The latter are nothing but “mixtures” of bodily organs. So it is no wonder that they vanish upon the body’s corruption. The rational soul, by contrast, can have an independent existence and relates to the brain and its mixture the way a carpenter might relate to a hammer. There are things the carpenter can do only by using a hammer, but the carpenter can survive the destruction of the hammer.9 What is it that the rational soul uses the brain to do? Razi goes on to tell us: “sensation, voluntary motion, imagination, cognition (fikr), and memory” (28.11). We learn later in “Plato’s” account that the well-​prepared soul will, upon death, exist on its own only as living and rational (nāṭiqatan), given that “life and reason belong to it essentially (min dhātihā)” (30.14–​15). Unfortunately there is no indication of whether any of the functions involving the brain can be used in the afterlife, but presumably these vanish along with the brain’s mixture.10 If this is right, the disembodied soul’s “rationality” would, presumably, consist in nothing but the exercise of ʿaql. This is the most detailed account of the tripartite soul in Razi’s philosophical works, so it is somewhat unfortunate that it is presented as a

58  Al-​ Rāzī doxography of Plato and Socrates, rather than as Razi’s own view. Can we assume that he agrees with the account? Probably so. Not only does he deploy the tripartite soul theory elsewhere in the Spiritual Medicine,11 but the same theory can be found in his medical works. In his medical Introduction, he talks about three sets of “powers,” namely “natural,” “animal,” and “psychic.” Like the Plato of the Spiritual Medicine, he associates these with the liver, heart, and brain respectively (Introduction §11 preface). The liver is the primary organ in nutrition because it is responsible for the production of blood out of food (§6.1, §7.6). The heart is the seat of the “animal” faculty and provides warmth for the body (§10.2, also mentioned in the Spiritual Medicine at Works 28.10–​11). The brain is the organ of the “psychic” or “governing” faculties, namely “imagination (takhayyul), thought (fikra), memory (dhikr)” (§11.0, §11.5), which are assigned to different parts of the brain. Sensation and voluntary motion, also mentioned in the list of rational faculties in the Spiritual Medicine, come into play because of the brain’s connection to the nervous system (§11.2–​3). Thus the division of “powers” in the medical Introduction matches, both generally and in matters of detail, the division of “souls” ascribed to Plato in the Spiritual Medicine. This is no surprise, since Razi’s Introduction draws extensively on Galen, who was in turn deeply influenced by, and a staunch defender of, the tripartite theory of soul in Plato’s Timaeus. Unfortunately the medical Introduction does not indulge in any metaphysical discussion of soul’s relation to body. One could easily take from it the impression that the rational or “governing” faculty is nothing but a set of powers located in the brain. But it would be rash to think that Razi is here committed to the view that the soul in its entirety depends on the body for its function or existence. Turning to the Doubts about Galen, we find confirmation that the brain is, on Razi’s own view, merely the “instrument (āla)” of the soul, stating that this explains why damage to the brain impedes the “activities of the soul” (Doubts §20.5). On this point he even states his own agreement with Plato against Galen’s more naturalistic treatment of the soul: Plato says that this evil and malady does [sic] not affect the substance of the soul, but only the activity that arises through the instrument used by the soul, just as if you inflict some malady on the oud player’s oud or the flute player’s flute, the playing will be badly mixed up and muddled accordingly. (Doubts §21.4)

Soul  59 Given these parallels to Doubts, we can take the account of Plato in the Spiritual Medicine as good evidence for Razi’s views regarding the relation between the individual soul and the bodily organs. The account of Plato is also contrasted with a more “materialist” psychology toward the end of the Spiritual Medicine. Here, Razi is discussing the fear of death. His approach to this topic is one of the best examples of his dialectical method: [The fear of death] cannot be eliminated from the soul entirely, unless it is convinced that it will, after death, come to a situation which is better for it than the one it has been in. But this topic calls for a very long discussion, if one looks into it by means of demonstration rather than relying on what others say (min ṭarīq al-​burhān dūna l-​khabar). . . . For one would need to examine all teachings and religions which hold and demand that humans have states after their death. . . . So avoiding this, we take up the task of convincing those who hold and are persuaded that the soul corrupts along with the corruption of the body. (Works 92.13–​93.8)

The question of the soul’s metaphysical status after death is too technical for the purposes of “spiritual medicine.” Razi proposes instead to concentrate on the belief which is most likely to inspire fear of death, namely that the soul dies along with the body. He deals with this belief not by trying to refute it, but by assuming it is true and showing that even on this assumption, death is nothing to be feared. Thus, for instance, he develops an argument found also in the Epicurean tradition: what we fear is pain, but if the soul no longer exists it can feel no pain (Works 93.10ff). But Razi is not endorsing this hypothesis. Rather, he is offering an argument which could persuade someone who is (wrongly) convinced that the soul dies with the body. Notice, though, his claim at the beginning of the chapter, that the only way to avoid the fear of death entirely is to accept the soul’s post mortem survival. A final piece of evidence for Razi’s immaterialist theory of soul comes in a kalām work of the twelfth century. This treatise, bearing the self-​explanatory title The Gift for the Theologians in Refutation of the Philosophers, attacks philosophy from a Muʿtazilite point of view. Its author, Ibn al-​Malāḥimī, preserves a couple of testimonia about Razi. These are taken from one al-​Jadīdī, another theologian who criticized Razi. The first testimony has Razi refuting the idea that the soul is nothing but a bodily mixture (mizāj).12 He argues as follows. Either all ensouled things have the same mixture “with no further property (ʿaraḍ),” or not. The first option is

60  Al-​ Rāzī impossible since “there are many things which have soul while varying in mixture.” But it cannot be that there is some shared property which gives life to things possessing different mixtures. For, sharing this property, the mixtures could not be completely opposed. Yet we see that some animals are, by their mixtures, contrary to others, for instance by being poisonous. Thus being ensouled is not merely the same as possessing some mixture, with or without a further shared property. This testimony is particularly interesting in light of the passage on Plato’s views from the Spiritual Medicine. For as we saw, the lower souls are indeed nothing but mixtures (the same term, mizāj, is used). And it is now even clearer that Razi would, agreeing with his version of Plato, strenuously deny that the human soul in its entirety is nothing but a mixture. It seems to be the rational soul alone which saves the human soul from this status. What of non-​human souls? The line of argument in the testimony from Ibn al-​Malāḥimī implies that the souls of even lowly animals (like poisonous scorpions and snakes) are more than mere mixtures. Does this mean that they have rational souls, or that their souls can survive without the body? This is a subject to which we will return (§3.6).

3.4.  Individual soul and soul as principle What then is the relation between the souls of individual humans and soul as it features in the theory of the five eternals? We can begin by noting that both types of soul are capable of existing without matter. This is obvious in the case of soul as principle. We have already seen that it “cleaves” to matter and becomes entangled with it, after having a separate and immaterial existence. Furthermore, Razi’s eschatology requires that soul can free itself from matter. To this one can add a brief argument given by Razi for the eternity of soul, which is transmitted in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Compendium: The eternity of the soul is based on the fact that every created thing is preceded by matter. So they said that, had the soul been created, it would be material; and if its matter is created, then it needs another matter, and so on to infinity. But if it is eternal, this is what we wanted to show. (Works 214.1–​3, McGinnis and Reisman trans., modified)

Soul  61 This argument, which is surprisingly Aristotelian in approach,13 turns on the immateriality of soul. Were it dependent on matter for its existence, it would not be eternal. Thus soul as principle is by its nature immaterial. It has already existed independently of matter, and can do so again in the future; its connection to matter is a temporary and unfortunate interlude. Notice, in fact, that there is a parallel between soul’s relation to matter and its relation to intellect. In both cases, soul is brought into contact with an extrinsic principle. At first it exists on its own, then through its fall it comes into relation to matter. Then, finally, it is redeemed by gaining a new relation to intellect. As for individual soul, we have just seen that it too can exist independently after the death of the body. But this possibility is available only for the rational soul. So if we are to draw a parallel between soul as an eternal principle and individual soul, it would seem that we must think specifically in terms of the rational individual soul. This thought finds support in our evidence. According to the report of Fakhr al-​Dīn, in Razi’s cosmology “the soul attached itself to matter, and from the union (tarkīb) of the two arose animal nature (al-​ḥayawānī)” (Exalted Topics 411.11). We have already seen (§3.3) that in Razi’s medical Introduction “animal” is used as a description for the second faculty of man. This faculty governs heat and life functions, and is aligned with the irascible faculty in the Spiritual Medicine. Of course animals also possess the third, appetitive or vegetative, faculty. So Fakhr al-​ Dīn’s locution suggests that the lower two faculties or “souls” only emerge because of soul’s connection to body. This is corroborated by the fact that al-​Iṣfahānī, in a passage cited earlier (§3.1), simply designates soul as eternal principle with the term “rational soul.” It makes sense that, as Fakhr al-​Dīn says, the lower souls or “animal nature” should begin to exist only because soul relates to body. We just saw, in Razi’s argument for the eternity of soul, that anything which depends on matter is created and not eternal. But we also know from the account of “Plato” in the Spiritual Medicine that the irascible and appetitive souls are to be identified with bodily mixtures. So we can say with some confidence that the lower souls of an individual human exist only for as long as the human’s soul is embodied. This leaves open an important question. We know that the human’s rational soul can exist after the body. Has it also existed before coming into relation with the body? If so, then its career is just like that of soul as principle. It would be eternal, fall into body and become subject

62  Al-​ Rāzī to the suffering of this world, and if all goes well, ultimately free itself by using ʿaql. This interpretation, on which individual souls are like the eternal principle soul but in miniature, may well be correct. But we unfortunately lack any evidence for Razi’s views on whether individual souls existed before coming to be in bodies. And there is an intriguing possible alternative. A  striking feature of Razi’s five element theory is that time, place, and matter all appear in two guises. On the one hand there are absolute time (“duration”), absolute place (“void”), and absolute matter, which is atomic (see §4.2 in this volume). On the other hand there are the time, place, and matter of particular bodies. It is tempting to suppose that this distinction could be extended to the case of the fourth non-​divine eternal principle, soul. Soul as an eternal principle would be absolute soul, and individual souls would emerge only when particular bodies are formed along with the cosmos. Such souls would be relative to a particular body, the way that each particular body has its own place and a time relative to its own motion. The hypothesis is attractive, not least because it is a position associated with Plato in the Islamic world. In his Incoherence of the Philosophers, al-​Ghazālī describes Plato’s teaching as follows: “the soul is eternal (qadīma) and one, divided only in bodies; once it separates from them, it returns to its origin and unites.”14 Still, there are potential objections to ascribing the view to Razi. In particular, the argument quoted at the beginning of this section suggests that anything which can exist without matter is eternal. And we know that the rational soul of an individual soul can exist without matter. Before closing this section, I should mention an apparent difficulty with Razi’s view as I have reconstructed it. I have said that soul as principle must be akin to rational soul. But this looks to be in some tension with Razi’s cosmology. It is not a problem that the soul is at first ignorant, and later wise, thanks to divinely sent intellect. If anything, this sort of cognitive development can be more easily associated with rational soul than the lower souls. The difficulty is rather that Razi seems to have blamed the fall of soul into matter on a “desire” or “lust” on the part of the soul. Thus Abū Ḥātim has Razi saying that soul conceived a “desire (shahwa)” for the material realm (Proofs 17–​18 = Works 308–​309), and Fakhr al-​Dīn says that soul “came to believe that if it mixed itself with matter, it would be able to get a full share of pleasures. So the soul came to have a natural, instinctive love (ʿishq ṭabīʿī gharīzī) for this matter” (Exalted Topics 411.6–​7).15 Nāṣir-​e Khusraw too says

Soul  63 that soul was in search of pleasure (Works 284). Desire and love, yearning for bodily pleasure—​these seem to be more easily ascribed to the appetitive than the rational part or faculty of the soul. But how can this be, if soul as principle has no appetitive faculty? A possible solution would be to associate the soul’s lapse with a failure of reasoning. In the passages just quoted, Fakhr al-​Dīn mentions a misguided belief, and Nāṣir-​e Khusraw confirms that it is the soul’s ignorance that leads it to seek pleasure. Razi was, perhaps, an heir to Socrates’ view that all ethical failure consists in ignorance. Still, it is hard to understand how a soul with no appetitive faculty could be seduced by the prospect of physical pleasure.

3.5.  Transmigration of souls Let us now turn to the question of the soul’s fate after death, which means delving into the question of transmigration (tanāsukh).16 Razi is well known for holding that souls can after death pass into other bodies, even going from animal bodies to human bodies or vice versa. Yet our evidence for this is thinner than we might like.17 The crucial text is found in the Philosophical Life. Razi is explaining why, despite his strictures on the ethical treatment of animals, it might be permissable to eat animals: Souls are not delivered from the bodies (juthath) of animals except from the body of man alone. If this is the case, then the deliverance of souls such as these from their bodies is similar (shabīh) to the path towards and facilitation of deliverance (khalāṣ). Because both rationales apply to the animals who only eat meat, it is necessary to eradicate them where possible, because this minimizes animal pain and provides hope (rajāʾ) that their souls may come into better bodies. (Works 105.2–​6)

Certainly this passage can easily be taken as referring to transmigration. The goal of every soul, as we have seen, is “deliverance” from the physical world. Since souls cannot be freed from animal bodies, it is permissable to kill animals. In doing so, we may hope that they will pass into better, presumably human, bodies. This is evidently how the passage was read by Ibn Ḥazm. He asserts that Razi’s lost book On Divine Science defended the possibility that souls (or “spirits”:  arwāḥ) pass into bodies of different species after death. He then says,

64  Al-​ Rāzī And he said in one of his books: if not for the fact that there is no way (sabīl) for spirits to become freed from bodies with bestial forms (ṣuwar bahīmiyya) [so as to go] into bodies with human forms, apart from death and slaughter, then it would not be permissible to slaughter any animals at all. (Works 174.6–​9)

As Kraus pointed out,18 Ibn Ḥazm is here quoting the passage just cited previously from the Philosophical Life. Or rather, he is misquoting it. Razi in fact says nothing explicit about animal souls coming into human bodies—​all he says is that they may after death receive “better” bodies (hence my “presumably” in the previous paragraph). And even according to Ibn Ḥazm, Razi is not saying that humans can be reincarnated as animals—​only that souls can go from animals to humans. Notice though that, in the actual passage from the Philosophical Life, Razi does not say that killing animals is a way of liberating them, only that it is “similar (shabīh)” to liberating them. Nor does he straightforwardly assert that animals will get better bodies, whether human or not. Rather he says one might “hope” that this is the case. In fact, the passage is susceptible to a different reading, on which Razi would be saying nothing about reincarnation in this world. Rather, he would be giving two, mutually exclusive, justifications for slaying carnivorous animals. First, their souls cannot be “liberated” from bodily existence by death, yet it is still an evil for them to be in their bodies. In that case one might do them a favor by killing them, even if they cease to exist entirely upon dying. Second, animal souls may receive a “better body” after death. This might, but need not, refer to transmigration. It could instead refer to resurrected bodies provided by God, in Paradise. That may seem a rather un-​Razian proposal, but as it happens we know that such a view was current among Muʿtazilites by the time of Razi. We have the following report about al-​Naẓẓām in the Book of Animals by al-​Jāḥiẓ: He claimed that the species of animals that have sensation and feel pain are given grace in equal compensation, and that the children of both infidels and Muslims are all in paradise. He claimed that there is no difference between children, beasts and madmen, and no difference between predatory animals and domesticated beasts. He said that these animal and beast bodies do not enter paradise, but rather God, the exalted, sets their spirits (arwāḥ) free from those harms, and puts them together with some preferable [bodily] forms (fī ayy al-​ṣuwar aḥabb).19

Soul  65 Notice the closeness of wording and intention to the passage from the Philosophical Life:  because animals are subject to suffering in this world, they receive better (“more preferable”) bodies in the afterlife. By a stroke of luck, we can be certain that Razi was aware of such kalām discussions about the afterlife. Earlier in this chapter (§3.3) I mentioned Ibn al-​Malāḥimī’s Gift for the Theologians, and its testimony regarding Razi on soul and mixture. The second testimony about Razi in the work concerns “resurrection (al-​iʿāda)”: Ibn Zakariyyāʾ argued against it by raising a familiar doubt: some of the world’s animals eat others. For instance a cat eats a mouse, then a dog eats the cat, then a wolf eats the dog. So the parts of the predator are formed from the parts of the prey. Which of them, then, does the Exalted resurrect? If you say “the prey,” this is wrong, because it became a different animal; but according to you the right (al-​ḥaqq) to be preserved belongs to the prey. If you say “the predator,” this too is wrong, because the right [to be preserved] would go to what does not deserve it (ghayr mustaḥiqq).20

As Ibn al-​Malāḥimī remarks, the argument starts from a familiar objection against bodily resurrection, which is sometimes applied to humans who get eaten by cannibals. The objection is of course that if creature A eats creature B, so that B becomes part of A’s body, then God cannot resurrect the bodies of both creatures, since the bodies share some matter. The passage nicely illustrates Razi’s characteristic penchant for dialectical argument flavored with a hint of satire. It also establishes, of course, that Razi was aware of Muʿtazilite views about God’s resurrection of animals. There is, however, further evidence that Razi believed that transmigration does occur across species. This appears in one of our more trustworthy witnesses, Fakhr al-​Dīn, who writes that according to Razi: When these souls that love matter die while still bearing this love, they return to reattach themselves to another body. There is a ceaseless cycle from one body to another until they attach to a body that is special, as it so happens that the light of reason (ʿaql) is powerful for [the soul] while it is in that body. Then it becomes apparent to [the soul] that all bodily attachments are pains disguised as pleasures, and injuries in the guise of comforts (rāḥāt). At which point its nature will acquire an aversion to them [sc. bodily attachments], and no inclination towards them will remain in it. So then this soul will separate itself, in accordance with

66  Al-​ Rāzī its aversion to these bodily things and longing for spiritual things. Thereafter, this soul will not return to any attachment with the body. Thus, this cycle is ceaseless, one round after another, until this truth is revealed to all the souls that have been attached to bodies, so that all the souls (al-​nufūs bi-​asrihā) are separated from all the bodies, and the composition [of soul and body] ends. The great day of judgment (al-​ qiyāma al-​kubrā) takes place, and things go back to being as they were initially, with the souls remaining in their own world free of attachment to bodies, and matter remaining free of mixture with the souls. (Elevated Topics 417.12–​418.2)

This passage is full of authentically Razian details, for instance the rejection of worldly pleasures and the envisioning of an end time at which souls will all liberate themselves from matter. This suggests that Ibn Ḥazm may after all have understood correctly the meaning of Razi’s passing remark about animal afterlives in the Philosophical Life. The cosmic drama of soul’s foolish attachment to matter can be ended only by individual souls wisely separating from matter, because they prefer their own true “spiritual” world. But souls can do this only when they are in human bodies, and thus capable of reasoning. So ultimately, all the animal souls will need to go into “better,” that is human, bodies so that they can be liberated.

3.6.  The souls of animals This idea plays a central role in a groundbreaking article on Razi’s psychology published in 1996 by Thérèse-​Anne Druart.21 On Druart’s interpretation, Razi believed that animals have much more in common with humans than was usually admitted in the Graeco-​Arabic philosophical tradition. In addition to ascribing the lower functions of nutrition, reproduction, movement, and sensation to animals, Razi would also allow them a share in reason. Druart pointed out that this would make it easier to explain how a soul could inhabit an animal at one time, and a human at another time. All souls would broadly have the same capacities, albeit that a soul’s capacities would be more fully realized in a human body than in an animal body. On the other hand, the evidence just adduced from Fakhr al-​Dīn suggests that the whole point of being reincarnated as a human is that only humans have reason, at least to the extent that they can come to

Soul  67 see attachment to matter as undesirable. For only in the human body is the “light of reason (ʿaql) powerful.” This raises the question, then, of just how starkly Razi distinguishes between animals and humans, in particular when it comes to the question of rationality. As we have already seen, Razi follows the Platonic tradition of dividing human souls into three “parts,” which are associated with different organs. The lower, appetitive or vegetative soul is centered in the liver. The middle, irascible or animal soul is centered in the heart. And the brain is the locus of the rational soul. This partition of the soul already seems to push us in two directions. Razi’s calling the irascible soul the “animal (ḥayawāniyya)” soul (at, e.g., Works 27.16) creates a presumption that animals lack the higher, rational part. But animals do typically have brains. Why would they need brains if they only have the two lower souls? On the other hand, as we saw earlier (§3.3), Razi associates several functions with the brain in his medical Introduction: “imagination (takhayyul), thought (fikra), memory (dhikr).” He calls these functions “the governing [activities] (al-​siyāsiyya)” and “the rational psychological activities (al-​afʿāl al-​manṭiqiyya al-​nafsāniyya).”22 Of course here Razi is speaking of human brains, since this is a work laying down the principles of medical treatment for humans, not veterinary medicine. So it is not clear from this which, if any, of these “governing” faculties belong to animals. If we turn to the Spiritual Medicine, which Druart also mines for evidence on this question, we find that Razi is in fact entirely explicit that animals have neither reason nor intellect. He frequently refers to the non-​ human animals as “irrational animals” (e.g., al-​ḥayawān ghayr al-​nāṭiq at Works 83.5), and even says “it is reason (nuṭq) that makes us [sc. humans] better than beasts” (Works 90.10–​11). He is downright insistent that animals lack intellect (ʿaql), for instance in the following passage from the beginning of the Spiritual Medicine: I say that the Creator, great be His name, gave and granted us intellect (ʿaql) only in order that through it, we might in this world and the next attain and reach that benefit which is the end attained and reached by a substance such as ours. For it is the greatest blessing of God upon us, the most useful and advantageous thing we have. It is through intellect that we are better than the irrational animal, so that we rule and control them, subjecting them to us and directing them in ways conducive to our advantage as well as theirs. Through intellect

68  Al-​ Rāzī we grasp all that lifts us and improves us, gives delight to our life and brings us to our end and goal. (Works 17.16–​18.4)

So Razi endorses a clear, and entirely traditional, division between humans and animals, whereby the former have reason and intellect but the latter do not. This is not to say that Druart’s interpretation is baseless. She points out that there are passages in this same work which seem to ascribe higher functions to animals. The most interesting of these discusses the fact that animals are capable of future-​directed actions, like storing up food for the winter. Razi then remarks, “it is better [to say] that these animals have more in the way of cognitive representation (taṣawwur fikrī) than those which do not acquire anything” (Works 83.5–​6). This is a striking passage because it seems to ascribe some kind of capacity for “thought (fikr)” to animals. On the other hand, Razi frequently denies that animals are capable of even basic foresight and planning. Rather they engage in activities like eating and defecation whenever the need strikes them (Works 20). And in one such passage he seems to deny that animals have the capacity for fikr: One should control oneself so that, when one is angry, one acts only after thought and deliberation (al-​fikr wa-​l-​rawiyya) . . . one should not be like beasts in unleashing action without deliberation (min ghayr rawiyya). (Works 56.2–​4)

Razi sees the capacity to refrain from the call of pleasure and nature as a core function of reason (see §8.3 in this volume). So animals’ lack of self-​control and self-​restraint is intimately bound up with the question of whether they are “rational.” There is, then, little doubt that the Spiritual Medicine denies rationality and intellect to animals,23 but some room for doubt about which other higher or “governing” faculties Razi would be willing to ascribe to them. The Spiritual Medicine seemed to allow some animals at least a capacity for representation or imagination, in light of the fact that they can store up provisions for themselves. But this is, in a way, the exception that proves the rule. For as it turns out, Razi takes this point about apparently foresighted animals from Galen, who in his On Character Traits says: [The fact that the habitual dispositions (akhlāq) belong to the irrational soul] is indicated by the dispositions we observe in babies and in animals that lack reason (al-​ḥayawān alladhī lā nuṭq la-​hu). . . . There are some

Soul  69 that collect food and prepare it for themselves, like the bee and the ant, and others that acquire food day by day, like the pigeon.24

Here Galen’s point is precisely that the behavior of storing things away is something that non-​rational animals can do. This shows that some dispositions are associated with the lower soul and not reason. It seems unlikely that Razi would disagree, and in fact his rather obscure phrase “cognitive representation” may just be an attempt to explain how animals are capable of this in light of their irrationality (he calls them “irrational” in the very same passage). More generally, we should bear in mind that Razi almost always mentions animals in the Spiritual Medicine in order to compare them unfavorably to humans, especially for the aforementioned reason that they lack self-​restraint. In philosophical contexts, Razi did not seek to emphasize shared features between human and animal souls—​rather the reverse. By contrast, in medical contexts he does assume a degree of similarity between animal and human bodies. In his medical Introduction, he casually draws parallels between them, for instance saying that all animals have a heart “or something equivalent” which plays the same role as the heart does in humans, namely serving as the source of vital (also known as “animal”!) pneuma.25 He also followed Galen in using animals for medical experiments, as when he tested the effect of mercury on an ape.26 Razi thus exemplifies the fact that the medical tradition, beginning at least with Galen, tended to push ancient and medieval authors toward seeing commonalities between humans and animals. The most striking example of this tendency in Razi’s writings comes in his Doubts about Galen. Here he is responding to a discussion in Galen’s On the Opinions of Hippocrates and Plato in which Galen attacked the Stoic view that our “ruling power” is in the heart, not the brain. Razi agrees with this, though he is unimpressed with Galen’s arguments for establishing the point. He then comes to a rather incidental remark made by Galen, to the effect that “infants and beasts (bahāʾim) . . . do not use thought (fikr).” This prompts the following outburst: How can anyone say that that thought does not belong to beasts at all, given the amazing things we see them do? Have you not considered the mouse that, by inserting its tail into a narrow-​mouthed bottle, dipping it into the oil, and licking it, is able to get at [the oil] it needs, because it realizes that its head is too big to fit through the mouth of the bottle,

70  Al-​ Rāzī and that it can only do this after conception and reflection (al-​taṣawwur wa-​l-​rawiyya), so that one shouldn’t say that beasts have no intelligence (faṭāna), but only that what is in them is very slight in comparison to what is in humans? (Doubts §11.6)

The same example also appears in some later texts and goes back to the Greek tradition.27 Razi’s use of it confirms his willingness to ascribe “thought (fikr)” and “consideration (rawiyya)” to animals. While remarkable, the passage is not inconsistent with the contrast between humans and animals advanced in the Spiritual Medicine. “Beasts” can do clever things because they have a certain degree of intelligence, though it does not rival that possessed by humans. And most crucially, it is we and not they who possess “rationality” (nuṭq, ʿaql). In fact this point is made in the Doubts itself, in a passage where Razi argues that there are desires and pleasures that arise only for humans, not animals, precisely because they relate to the “thinking soul (al-​nafs fikriyya)” which I take to be a synonym for “rational soul,” notwithstanding the concession that animals too have a degree of fikr (Doubts §21.2). A final difficulty remains. We saw earlier (§3.3) that in his exposition of Plato’s psychology, Razi identifies the lower two parts of the souls with the mixtures of the liver and heart. By contrast, the mixture of the brain is only the “instrument” of the rational soul. As a result, it is only the rational soul that survives the death of the body. If Razi believes that animals lack rational souls, then this should imply that animals do not survive bodily death. But against this, we have his own speculation in the Philosophical Life that animals may receive better bodies after death, a notion buttressed by the reports of Fakhr al-​Dīn and Ibn Ḥazm that affirm animal transmigration in Razi’s system. Second, there is Razi’s argument as quoted by Ibn al-​Malāḥimī, in which he affirmed that souls—​even animal souls—​are more than mere mixtures of the body. Perhaps then we should conclude that Druart was fundamentally right in supposing a commonality among all souls, both human and animals. Though animals do not have the capacity for reason while in their current bodies, their souls are suitable for exercising reason once joined to a human body. This possibility is especially attractive when we recall that the cosmic, eternal Soul is the origin of all individual souls. Like eternal Soul, individual souls may lack wisdom, but also like eternal Soul, they can receive the “light of intellect.”

• 4

Matter

We now come to the Razian principle that is opposed to God and the soul, matter—​opposed in the sense that matter is passive, whereas God and soul are active. Matter is, as al-​Iṣfahānī puts it in explaining Razi’s view, a “mere constituent (mādda faqaṭ)” (Works 197). The word mādda used here is one term that crops up frequently in the reports about Razian matter, but his preferred term was apparently hayūlā, which is derived from the Greek ὕλη. He wrote several works on the topic, as noted earlier (§1.4), including controversial works against rival conceptions of matter. Razi himself refers to his writings on matter in On the Philosophical Life (Works 109). Unfortunately, none of this material is extant, so we have to depend on other, usually hostile, sources. Particularly significant here is the testimony of Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, whose Provision of the Traveler contains a presentation of Razi’s view on matter. Though some aspects of the theory are confirmed in other sources, this is by far the most detailed account of Razi’s views on matter. It has duly formed the basis of the studies by Pines and Baffioni.1 From Nāṣir-​e Khusraw and other sources, we learn that Razi was an atomist. That is, he thought that all bodies—​both in the heavens and here in the earthly realm—​at bottom consist of “parts (ajzāʾ)” that cannot be divided into smaller parts. Among philosophers in the Islamic world, this is an unusual opinion. Already al-​Kindī wrote a lost work “on the falsity Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0004.

72  Al-​ Rāzī of the statement of those who claim that there are indivisible parts,”2 and in general the falāsifa follow Aristotle in upholding a continuist theory of bodies. As the title of al-​Kindī’s lost treatise suggests, though, there were proponents of atomism at this time too. In fact, atomism was the standard, though not universally held, position among theologians. One of Razi’s works about matter was a refutation of a Muʿtazilite mutakallim named al-​Miṣmaʿī, against the latter’s critique of the “proponents of matter (aṣḥāb al-​hayūlā).”3 As Shlomo Pines pointed out in his groundbreaking study of Razi’s atomic theory, this expression aṣḥāb al-​hayūlā was later applied by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw to Razi himself, along with his putative source al-​ Īrānshahrī (Works 220).4 Razi’s endorsement of atomism seems to bring this aspect of his cosmology closer to kalām than falsafa. That impression is heightened by the fact that this is one of the topics he debated with mutakallimūn. However, as we see later in this chapter (§4.3), Carmela Baffioni is right to argue that the sort of atomism defended by Razi is rather different from that of the theologians.5 Pines is not exaggerating much when he says that “the two systems have little in common other than the concept of atom.”6 In distinguishing the two theories, Baffioni emphasizes that the atoms recognized by Razi have spatial extension, whereas the atoms of kalām are non-​ extended.7 This particular contrast is questionable in light of a subsequent study of Muʿtazilite physics, which has shown that at least some of them saw atoms as extended.8 Nonetheless, we will see that Baffioni was again right to see much stronger similarities between Razi’s theory of matter and the atomism proposed in antiquity by such figures as Democritus.9 In addition to exploring this comparison, we might wonder what intellectual lineage Razi himself would have seen for his theory. Happily, we can answer this question with some confidence. This is because of a text that was long all but overlooked in discussions of Razi’s atomism: his own Doubts about Galen. The Doubts contains a passage which responds directly to a Galenic critique of atomism. With this evidence in hand, we can say with some confidence that Razi’s atomism was put forward in solidarity with Plato and, more surprisingly, Empedocles. To anticipate the findings of this and the next chapter, we can further say that atoms play a role in Razi’s theory that is akin to “void” and “duration.” Just as these two eternal principles are equated with “absolute” time and place and underlie Aristotelian “relative” time and place (see §5.6 in this volume), so atoms

Matter  73 are “absolute” matter and underlie the five Aristotelian elements. Razi’s physical theory as a whole is intended, in part, to unmask Aristotle’s physics as superficial, and to vindicate Plato as the Greek thinker who best understood the fundamental principles of bodies and their motions.10

4.1.  The eternity of matter Before launching into our historical and philosophical analysis of the atomic composition of bodies, let us first consider the more basic question of why matter deserves a place among Razi’s five eternal principles. Here, as far as I can tell, we are entirely dependent on Nāṣir-​e Khusraw (Provision 75.1–​ 76.12; also at Kraus, Works 224–​226). He reports that Razi gave an argument for the eternity of matter in three steps, which I will now summarize: Step 1: Razi followed the traditional definition of “origination (ibdāʿ)” as “the production of something from nothing (chīzī kardan nah az chīzī),” but denied that this is possible, even for God. Being wise, God would always choose to do things in the most efficient and direct way. So if God could create ex nihilo, and wanted for instance to bring about an adult human, He would simply do so, rather than allowing humans to emerge from a decades-​long process of maturation.

At first this looks like a remarkably bad argument. Surely God could have other reasons for producing humans through gradual, “natural” processes rather than just creating them whole? The authentically Razian credentials of the passage, though, are suggested by its crucial premise, which is highlighted by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: that a wise agent prefers a difficult procedure only when no simpler one is available. This fits perfectly with a rhetorical question posed by Razi, apparently in the context of discussing theodicy: “is it wise, when faced with two paths, to choose the longer, more difficult one?”11 Perhaps Razi also chose his example with the problem of human suffering in mind: after all, God’s failure to create humans entails the agony and danger of childbirth.12 Here we may also adduce the evidence of a Muʿtazilite treatise of uncertain authorship called Establishing the Proofs of Prophecy (Tathbīt dalāʾil al-​nubuwwa), which as Gregor Schwarb showed in a recent article, includes a polemic against Razi.13 This text confirms that Razi argued that God would have created mature human beings instantly, had this been possible, and provides

74  Al-​ Rāzī another, parallel example given by Razi: grapes must first be sour and green before darkening and sweetening. Be that as it may, the adult human is just one example to illustrate a general point. Is it really credible that God can create things ex nihilo, yet it is never the case that His will would best be carried out by doing so, with the single exception of the creation of the entire universe? Surely we would see Him choosing this apparently more efficient means at least some of the time. Yet we never experience instantaneous creation from nothing. Rather we always see things being produced through such processes as human growth, and out of preexisting constituents. Razi’s argument, then, would be far more plausible if he explicitly stated the premise that we never experience absolute creation. And precisely this point is made as Nāṣir-​e Khusraw goes on: Step 2:  “Complete induction is equivalent to a demonstration (istiqrā-​ e kullī barābar borhān),” and it teaches us that natures emerge from some other thing. This is matter, the “principle of body,” which in itself lacks composition (tarkīb). Prior to the creation of the universe matter was not yet under control (maqhūr), but rather dispersed (goshādeh). In the future the universe will be destroyed and matter will return to its dispersed state.

From our everyday experience that things are generated out of matter, Razi extrapolates to a claim about the formation of the universe. Of particular significance here is his idea that matter would have been in a dispersed or disorderly condition before the Creator imposed “composition” upon it in fashioning the universe. This evidently alludes to the claim in Plato’s Timaeus that there was disorderly motion in the receptacle prior to the Demiurge’s introduction of form (52e–​53b).14 The Platonic source explains why Razi, in the report of Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, invoked the fact that some parts of matter in the universe are higher up and others lower down. This corresponds to Timaeus’s description of the sifting of the material constituents in the receptacle when it “shakes”: “this explains how the different kinds came to occupy different regions of space, even before the universe was set in order” (53a, Zeyl trans.). That brings us to the third part of the passage in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, which we can paraphrase as follows: Step 3: The created is proof of the Creator, and the Creator must exist prior to the creation. But creation is the imposition of form upon matter. Thus it makes no sense to accept that the Creator (who gives form) is

Matter  75 prior to the universe, but to deny that matter (which receives form) is likewise prior. Since body is created from something on which control is imposed, namely matter, matter must be eternal.

Obviously this is directed against someone who already accepts that the universe has a Creator who has eternally existed before the universe began. Razi’s argument gets whatever force it has from the definition of the created thing as “matter that has received form.” Again, the reasoning looks faulty, since taken by itself it simply assumes the impossibility of creation ex nihilo. But of course, that impossibility has been established, or at least suggested, in step 1. We can then reconstruct the whole line of reasoning as follows. Razi’s first move (step 1) was to argue that creation ex nihilo must be impossible even for God. If it were possible we would surely see God creating such things as adult humans, since that would be the most expeditious way to accomplish His will. Then (step 2), he reinforced this by saying that to the contrary, we only ever see things come from a preexisting material substrate. This suggests that, already prior to the ordering universe, matter would have been present, albeit in a disorderly state, as stated in the Timaeus. Finally (step 3), Razi pointed out that if indeed creation always comes from matter, then matter’s status with respect to eternity can only be the same as the Creator’s. Anyone who accepts the Creator’s eternity should also accept matter’s eternity. So construed, is Razi’s argument any good? Even the most generous reader will probably conclude that it is not watertight. Yet it is more peruasive than it might at first seem, at least against a certain kind of opponent. This would be someone who is committed to God’s perfect wisdom, understood to mean that God always chooses the most rational means to effect His will. Such an opponent might be hard-​pressed to explain why, as far as we can tell, God foreswears his supposed power for creation ex nihilo after having fashioned the universe. The opponent would also be committed to God’s eternity. This gives the third part of the argument its dialectical bite: if it is right that God created from something, namely matter, then matter is likewise eternal. Nāṣir-​e Khusraw gives us no hint as to who Razi’s opponent may have been, but the assumption that this opponent is committed to God’s perfect rationality might make us think of the Muʿtazilites. In this context it is worth repeating that Razi is known to have disputed with the Muʿtazilite theologian al-​Miṣmaʿī on the topic of matter.

76  Al-​ Rāzī

4.2.  “Absolute matter” and the elements Nāṣir-​e Khusraw’s Provision of the Traveler contains not only the Razian argument for the eternity of matter, but also the gist of Razi’s atomic theory. One significant point is that Razi called atoms “absolute matter (al-​hayūlā al-​muṭlaqa)” (Works 172, 221).15 As I have already noted, we seem to have here a neat parallel between atoms, duration, and void, also known as absolute matter, time, and place. That the parallel is not only an interpretation introduced by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw is suggested by the possibility of a Greek background for the expression “absolute matter.” Pines has pointed to the use of the phrase χωριστὴ ὕλη by Aristotle in On Generation and Corruption (329a).16 This is particularly intriguing because in the passage in question, Aristotle is criticizing the conception of matter he claims to find in Plato’s Timaeus—​the key inspiration for Razi’s theory of matter, as we have already seen to some extent and will see in more detail in the next section (§4.3).17 Duration and void, or absolute time and place, are more fundamental than particular, or relative, times and places. For instance, absolute time is simply eternal duration, but there are also relative times which are the smaller durations that measure individual motions (see §5.3, in this volume). If we have absolute matter, what then might play the role of “relative” matter? The answer is the five elements, and then the bodies made from these. Razi gave a fairly detailed account of how this works. His basic idea is that absolute matter consists of atoms which are distributed in void. The weight or density of an elemental body is determined by the ratio of atoms to void in the volume occupied by that body. This is explained by Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī: The difference between the subtle and the dense (imtiyāz li-​l-​laṭīf min al-​kathīf) arises simply because of the admixture of void. For, to the extent that the parts from which the particular body are engendered are mixed together with parts of void, the body is subtle. When the parts from which a particular body is generated are mixed with parts of void, it will be a subtle body; if it is not mixed with parts of void, it will be a dense body. Furthermore, whenever the admixture of void is great, the subtlety will be greater. Earth has no admixture of parts of void, so it is inevitably as dense as can be. Water does have an admixture of parts of void, so there is inevitably some subtlety in it. As for airy bodies, they

Matter  77 have a greater admixture of void in them, so inevitably air is subtler than water, and likewise for fire, then the celestial spheres. (Exalted Topics, vol. 5, 182.11–​18 [= Works 218])

This view is not ascribed explicitly to the earlier Razi (it is introduced simply with “some people say”).18 But Kraus seems on solid ground with his ascription given the parallel account given by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: Muḥammad b.  Zakariyyāʾ has said that, among the parts of matter, that which is densely conjoined (sakht farāz amadeh) yields the substance of earth. What has become more loosely conjoined [than earth] yields the substance of water. The substance of air comes from what has been still more loosely conjoined, and the substance of fire is from what is even more loosely conjoinded than the substance of air. And he says that what comes from water that is more conjoined than it is at first turns into earth, whereas what comes from it and is looser than its substance is now becomes air. Similarly, what comes about from the substance of air and is more conjoined than it is initially turns into water, and what becomes more loosely conjoined than it is initially becomes fire. (Provision 73.12–​74.5 [= Works 221–​222]) Muḥammad b. Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī has claimed that matter is eternal, and that it consists of extremely small parts without any sort of composition. And [he claims that] the Creator, great be His praise, composes the bodies of the world from those parts in five ways, namely earth, water, air, fire and the sphere. He went on to say that among those bodies, what is more dense becomes more opaque; and that the composition of all bodies is from the parts of matter together with parts of void, meaning absolute place. The parts of matter in the composition of earth are more numerous (bīshtar) than in the composition of water, whereas the parts of void in earth are less numerous, but more numerous in water. For this reason, water becomes lighter (saboktar) than earth, and more subtle and transparent (rūshan), whereas earth becomes dense and opaque. Along the same lines, the parts of matter in water are in turn more numerous than in air, and the parts of void in air more than those in water, while the parts of matter in air are more numerous than those in fire, and the parts of void in fire more than those in air. The difference that obtains between these bodies, in terms of light and heavy, transparent and opaque, is due to the difference in the parts in the compositions of these two substances. (Provision 78.7–​19 [= Works 227–​228])

These two passages inform us that elemental transformation, and also transparency and darkness, occur thanks to changes in the density of atoms

78  Al-​ Rāzī in a volume. For instance, water is generated from when there is an increase in the ratio of atoms to void in a volume of air.19 In the Razian theory, the “heavy” and “light” of the Aristotelian theory (followed faithfully by other early Muslim thinkers like al-​Kindī20) are reduced to the dense and the subtle. The tendency of earth to move “down,” that is, toward the midpoint of the cosmos, is explained by its density.21 This is because it is seeking a more “constrained place (makān ḍayyiq),” whereas a “light,” in other words subtle, elemental body will move away from the cosmic midpoint since it tends to escape confinement (see Works 223). Here Razi is exploiting the fact that the notional concentric spheres of sphere of earth, water, air, and fire, which would result from a complete sifting apart of the elements, should have different volumes. The sphere of earth, being at the center of the cosmos, would have less volume than, say, the sphere of fire, which makes sense given its greater density. This then is why earth moves “down” whereas fire moves “up.”22 According to Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, heavenly bodies move in a circle, neither up nor down, because of their balanced proportion of atoms and void. This is, however, contradicted by a passage found in Moses Ibn Ezra,23 which explicitly draws a connection to the Timaeus and says that Razi agreed with Plato that the celestial bodies are made of the same elements as the sublunary world. According to this report, Razi drew attention to such phenomena as boiling water to show that sublunary elemental bodies can move in a circle. So it is not entirely clear what Razi believed about the physical constitution of the heavens. What does seem clear is that elemental motion is, in the Razian theory, explained in terms of degrees of density. We are more in the dark as to how this might explain variations in transparency. Some light is shed by the Doubts about Galen.24 In its section on vision, Razi explains the transparency of air—​that is, its capacity to be a suitable medium between the visual image and the visual pneuma—​in terms of its not being “a body that is a dense screen (kathīf sātir)” (§5.7). Further down he also says: It’s truly appalling, the numerous methods to which Galen resorts in supporting his theory [of vision]. These include his belief that the human body is light (nūr), and that light is an accident belonging (lāzim) to the subtle (sakhīfa) bodies that move away from the midpoint [of the cosmos], like those that are fiery, or those that move around the midpoint, like the stars, whereas [light does not attach] to dense [bodies] that move towards the midpoint. But in fact it is the opposite of light that attaches to these,

Matter  79 that is, shadows (ẓilāl) or darkness (ẓulma). So to suppose that light belongs to the brain or eye is really extraordinary. (Doubts §8.5)

Admittedly these passages are not terribly informative, since they do not spell out how variation in density gives rise to luminosity. But they do confirm that transparency and luminosity belong to subtle bodies and are lacking in dense bodies. One could take a similar message from Razi’s Medical Introduction, which says that we see thanks to a “luminous spirit” that falls under the class (jins) of fire (Introduction §11.3). In general, it seems that transparency and luminosity are properties that supervene on (hence lāzim) the subtlety of atomic mixtures. For another example of how observable phenomena may be explained in atomic terms, we can turn to another passage in the Doubts responding to the discussion of void in Galen’s On Demonstration. Razi tells us that Galen refuted the possibility of void by invoking the (supposed) fact that a “plunger cannot enter the syringe (zarrāqa) as long as the hole at its orifice is not open.” Razi retorts as follows: Galen’s opponents say that void exists in the interstices of the air, since something with no void in it does not allow anything else into itself. Yet, we do find that air allows something else into itself. For when we take a narrow-​necked flask, and blow into it, then put our finger over its orifice quickly, just as we stop blowing into it, so that nothing of what we blew into it can escape, the air finds room in it. We know this from the fact that when we immerse it into water upside-​down, with a finger placed over its orifice, the water bubbles, whereas it does not bubble when we up-​end a flask into it, into which we have not blown air. Likewise, if we suck on the orifice [of the flask], and then turn it over into the water, it will draw in just as much water as we took out of it. Thus it is obvious that the air in the flask in the two cases [just described] is not like the air outside that remains in its nature, and that the reason for the bubbling is that the excess goes out of it, in order to return it to its natural state, and that the reason for the attraction [of the water] is the presence of more void than there had been in it by nature. Otherwise there would be no location (mawḍūʿ) for the water, since it is filled with air, and it is absurd that there be two bodies in the same location. So the existence of void is shown in both ways. As for the syringe with a closed orifice, the reason that the plunger does not enter into it is that the tip of the plunger, owing to its size and thickness, is too big to find a place in the void between the particles of air, so that it is resisted by the entire air since all of [the

80  Al-​ Rāzī air’s] pressure is against it, and [the plunger] cannot be plunged into the interstices in it or find room there, the way that breath can find room in [the interstices] when one blows [into it]. Rather, it is pushing against all of the air enclosed in the hollow of the syringe, and this resists it in its entirety. It is not because it is enclosed that the air of [the syringe] resists, but rather owing to the opposition it offers. On this basis, the premise is falsified, which said that if no plunger can be inserted into the syringe the orifice of which is closed, then the air inside it has no void. (Doubts §4.2–​3)

The first experiment, proposed by Galen, supposedly shows the nonexistence of void.25 In this experiment we find that it is impossible to depress the plunger into a syringe full of air. This shows that the particles of air are not scattered through void, since if they were it should be possible to compress the particles into a smaller volume under pressure. Sadly for Galen, he is wrong about the empirical fact, and wrong precisely for the reason that particles of air are scattered and thus can be compressed, something perhaps easier to verify with a modern hypodermic needle than with the equipment available in the ancient world. Razi, however, accepts the supposed observation and explains it differently. The plunger cannot take advantage of the void, because it is too big to enter into the “interstices” or “gaps” between air particles (the word used is from the same root as khalāʾ, “void”). Razi’s counter-​experiment, where we blow air into water, is designed to eliminate this problem. Unlike the solid plunger, air can flow around into the empty spaces in the water. This experiment is also found in Muʿtazilite authors.26 Like them, Razi wishes to defend the idea that apparently “full” bodies, like portions of water, contain void, exactly the idea he invokes to explain the differing properties of the four elements. Density, then, is Razi’s all-​purpose explanation for the different material properties of bodies. (Some properties of material objects, like life, would of course be explained with reference to soul rather than the atomic theory.) What about differences between the atoms themselves? This is a difficult question given the sparseness of our sources. As far as we can tell, density is the sole determining factor of the macroscopic properties of the body occupying that volume. This suggests in turn that the atoms may well be homogeneous. And he does imply that the atoms are homogeneous at least with respect to size. This follows from his claim that every atom is as small

Matter  81 as any material thing can be, which appears in an argument for the atomic nature of bodies, again preserved by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: Absolute matter was indivisible parts, each one of [these parts] having a magnitude. Had it not been the case that each of the parts had magnitude, nothing having magnitude could arise from their being conjoined. Further, it is impossible that any of [these parts] has a magnitude such that there could be a smaller magnitude than it has. For if the material part had a part, then the part itself would be a composed body, not simple matter. But the matter that is the substrate (māddat) of the body is simple. (Provision 73.2–​9 [= Works 220])

The argument given here is twofold. First, bodies must consist of parts that have magnitude. This claim is familiar from Greek philosophy: a body cannot be made of unextended points, because such points could never add up to make an extension.27 Second, to avoid an infinite regress of division (which would violate the “simplicity” of matter), there must be smallest possible parts.28 Here it is worth noting a difference between Razi and at least some versions of the ancient atomic theory. Some Greek atomists, notably the Epicureans, distinguished between minimal parts and atoms.29 As their name makes clear, atoms (“uncuttables”) are indivisible, but they may vary in size and shape. By contrast, for Razi the atom simply is the minimal part of a body. In this respect, his atomism is like that of certain early mutakallimūn. As Dhanani has shown, some Muʿtazilite thinkers both before and after Razi held that every atom has the same, smallest possible size.30 What about the shape of the atoms? Again, there is no direct testimony on this question, but it stands to reason that earth at least is made of cube-​shaped atoms. For Fakhr al-​Dīn tells us, in a passage cited earlier, that earth has no void at all. This can occur only if the atoms in earth are packed together with no spaces in between. If Razi gave any thought to the atoms’ shapes, the Platonic solids would have been the obvious candidates (we’ll see shortly that he did know of this aspect of the Timaeus), and of these solids only cubes pack together with no void spaces.31 Of course this is pretty speculative, as we need to assume that Fakhr al-​Dīn is reporting accurately, since no other source claims that earth lacks all void in Razi’s theory; that Razi would have worked with the Platonic solids if he assigned shapes to the atoms; and that he knew that, of these solids, only cubes can be packed together without any gaps.

82  Al-​ Rāzī As long as we’re speculating, what about the other four elements? Our reports indicate that they differ from earth only in terms of density. If so, the other elements too would be made of cube-​shaped atoms. Of course that would be a departure from the Timaeus. But a departure on this particular point would be required given that Razi apparently accepted, as Plato did not, that earth can change into the other elements.32 In fact, there is a more basic departure from the Platonic theory on Razi’s part, since he clearly thinks that atoms are not triangles that come together to make the faces of solids (again, we’ll see shortly that Razi was aware of this), but rather three-​dimensional objects. In this respect his atomism is, in its details, less like Plato’s and more like kalām atomism or the theory of ancient atomists like Democritus and Epicurus.33

4.3.  The sources of Razi’s atomism This brings us to the next question concerning Razi’s theory of matter: what inspired it? According to Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, Razi was simply following his fellow “partisan of matter (ṣāḥib al-​hayūlā)” Ī​ rānshahrī. It would be wrong to dismiss this claim out of hand, but neither does it settle the issue. For one thing, there would simply arise the further question of what inspired al-​Īrānshahrī’s atomism. For another, scholars like Pines and Baffioni have suspected a Greek background for the Razian theory. We will see in this section that they were right to do so. First, let’s consider more fully the possibility that Razi was responding to kalām atomism. As already mentioned, Pines and Baffioni think he was not. Yet we know from the lists of his books that Razi debated his cosmological theory with at least two Muʿtazilites, engaging with al-​Kaʿbī on the topic of time and al-​Miṣmaʿī on the topic of matter, the very issue we are interested in at the moment. On the other hand, of course, he was arguing against these mutakallimūn, not adopting their views. And apart from the just-​ mentioned point that his atoms are all of the same, minimal size, not much seems to link Razian and Muʿtazilite atomism. Of course, the mutakallimūn would vigorously contest Razi’s idea that matter preexists created things. In terms of the actual mechanics of the theory, we do find in kalām authors an occasional embrace of the idea that atoms have weight,34 but no attempt to reduce Aristotelian heaviness and lightness, or the rectilinear and circular

Matter  83 motions of the four sublunary elements and heavens, to degrees of atomic density. Rather, the properties of atoms are explained in terms of a theory of “accidents” that God creates in things. This is wholly absent from our accounts of Razi. The only mention of “accident (ʿaraḍ)” in our sources is when Nāṣir-​e Khusraw says that the properties of material things are determined by atomic mixtures, as accidents predicated of matter, which plays the role of substance (jawhar, Works 224). Razi’s “accidents” seem to be emergent properties that supervene on material properties. In particular, they supervene on the ratio of atoms to void, which determines the elemental bodies. The sources also speak, with frustrating lack of detail, of “composition,” as when al-​Bīrūnī says that for Razi “the sensible object is matter that has received form through composition (al-​hayūlā al-​mutaṣṣawira bi-​l-​tarkīb)” (Works 195). Perhaps this indicates that the arrangement, and not just density, of atoms within a body can give rise to macroscopic properties. Although the content of Razi’s theory does not particularly resonate with kalām, its vocabulary does to some extent. Not only did he use the words ʿaraḍ and jawhar, assuming Nāṣir-​e Khusraw has not added this terminology himself, but the talk of “indivisible parts” is also familiar from kalām discussions. Given this fact, and our knowledge that Razi engaged with mutakallimūn on the topic of matter, it seems most likely that he was proposing a rival version of atomism as an alternative to kalām theories. This rival theory gave atoms a place among the eternal principles of the universe, a point secured through an argument which, as we saw earlier (§4.1), seemed to have in mind an opponent who holds beliefs current in kalām. We might further hypothesize that Razi drew on Greek sources to formulate his alternative atomic theory. So let’s now consider this hypothesis, bearing in mind that the Presocratic atomism of Democritus and Leucippus has been identified by Baffioni as bearing a close resemblance to the Razian theory of matter. The most obvious common feature is the fundamental distinction between atoms and void. Void is, however, accepted in kalām atomism, too, and on this point the kalām conception seems close to Razi’s. The Muʿtazilites were known to describe void as “place (makān),” just as he does.35 Then again, the Greek atomists’ void is also strongly associated with “place.” In the lost work On Democritus, Aristotle reported that Democritus called place (τόπος) by the names “void,” “nothing,” and “infinite.”36 In his

84  Al-​ Rāzī (fortunately not lost) Physics, Aristotle himself considered the hypothesis that place is extension. Commenting on this, Simplicius says, “Democritus, Epicurus and their followers say that this interval (διάστημα) is void, so that it is sometimes filled by body and sometimes left void.”37 This is remarkably close to a report of Razi’s position in al-​Iṣfahānī: “void is extension (buʿd) which is devoid of body but may possibly have body in it” (Works 198).38 Likewise the atomists notoriously claimed that void is infinite in extension, something Razi also accepts. It is hard to imagine Razi having much sympathy, though, with the idea that place or void is “non-​being” or “nothing,” a well-​attested feature of Democritean atomism.39 What of the reduction of macroscopic bodies and properties to atomic compounds?40 On this point we have already seen one divergence between Razi and the atomism ascribed to both the Presocratics and the Epicureans. His atoms are all the same size, that is, the smallest possible size, and we have seen no evidence that he invoked a variation in the shapes of atoms. By contrast, Greek atomists accepted a wide variety, possibly even an infinite variety, in the size of atoms and also in their shapes.41 In particular, the Greek atomic theory referred to the sizes and shapes of atoms in order to account for the differences between the elemental bodies. For instance, Aristotle says: [Leucippus and Democritus] do not make clear what the shape is of each of the elements, except that they ascribe the sphere to fire; they differentiate air and water and the rest by differences of size. (On the Heavens 303a12–​15)42

Razi instead explained elemental differences in terms of density. This difference extends to other properties: we saw earlier (§4.2, Chapter 4) that Nāṣir-​e Khusraw states that for Razi transparency and opacity are explained by atomic density. By contrast, according to Simplicius the atomists held that some atoms were in themselves bright, others dark.43 But let’s not be hasty. A  less dominant strand in the Greek sources reports that the atomists too invoked the ratio of atoms to void in their account of heaviness and lightness, and hence of the traditional elements: In general the cause of anything’s being lighter than something else is the presence of more void (τὸ πλεῖον ἐνυπάρχειν κενόν). That is what they say, but those who distinguish [heavy and light] in this way must add that the lighter thing contains not merely more void, but also less

Matter  85 solid. . . . That is why they say that fire is the lightest thing of all, since it contains the most void. (Aristotle, On the Heavens 309a10–​16)44

On this point an interesting passage is found in Philoponus’s Commentary on the Physics: This45 is another argument from the things said by those who suppose that the void is dispersed in bodies; these are the followers of Democritus. For now, [Aristotle] says, you give the cause of things moving more in air, less in water, and not at all in earth, that all things arise from the combination of the void and the atoms, but the combination is not uniform in all things, but the voids in the bodies are greater or smaller. For this reason movement through air is faster, because the voids in air have large parts; for the atoms of the air pushed by the moving thing pass easily into the voids and give a passage to the moving thing. In water the movement is slower. For the voids are smaller, and the compression into them takes more time. In earth, because the voids have very small parts, movement does not occur, for the atoms cannot be compressed into them. (Philoponus in Phys. 644.25–​645.9 [Huby trans.])

Here we should notice not only the application of the density model to all four elements, but also the idea that there are “parts” of void. This rather odd locution is mirrored in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw’s account of Razi’s atomism (cited earlier in §4.2). There would seem, then, to be a strong basis for suspecting a link between Razi’s atomism and ancient Greek atomism. Particularly striking is the parallel just mentioned. Both Razi and the Greek atomists—​according to some sources—​held that elemental bodies differ from one another because of the density of atoms in a given volume.46 The next natural question would be how Razi would have known about ancient atomism. Especially given that the parallel just adduced relates to material found in Aristotle and his commentators, they would seem to be the most likely source, especially because Razi himself tells us (in the Philosophical Life, at Works 109)  that he wrote an introduction (Mudkhal) to Aristotle’s Physics (Samʿ al-​kiyān). We’ve also seen that the incompletely preserved treatise On Metaphysics (see Chapter  2, §2.5), shows an extensive knowledge of both the Physics and commentaries on this work. One might register a skeptical note here: earlier I quoted Arisotle’s On the Heavens, not his Physics. But the Philoponus passage just cited is from his Physics commentary, which is cited explicitly in On Metaphysics (Works 117).47 Razi could also be influenced by

86  Al-​ Rāzī the Physics itself, since there Aristotle says that variation in density proves the existence of void according to some unnamed theorists (216b), and that density is correlated with heaviness (217b). When we are wondering about the Greek background of any idea in Razi, though, there is one thing we should always remember to do: check Galen. Especially in this case, since as has been noted by Langermann, Galen’s On the Elements According to Hippocrates could have been a significant conduit for knowledge of atomism into the Arabic world.48 There Galen criticizes atomism, citing Democritus by name and quoting his famous dictum “color by convention, sweetness by convention, bitter by convention; in reality, atoms and void.”49 Galen also mentions that for Democritus void is “a sort of space (χώρα τις),”50 and that his atoms are unbreakable because of their smallness.51 Galen goes on to complain that nothing made of atoms could undergo change or be capable of sensation.52 One might then speculate that Galen was another source for Razi’s ideas of atomism. But in this case we don’t need to speculate. Razi discusses this very passage of Galen’s On the Elements in Doubts about Galen, and responds with a fairly detailed account of his own interpretation of ancient atomism. This account has great importance for our understanding of Razi’s theory of matter, so I will quote it in its entirety: Refutation of [Galen’s] views on the composition of bodies. Regarding On the Elements According to Hippocrates and the Commentary on Hippocrates’ On the Nature of Man, before discussing what he says in these two books, where he is not following the method of demonstration, we need first to report the principle of the people Galen is refuting. We say: they claimed that earth, water, air, fire, and the celestial sphere, in fact every body, is composed in various ways from small bodies, which they called “primary bodies” or “indivisible bodies.” They claimed that the first to arise from the composition of these bodies are five kinds of composition, one of which is proper (khāṣṣ) to the body of the celestial sphere, albeit that it is in itself common and needs to be specified,53 while the other four produce the four elements, namely fire, air, water and earth. Each of them has a composition of these [primary bodies] proper to it, thanks to which its form belongs to it, as Plato demonstrated, saying that the composition of fire is from triangles whereas that of earth is from squares. They claimed that everything that comes to be is from these [primary bodies], and every body is corrupted into these. (Doubts §15.1–​6)

Matter  87 They claimed that these [primary bodies] are indivisible and immune to partition, except in the imagination (wahm). As for material division or partition—​no. According to them, this is because [the primary bodies] are the smallest material things, and something of such small size cannot be divided, for two reasons. First, because there exists no material thing such that, if it were touching one of these [primary bodies], it would be smaller than them and they larger than it, such that they might be cut by it. For they are at the limit of smallness for material things. The second reason is that the [primary] body cannot be eliminated, so as to be reduced to nothing. Beyond the smallness of these bodies lies only nothingness (talāshin). They claimed that these bodies cannot be sensed, and are insusceptible to dissolution. They are, however, susceptible to composition. For they can be joined together, and this joining can be broken up. But one of them cannot be dissolved into anything else. Their movements, so long as they have not entered into composition, are of all kinds. But once in a composition they move in accordance with the type [of body] that has arisen from their composition, either in a circle or a straight line. The reason for their mutual union and cohesion is, according to some of them, the soul, and according to others, both the Creator and the soul, but according to others, void. For they claimed that void has the greatest power to attract bodies toward itself. Thus they claimed that fire, air, water, and earth are not primary elements, because the particles (nuqaṭ) of all of these, and of the celestial sphere, are nothing but this very same body, and when any of them dissolve they dissolve into it [sc. the atomic body], while everything composed from them is composed of it. This is the sum total of their opinion about the principles; the disagreement among them concerning this is slight. So now, let us fairly consider Galen’s refutation against them. We say that in his refutation against them, Galen relies on the statement that “if the element were one, and this one cannot be sensed, nor is it susceptible to affection, then there could be no sensation or alteration. But we find that there are sensation and alteration. Thus the element is not one.”54 But the opponents would say that the ultimate, uttermost element, which is not dissolved into anything simpler than it, is one in kind, namely the small bodies that are not materially partitioned. These bodies cannot be sensed and are not susceptible to being affected by anything at all so as to be reduced in size. But they are susceptible to being increased

88  Al-​ Rāzī in size, through cohesion and connection. So this premise does not entail the conclusion [Galen draws from it]. For it might be that sensation and change belong to the mass (juththa) composed from these: sensation, when the soul comes to rest upon it, and change, due to the variation in types of composition. So long as the composition remains exactly as it has been so far, the soul does not sense it, because no alteration occurs. But if there is some change in the composition as it has been so far, the soul notices the alteration accordingly, whether it is a small or great [change]. Alteration occurs in these [simple bodies] through rarefaction and condensation, so that as a result all qualities arise. What makes all these alterations arise in the first element, according to the opinion of Empedocles, Plato, and others, is that which takes some of them and composes them suitably to produce an instrument through which it acts upon the others, just as the blacksmith works on the rest of the iron with the hammer, bellows, pincers, and anvil. This instrument is the heavenly sphere. For this reason, no dissolution enters into [its] composition for so long as its composer has need of it in accomplishing what He intends for the other part of the substance affected by Him. This is everything below the sphere of the moon. The purpose of this whole activity is the perfect achievement of what He wants for the soul, namely its acquisition of perfect knowledge and understanding of its separation from its own world, so that it ceases to desire what is in the world of sensation, or to unify with sensible, ephemeral forms, which are constantly losing the compositions in them, since this is difficult for it, and so that it may return in its very substance to the state it was in prior to composition, which is the reason for corruption and decay. This was the opinion of the most excellent ancient natural philosophers, who inquired deeply into the roots and principles of things, and were not content to be indifferent or lazy, for instance Empedocles and Plato, and following them later on, the Stoics.

Razi’s sympathy for the atomic theory he is describing here can be inferred not just from his explicit praise of the relevant thinkers,55 but also from certain details of the theory, which make it sound very close to his own. He might easily be speaking of his own cosmology when he says that the Creator and the soul have composed preexisting atomic matter, to create a world from which the soul is intended to escape, returning to its own world. The details of the physical theory Razi ascribes to Plato and Empedocles also look rather familiar, particularly the idea that the differences between

Matter  89 the five elements, and change in qualities, are the result of varying condensation and rarefaction. We already saw that our other sources have Razi alluding to the “composition (tarkīb)” of atoms, and this term appears throughout his presentation of the Greek atomic theory. As for the atoms themselves, we find here again the idea that all atoms are of the same, smallest possible size, which is why they cannot be divided. Void’s power of attraction is another Razian idea borrowed from the medical tradition, as is mentioned by Fakhr al-​Dīn in his brief overview of Razi’s atomism (Works 218).56 Yet another parallel is the remark that atoms can be divided “in imagination (wahm),” but not in physical fact. This is mentioned in the context of discussing Razi and Democritus by Muḥammad ibn Mubārakshah al-​Bukhārī (Works 219, also using the word wahm). In short, the passage from the Doubts is all but an explicit identification of Razi’s sources, offered to us by Razi himself. Naturally, we should not assume complete agreement between Razi and the Greek theory he describes. As we saw earlier (§4.2), the details in the account of Plato and Empedocles do not fit well with Razi’s own theory as we know it from other sources. Though we have no direct information bearing on the different shapes of Razian atoms, if indeed they differ in shape, it seemed most likely that they are cubes. More importantly, Razi does not seem to use the idea that atomic bodies can be broken down into more fundamental constituents like triangles. Yet here he faithfully records the triangular shape of the “atoms” in the Timaeus. Also, Razi did not (as far as we know) present the heavens as an intermediary or instrument of God. Furthermore, as we’ve just seen, Razi incorporates into his own atomism details that reached him from the Physics tradition, especially to reach the notion that elements are determined by density, rather than shape as in the Timaeus. In this respect, the atomic theory fits the description that Razi applied to his views about time and place, in his debate with Abū Ḥātim al-​Rāzī. That is, he has basically followed Plato, yet has improved the theory himself (Proofs 13, 16). This is not entirely surprising. We were already reminded of Plato’s Timaeus earlier (§4.1), when we saw that Razi acknowledged a disorderly state of matter before the composition of the universe. Note on this score the reference in the long passage from the Doubts to the fact that atoms had “all kinds of movement” before entering into bodily

90  Al-​ Rāzī composition and beginning to move in a more constrained fashion. It is nowadays common to think of Plato as a kind of atomist (“geometrical atomism”), and in fact his triangle-​based chemistry was already compared to Presocratic atomism in the ancient tradition.57 So Razi would have some precedent in seeking to combine the ancient atomist account with what he found in the Timaeus. One last detail needs clearing up: why would Razi refer in this context to Empedocles, of all people? An obvious temptation would be simply to read “Democritus” for the two appearances of the name “Empedocles” in the Doubts passage. After all, in the Galenic text to which Razi is responding, it was Democritus who was named as a target. Of course this is possible, but the two names are not all that similar orthographically in either Greek or Arabic, so a confusion would not arise easily. Also our passage contains at least one connection to the authentic teachings of Empedocles: the idea that the soul is in “exile” here in this embodied life.58 The parallel is even closer if we consider what it says in the first chapter of the Theology of Aristotle, the largest text preserving the Kindī-​circle Arabic translation of Plotinus: “Empedocles said that souls were in the higher, noble world but then, because they erred, they fell to this world. And he himself also came to this world as a fugitive (farrār) from the anger of God, the exalted.”59 The passage goes on to add that Empedocles called his fellow humans to return to a restful state in their own world. It is also worth noting that this same passage of the Theology, like Razi, couples Empedocles with Plato, who is also made to say that the soul should return to its own world. Moreover, a glance at the reception of Empedocles in Arabic shows that it would be perfectly reasonable for Razi to think of him as an atomist. The text I  have in mind here is the Pseudo-​Plutarchian Placita (“Aetius Arabus”).60 It makes mention of Empedocles numerous times, and ascribes to him the following views on the nature of matter: I.4.1: There are “indivisible parts” which move in an uncontrolled fashion, and randomly come together to produce variously shaped bodies. I.4.2: The heavens and sublunary elements are separated out from one another through a process of sifting which differentiates the fine from the dense. I.13.1: “Empedocles held that prior to the four elements there are other, smaller elements similar to round parts.”

Matter  91 I.17.3: “Empedocles held that the combination of elements (usṭuqsāt) is from small parts, which are the smallest of things: they are the like the elements of elements.” I.24.2: Empedocles and Epicurus thought the universe is formed from the gathering of fine bodies, but there is no generation and corruption. “For they held that generation is not a change in quality, but a combination (ijtimāʿ) in respect of quantity.” I.30.1: Empedocles denied nature, thinking that generation only arises through combination and separation. Again, there is no perfect match between the Empedoclean physics of Pseudo-​Plutarch and the Razian theory, or for that matter the theory Razi describes in the Doubts. For one thing, this Empedocles denies that there is void (I.18.2). Still, the Placita shows that there would have been plenty of reason for Razi to group him with Plato as one of his atomic forebears.

4.4. Alchemy Before turning to Razi’s final pair of eternal principles, time and place, let us consider a very different body of evidence about matter in Razi: his alchemical works. These were influential in both Arabic and Latin, and although much of his output on the topic has been lost, we do have several surviving alchemical works ascribed to him.61 These include some texts from a sequence of treatises, which are collectively called the “twelve books.” These began with a surviving Introduction to alchemy, which in intent and style, as well as title, is comparable to his Medical Introduction.62 There is other material from the “twelve books” extant in manuscript, but not much of it has been edited, never mind studied. Another major alchemical work, The Secret of Secrets (Sirr al-​asrār), has been edited and translated into German.63 Though we thus have plenty of material to work with, there is not much to go on when it comes to the relationship between Razi’s alchemy and his philosophy. There seems to be no extant discussion by Razi justifying alchemy in theoretical terms. A text that would have been invaluable here, his refutation of al-​Kindī’s critique of alchemy, is sadly lost.64 The surviving alchemical writings are relentlessly practical, describing in detail chemical substances, procedures, and instruments. Just to give a flavor of these texts, here are two passages chosen more or less at random, describing the

92  Al-​ Rāzī extraction of salt from urine and the “softening of gold with spirits,” in this case with vitriol: Take ten raṭl’s of urine and let stand in the blazing sun in a glass vessel for forty days. If it coagulates and becomes salt, then it will be satisfactory. Otherwise daub it with clay as described above, and place it on hot ashes. Keep heaping on ashes until it coagulates. (Secret of Secrets 7)65 Take however much reddish gold as you like. Make it into fine leaves. Now take a clay pot and put in a layer of evaporated sulphur with no black flecks in it, then a layer of the gold leaves, [alternating] until you are done. Then soak what is in the pot with vitriol, up to the top. Next, wrap a covering around it and tie it up. Put it into the middle of a fire, in this case burning dung, in an oven. Remove when cool. Keep doing so until it is liquified and fluid. (Secret of Secrets 57)

Razi goes on in both cases, as he often does, to suggest other procedures to obtain the same result, which may work better. There is much to admire here. The methods sound like they might actually work, for one thing, and the instructions are nice and clear (more on that point in a moment). But it is hard to see what relevance such material could have for Razi’s philosophical thought. Indeed, the scholar who did the pioneering and still most significant work on Razi’s alchemy, Julius Ruska, thought that Razi’s alchemy and philosophy bear no relationship to one another at all, the former being practical in nature whereas the latter is abstract theory.66 Before testing this claim, let me give a rapid overview of Razi’s conception of alchemy and his place in the history of alchemy. He saw himself as standing within a long and illustrious tradition, as we can see from the authorities he cites. The prologue to the Secret of Secrets (albeit not in all manuscripts67) sets out a list of sages that includes Hermes, Plato, Zosimus, Galen, Aristotle, Pythagoras, Hippocrates, Democritus, and Jābir ibn Ḥayyān. Comparable is the Book of Testimonies (Kitāb al-​Shawāhid), one of the “twelve books.”68 According to Razi himself, the purpose of this collection of citations was to demonstrate that his own alchemical thought was in agreement with that of the sages of old. Obviously this list of alchemical authorities is to some extent fantasy, but with Jābir ibn Ḥayyān things are different. Jābir was the outstanding figure in the early Arabic alchemical tradition, with an astounding number of works ascribed to his name. There are extensive parallels between the Jābirean corpus and Razi’s alchemical writings.69 In light of this, and given the authority-​based approach of the

Matter  93 Book of Testimonies, one might even wonder whether Razi is doing more in these writings than to transmit alchemical “book-​learning,” without making any significant contribution of his own. A satisfactory answer to this question would require a careful comparison between Razian and Jābirean alchemy, an enormous task that I would in any case not be competent to undertake. But there are reasons to doubt that Razi, such an independent thinker in medicine and philosophy, contented himself with being a conduit of information he found in earlier alchemical texts. For starters, even if he found most or all of the learning he transmits in the works of others, he is innovative in the way he organizes and presents this material. Unlike other alchemists, he explains procedures and instruments in an explicit and straightforward way, as we can observe with the preceding quotations. The Secret of Secrets in particular is very clearly organized and sign-​posted, with ordered sections devoted to the key chemical substances, the instruments used in alchemy, and the various stages of the alchemical process. This is in keeping with the purpose of the work, which he explains in its introduction. It was written in response to a request from Muḥāmmad ibn Yūnus, a young student of Razi’s from Bukhārā, who was “well versed in mathematics and the natural and logical sciences” (Secret of Secrets 1). The work is a self-​contained overview, which conveys “something of the secrets of the techniques (aʿmāl) of the art,” making it unnecessary for the student to consult Razi’s “twelve books” or any of his other alchemical writings. The “twelve books” were also at least relatively user friendly. Their Introduction is organized along the same lines as the Secret of Secrets and is again written in a pedagogically helpful fashion. All of this was something of a departure from the alchemical tradition, which had frequently been marked by elusive and symbolically coded styles of writing. In the Book of Testimonies, Razi not only quotes previous authors, but also occasionally “decodes” such symbolic language for the reader. Furthermore, in works like the Secret of Secrets, he by and large abandons the use of symbolic terms to conceal the identity of various chemical substances, a tendency greeted with great relief by Ruska, who laments the “plague of code names” in other alchemical literature.70 Razi remarks himself upon this aspect of his approach to alchemy. For instance, after going through the processes for “dissolving” various compounds, he says, “this is the entirety of what the sages devised for the procedures (tadābīr) of dissolution. We have hidden nothing of it, apart from one very subtle

94  Al-​ Rāzī discussion (bāb)” (Secret of Secrets, 83).71 In his alchemical Introduction, he says that the procedures are “easier to understand by actually seeing them” in person. He then considers the objection that this renders the present treatise pointless. He replies: Its value is that it collects together all that a man can desire to ask about and displays it fully to view. In that is great advantage, for if you wish to learn from experts the instruments and substances in any different order (tartīb) [than the one I am giving], you can only do so after a long time. . . . Nor are you secure from deception.72

Shortly thereafter he adds that having read this Introduction, the reader will be in a position to extend his knowledge by undertaking his own observations (tajārib).73 With such remarks, Razi furthermore implies that he is a practicing alchemist, not just a transmitter of the previous textual tradition. Here one must mention a story included in Secret of Secrets (101–​102), which seems a rather heterogeneous element and may be an insertion in the text.74 It relates to the discussion of animal parts (like hair) useful in alchemy, and is prefaced by the heading “a nice story (khabar ẓarīf): Abū Bakr Muḥammad Zakariyyāʾ said . . .” In the story, Razi tells how he was in Baghdad and had dinner with a “philosopher (ḥakīm)” named al-​Hamadhānī. I suppose this refers to Ibrahīm ibn Jaʿfar al-​Hamadhānī, who has been cited as a source for alchemical knowledge earlier in the Secret of Secrets (88). The two discussed and argued about alchemy. Razi characteristically remarks, “he brought forward nothing but that I disproved and refuted his argument.”75 Stung into attempting to prove his expertise, al-​Hamadhānī produced an alchemical elixir with which he transformed base metal into silver. Razi then outdid him, producing a superior elixir he just happened to have on him at the time, and turning the silver into gold. The story concludes with Razi boasting that his deed was the work of a master (ʿamal al-​ḥukamāʾ), whereas al-​Hamadhānī’s was that of a mere beginner. Without placing too much weight on this story, I would tentatively suggest that Razi did indeed practice alchemy, probably quite extensively. It might even be fair to say that his approach to earlier alchemical sources was like his approach in medicine: he had respect for his predecessors, but brought his own observations to bear on the art.76 If so, this would be only one of several parallels between Razi’s medical and alchemical writings. Ruska rightly emphasizes that the pedagogically crafted and clearly

Matter  95 organized way Razi wrote about alchemy matches his approach in medicine.77 The citation and glossing of previous authorities in the Book of Testimonies is akin to Razi’s notes compiled in the Comprehensive Book. At a somewhat more superficial level, the style used for describing alchemical procedures in the Secret of Secrets and elsewhere is highly reminiscent of drug-​lore in Razi and other medical authors. In both cases we are essentially being given “recipes” with a list of ingredients and sequence of steps for manipulating them. (Of course this holds more generally of alchemical and pharmacological literature, and is not a point uniquely relevant to Razi.) But the most intriguing link is that Razi’s alchemy itself involves medical analogies and terminology. For instance, in the Introduction he defines the elixir used to transform base into precious metal as follows: “the medicine (dawāʾ) which, when fed to the molten body, makes it into silver, gold, or changes it to white or yellow.”78 This brings us to the question of how exactly alchemy works, according to Razi. Thanks to the clear layout of the Secret of Secrets and Introduction, this question is relatively easy to answer.79 Razi provides a classification of material substances (for which he uses the word ʿaqāqīr) dealt with by the alchemist, into four types: natural inorganic ones, those derived from plants, those derived from animals, and those that can only be derived through some sort of chemical process (for instance by oxidizing a metal). Most attention is paid to the first group of inorganic substances, which are subdivided into spirits, bodies, stones, vitriols, boraces, and salts. Each of these is then yet further subdivided into specific substance types. For instance there are four “spirits,” namely mercury, sal ammoniac, arsenic sulphide, and sulphur, while there are seven “bodies,” which we would call metals (gold, silver, copper, iron, etc.). The difference between spirits and bodies will be of some interest to us, so I here quote Razi’s explanation: The first substances of this art are those which they call bodies (ajsād). They call them by this name, i.e. “bodies,” because substances are of two kinds, some of them passing off in vapor, and flying away upon coming into contact with fire, while others remain and are stable. The adherents of the art call the stable ones “bodies” because of the grossness and earthiness of body, while they call those that fly away “spirits (arwāḥ)” on account of the subtlety of spirit.80

96  Al-​ Rāzī In other words, something counts as a spirit if it can be evaporated by heating, and as a body if it remains. Note that this is explained in terms of the subtlety of the former and the earthiness of the latter, a point to which I  will return. The difference between “bodies” or metals and “stones,” meanwhile, is that “bodies” are malleable whereas “stones” are not.81 Razi thus uses the word “stone” not only for such predictable items as pyrite, mica, and gypsum, but also for animal parts that cannot be melted, like hair (Secret of Secrets, 95: al-​aḥjār al-​ḥayawāniyya). Though these substances can be found in nature, they typically need to be purified out from a compound body. This involves processes like distillation, washing, or, in the case of stones, calcification through heating. In the case of a body or stone, this will yield a fine powder. The next step consists of “softening” (tashmīʿ, literally “making waxy”) it into a workable mass. We saw an example with the passage about gold leaf quoted earlier. Then comes “dissolution” (ḥall), in which the softened substance is further altered by being placed into a solvent like ammonia or vinegar, a step that can involve further distillation. In this method, the basic substance has first been purified, that is, isolated or extracted from the compound in which it was found, then made into something we can actually work with by softening, then further broken down through dissolution. The purpose of the whole procedure is to isolate some fundamental ingredient and get it into a condition where it can be combined with other elements, following an alchemical recipe. That stage of combination is called “mixture.” Finally, the mixture—​which is rather fluid because of the softening and dissolving phases—​is re-​solidifed through “coagulation (ʿaqd).” That gives us what we have been working toward the whole time: an “elixir” that can be applied to a base material and so either transform it into something precious (gold, silver, or a precious gemstone) or merely impart a golden or silver color to it. Thus in the anecdote mentioned previously, what Razi had on his person was a small quantity of elixir prepared earlier, using an animal “stone” as the initial ingredient, which had the capacity to turn silver into gold. We are now ready to think about the relation of all this to Razi’s philosophy. There are, I think, two possible connections, both of which I present only as hypotheses pending more adequate research into Razi’s alchemical corpus. The first has to do with Razi’s views on body and soul. Perhaps the reader has already been struck by the opposition he draws between body (jasad) and spirit (rūḥ). The opposition is even more intriguing when we

Matter  97 note that he also uses the word “soul (nafs)” for the spirit side of this contrast. There is an obvious parallel here between Razi’s ethical and eschatological theory, in which the point of human life is to turn soul away from the body through philosophy, and his alchemical theory, which involves extracting a “spirit” or “soul” from a “body.” It would be unsurprising if Razi had such a parallel in mind, since it is a feature of the earlier alchemical tradition. The soul-​body contrast is found in Jābirean alchemy.82 Earlier still, in Greek alchemy, we find explicitly the parallel I have just proposed between the material “spirit” of a chemical substance and the soul or pneuma of a human body. For instance, the alchemist Stephanus writes that “copper has soul and spirit, just like the human does,” going on to say that heating frees the “vital spirit” or “soul” of a metal by evaporating it.83 The other possible connection is between Razi’s alchemy and the atomic theory of matter discussed earlier in this chapter. Here it would be worth stepping back from the details of the alchemical procedures to ask why anyone would think alchemy is possible. A  powerful justification would be that every material substance can, at least in theory, transform into any other material substance. If anything can be turned into anything, then obviously lead or silver can be turned into gold. It seems to be on this basis that Razi’s younger contemporary al-​Fārābī, despite believing that alchemy is not possible in practice, admitted that it could work in theory. In the Aristotelian physics accepted by al-​Fārābī, all sublunary bodies are made of the four elements and the elements all transform into one another. Metals are thus, as al-​Fārābī puts it, things that are “possible but difficult” to produce. The difficulty stems from the fact that changing one metal into another requires altering both its essential and accidental features.84 As we have seen, Razi does not exactly adhere to the Aristotelian theory of matter, but he does not exactly reject it either. He thinks that the most basic atomic compounds are the four Aristotelian so-​called elements (or five, if he considered celestial bodies to be made of a fifth “element”). It is consistent with this that in the passage quoted earlier, where he explains the basic difference between spirits and stones, he contrasts “earthy” substances to other ones. But there is reason to suspect that Razi thought his atomic theory of matter, rather than the Aristotelian elemental theory, could provide the real explanation for how alchemy works. That same passage emphasizes the “grossness” of the earthy substance in comparison to the “subtlety” of spirit bodies that can evaporate. This fits nicely with the idea

98  Al-​ Rāzī that watery, airy, and fiery bodies are more subtle in the sense that they have a higher proportion of void to atoms than earth does. More striking still, when Razi explains the process by which an earthy body is purified through calcification, he says that the goal is to reduce it to a very fine dust (he calls this habāʾ and dharūr): Calcification (taklīs) occurs in bodies, stones, salts, husks, and sea-​shells. It is the manipulation (tadbīr) of their bodies by burning the sulfurs and oils, so that they become a white dust that has no part.85 (Secret of Secrets 32)

This phrase “has no part (lā juzʾ la-​hā)” is of course not to be taken literally, in the sense that the powder would literally be a heap of disaggregated atoms. But the turn of phrase is certainly intriguing, especially given that Razi frequently speaks too of using an alchemical procedure to reveal or extract the underlying jawhar (essence) of a body.86 In the case of an earthy body, this is explicitly said to involve rendering it into very fine particles that have been isolated from any admixture of impurity. This would be analogous, if not quite identical, to breaking down a bodily compound into its atomic constituents. From there, it should be possible to work the “atomic” substance back up into a more complex body, by combining it with other equally pure substances (the “mixture” stage) to get any possible material property—​for instance, the property of being able to turn base metal into gold.87

• 5

Time and Place

Having examined Razi’s views on God, soul, and matter, we should now move on to the two remaining eternal principles: absolute time, also known as duration (mudda) or eternity (dahr), and absolute place, also known as void (khalāʾ). These are the two principles that are neither active (like God and soul) nor passive (like matter), which means that we immediately seem to have a problem. Why postulate absolute time and place if they play neither the active nor passive role in any causal process? As we will see in this chapter, Razi has two replies to make to this question. First, absolute time and place are epistemically primitive. By this I mean that they are grasped immediately, and not on the basis of our experience of anything else (such as motions or bodies that are in a place). The gist of this response is that the question is misguided: there is no need to argue for the reality of absolute time and place. Nonetheless, Razi does provide a second rationale, which is that absolute time and place are also metaphysically primitive. They are more fundamental than the motions and bodies that exist in time and place, and are thus necessary conditions for the creation of the world. God and soul bring the world to be from matter by forming matter into bodies, and without absolute time and place this would be impossible. In this chapter we will once again find that Plato, as mediated by Galen, is of paramount importance for Razi’s theory. Galen himself will also come Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0005.

100  Al-​ Rāzī to the fore in this chapter, because his On Demonstration seems to have been an inspiration for Razi’s understanding of time, and perhaps also void. As in the previous chapter on matter, we will find that Aristotle too serves a useful role for Razi. Aristotelian time and place are not rejected, but shown to be merely relative.

5.1.  Time from Plato to Razi In the Timaeus, Plato has his title character say that time is a “moving image of eternity” (37d5) and that there were no intervals of time, like days or years, until the heavens came into existence. Past and future tense verbs are inapplicable to eternal being, because the eternal is unchanging (37e–​38b). Rather they apply to whatever is subject to time, which “was generated (γέγονεν) together with the heaven, so that having been begotten (γεννηθέντες) together they are also destroyed together” (38b6–​7). The Demiurge created the sun, moon and other planets “for the generation of time, in order that time might be begotten (πρὸς χρόνου γένεσιν, ἵνα γεννηθῇ χρόνος)” (38c4). Their purpose is to “set a boundary (διορισμόν) to time and guard its numbers (ἀριθμῶν).” Timaeus goes on to explain the relation of days and months to the motion of the sun and moon (39b–​c). All these ideas are captured fairly well by Galen’s paraphrase of the Timaeus, preserved in Arabic: “next, he discusses the nature of time, saying that it is measured (yuqaddaru) by the revolutions of the wandering stars and the whole of the celestial sphere. For night and day both arise from the motion of the sphere, while the months arise from the revolutions of the moon as it traverses its course and catches up to the sun, and years arise from the sun’s traversing its course.”1 Already we can see here striking parallels with Razi’s view of time. We have the contrast between eternity and time, albeit that the Timaeus does not suggest that eternity is an “absolute” version of time. We also have the idea that (non-​absolute) time emerges with the creation of the world and as the result of motions that measure off temporal intervals, which means especially celestial motions. Al-​Iṣfahānī credits Razi with the view that “the time that motion measures (qaddarat) derives from the time that is duration which is not measured” (Works 198.12–​13). Notice that the same verb qaddara (“measure” or “determine”) is used here and in the passage

Time and Place   101 just cited from the Arabic paraphrase of the Timaeus. The same source, al-​Iṣfahānī, gives the day as an example of a measured time, and makes it clear that it is the heavenly sphere’s motion that does the measuring (Works 199.4–​6). Abū Ḥātim’s report of his debate with Razi confirms these details and gives us concrete evidence that Razi saw the theory as Platonic.2 When the two are arguing about the notion of absolute time, Abū Ḥātim remarks that “we know time through the motions of the sphere.” He then asks Razi whether the heavenly motions, days, months and other temporal intervals are eternal: “These cannot be eternal,” he replied, “for they are all measured (muqaddara) according to the motions of the sphere and numbered by the risings and settings of the sun. But the sphere and what is within it are created. This is what Aristotle said about time. But others disagreed with him, saying various things about it. What I say is that time is on the one hand absolute (muṭlaq), and on the other delimited (maḥṣūr). Absolute [time] is duration (mudda) and eternity (dahr). It is eternal (qadīm) and in motion, without abiding. Delimited [time] is the one that arises through the motions of the sphere and the courses of the sun and stars.” (Proofs 12.8–​13 [= Works 304.4–​8])

He later adds, “what Plato says is hardly different from what I believe concerning time, and this, according to me, is the best thing that has been said about it.”3 Thus Razi presents himself as being in agreement with Plato as opposed to Aristotle. When Razi says, in the passage just cited, “this is what Aristotle said about time,” he does not mean the immediately preceding remark that the sphere is created. After all, Aristotle famously denies this. Rather he is referring back to Abū Ḥātim’s claim that we know time through the motion of the sphere. Abū Ḥātim and Razi are of course alluding to Aristotle’s discussion of time in the fourth book of the Physics. There, time is famously defined as “the number of motion in respect of before and after” (Physics 4.11, 220a24–​ 26). Here Galen again becomes relevant. Not only was he a conduit for the ideas about time in Plato’s Timaeus, but he also criticized Aristotle’s definition in On Demonstration.4 As we’ve seen (§2.4), this Galenic work is known only through testimonia in a range of authors including Razi himself. Luckily, Galen’s critique of the Aristotelian definition of time is mentioned by Greek commentators on the Physics. Themistius says:

102  Al-​ Rāzī We must not align ourselves with Galen in his belief that time is defined through itself. For after fully listing numerous significations of “before” and “after,” he says that none coincide with the definition [of time] except the one in respect of time, so that time is [defined as] “the number of change in respect of time.”5

In other words, Galen accused Aristotle of circularity, on the basis that the last clause in the definition, “in respect of before and after,” smuggles in the notion of the temporal before and after. Galen’s objection looks ineffective, even obtuse, because Aristotle argues precisely that temporal order supervenes on the intrinsic ordering of a motion. Motions are individuated by their starting and end points (otherwise a motion from A to B would be indistinguishable from a motion from B to A). So there is an ordering of positions in terms of their relative proximity to these points. Since time numbers or measures the motion, it can borrow its its priority and posteriority from that of the motion.6 There seems to have been more to Galen’s view on time, though. Themistius also reports that for Galen, time could be grasped independently of change. He gave the examples of the poles and center of the cosmos, which are subject to time but not to motion or other change.7 This is corroborated by evidence found in a range of Arabic sources. Most striking is a passage found in an epistolary exchange between the Aristotelian philosopher Yaḥyā Ibn ʿAdī and his Jewish correspondent Ibn Abī Saʿīd al-​ Mawṣilī.8 The latter alludes to Galen’s disagreement with Aristotle and says: Galen held that time is subsistent through itself and has no need for motion in its existence, and he said that Plato was of the same opinion on this topic, that is, that he held that time is a substance (jawhar)—​by which he means “duration (al-​mudda)”—​and motion merely measures and determines it. So Galen says that motion does not produce time for us,9 but rather produces only day, month and year for us. Time, though, is existent in itself, and is not10 an accident dependent upon [motion].11

This supplies us with further information. First, Galen claimed to be in agreement with Plato, who likewise claimed that time is measured by motion. This obviously is an allusion to Timaeus 37–​39, discussed earlier. Second, Galen claimed to have Plato on his side in holding that time itself exists independently of motion: motions produce intervals of time like day, month, and year, but do not produce time itself. Third, the time that is independent of motion is called “duration.”

Time and Place   103 Again, the resonances with Razi’s theory of absolute time are unmistakable. As we saw, Razi’s absolute time too is unmeasured, is called “duration (mudda),” and has being independently of motions. Even the detail that absolute time is a “substance,” as opposed to an accident, can be found in reports of Razi’s theory (e.g., Works 198.20). Furthermore, we know that Razi was aware of Galen’s remarks about time in On Demonstration. He alludes briefly to this very section of the work, saying, “[Galen] declares that in his view, time is a substance (jawhar), since it can bear quantity” (Doubts §4.1). Admittedly, the Greek evidence has Galen saying something much more modest than the Arabic evidence. The Galen we hear about in Themistius accuses Aristotle’s definition of circularity—​which commits him to no particular view on the nature of time—​and goes beyond this only to say that we can grasp time even in the absence of change or motion. The Arabic evidence has Galen saying that time in itself (“duration”) has its own independent existence, even to the point that it can be described as a “substance,” and that it is measured so as to produce discrete temporal intervals. This might make us nervous about whether the Arabic evidence is accurate. But we should be encouraged by the fact that Galen’s supposed view would make good sense as an interpretation of the Timaeus. As we saw, Timaeus says that heavenly motions produce time. But the heavens do this by “setting a boundary to time,” so as to mark off intervals like days and months. One might make sense of this by supposing that there is an unmeasured time that already exists before the Demiurge fashions the cosmos. It would be only measured time that would come into existence along with the universe, as Timaeus says. Unmeasured time would have been present all along. This is to assume that Galen took the same view as his near contemporaries Plutarch and Atticus, holding that the Timaeus denies the eternity of the universe. And indeed there seems to be evidence for that in Galen’s paraphrase of the dialogue.12 One might even speculate that the unmeasured time that precedes the universe would correspond to (and explain the possibility of) the disordered motion prior to the ordered heavenly motion imposed by the Demiurge.13 All of this provides the context needed for understanding Razi’s statement, in his debate with Abū Ḥātim, that Aristotle’s views on time were much disputed, and those of Plato to be preferred. But the situation was more complicated than that. For one thing, Razi was building upon Galen’s criticism of Aristotle and his interpretation of Plato. For another thing,

104  Al-​ Rāzī he was indeed building upon Galen, not just repeating the arguments of On Demonstration. As we will now see, he brings out more explicitly certain implications of Galen’s position, and makes a key move that, as far as we know, Galen did not:  identifying unmeasured time with eternity itself. It is this, of course, that makes it possible to integrate the Galenic idea of unmeasured time into the distinctively Razian theory of the five eternals.

5.2.  Absolute time as epistemically primitive In a number of testimonia Razi is made to proclaim that absolute time is self-​evident and not grasped through anything else—​it is, as I have put it earlier, epistemically primitive. Consider this report from Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: Because Muḥammad Ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī was incapable of establishing place and time with intellectual arguments, he said somewhere in his books that evidence (gawāhī) establishing time and place may be sought among common people. Reasonable people have immediate knowledge in their souls, and their souls have not been trained in the stubborn ways of the theologians (mutakallimīn), and do not seek controversy (munāzaʿat). He said, “I have questioned such people, and they said, ‘our minds testify that outside this world there is emptiness (goshādegī) surrounding the world. We know that if the sphere were removed and there were no [celestial] revolution, then something would continually pass for us, and this is time.’ ” (Provision 104.23–​105.5 [= Works 264])

The passage is fascinating for several reasons. First, the allusion to the disputes of theologians reinforces our sense that Razi’s five eternal theory was in part a polemic aimed at practicioners of kalām, as much as philosophers. Second, there are implications for our understanding of his methodology. A reliable source upon which our philosophical account may draw is intuition, especially the unspoiled intutions of the common folk. It is ironic that Razi appealed to the widely held beliefs of hoi polloi to support his anti-​Aristotelian theory, given Aristotle’s own use of the endoxic method which relies on the beliefs of “the many and the wise” as starting points for philosophical reflection. Intuition is important for Razi in this context because he thinks it is sufficient to give us our conception of time. The existence of time in the

Time and Place   105 absolute sense needs no argument, because all humans are naturally aware of it. As Fakhr al-​Dīn explains: You should know that there are two groups of people who accept duration: those who hold that the knowledge of its existence is immediate (badīhī) and necessary, with no need for proof or demonstration, and those who do think it is established by proof and demonstration. The first group includes Muḥammad b.  Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī, among others. (Exalted Topics vol.5, 21.7–​9 [= Works 272.4–​6])

Here Fakhr al-​Dīn, not atypically, shows himself to be a more sympathetic and thus more acute reporter of Razi’s view than Nāṣir-​e Khusraw. The latter thinks Razi appealed to common intuition because he couldn’t offer a proper demonstration. Fakhr al-​Dīn understands that Razi would not have wished to offer such a demonstration. That would have been methodologically confused, because absolute time is self-​evident.14 It is also evident that Razi’s position here is somehow related to that of Galen. As we saw earlier, Galen’s On Demonstration criticized as circular Aristotle’s attempt to base our understanding of time upon motion. In describing Galen’s view, Simplicius says that he made time “self-​indicating.”15 This suggests that Galen did not merely indict Aristotle’s definition of time as circular, but denied the possibility of defining time in non-​temporal terms. That would still be a relatively narrow point about definition. But the second testimony we looked at from Themistius has Galen saying that time can be grasped as continuing even in the absence of motion. This seems to concern not just a definition, but our very cognitive access to time, the issue highlighted by Razi. An ancient text that comes even closer to Razi’s approach can be found in Philoponus’s critique of Proclus’s arguments in favor of the eternity of the world: It is as though one were in imagination (κατ’ ἐπίνοιαν) to stop the heaven and the movement of the sun. The various segments of time would no longer be part of one’s mental picture, but there would still nevertheless be a kind of uniform extension keeping pace with the existence of the world.16

Where Galen asked us to focus on features of the real universe that are unmoving, the poles and centerpoint, Philoponus tells us to imagine that the

106  Al-​ Rāzī universe grinds to a halt, and argues that in this scenario time would keep passing. Razi’s thought experiment is similar but more radical, in that he asks us to imagine the removal of the entire heaven. On the other hand, Razi’s proposal shares something else with Galen, an advantage that is easily overlooked. In both cases we are presented not merely with something that is unmoving, but rather with the absence of even potential motion. This is important, because an Aristotelian opponent would not be able to respond by insisting that time measures what is at rest insofar as it is potentially moving. In the case of the immovable poles and centerpoint of the cosmos, and even more obviously the absent heaven, there is nothing that could start moving. Yet time stubbornly continues to elapse. In keeping with the central claim that time is epistemically primitive, we are just supposed to find this obvious. If we don’t, Razi suggests, we have had our intuitions spoiled by doing theology, or perhaps by reading Aristotle. Razi makes a further point that, as far as our evidence shows, did not appear in Galen. It is not through the experience of motion, and its priority and posteriority, that we have a conception of time. To the contrary, it is our immediate grasp of absolute time that makes it possible for us to assign motions an order of priority and posteriority. Al-​Bīrūnī reports that for Razi, “it is through time that one knows the old (al-​qidam) and the new (al-​ḥadath), what is relatively older and newer, and what is simultaneous” (Works 195.8–​9). Likewise, al-​Iṣfahānī tells us that for Razi, “time is the duration on the basis of which17 one grasps before and after” (Works 200.11). Razi has turned the Aristotelian position on its head. For Aristotle, we experience changes as having an order of priority and posteriority—​the “before and after.” This gives rise to our experience of time. Razi thinks this is exactly backward. Rather we have a direct and inevitable awareness of time, and it is this that allows us to order particular events relative to one another in time.

5.3.  Absolute time as metaphysically primitive But for Razi time is not just epistemically primitive:  it is metaphysically primitive. Just as our cognition of time does not come about derivatively, through the cognition of something else, so the existence of time is not

Time and Place   107 derivative on anything else. Razi has several ways of making this point. The most evocative is the thought experiment proposed in his informal poll: common people, when asked, say that time does not depend on the continued existence of the heaven. The same point is made more than once in the report of al-​Iṣfahānī: [According to Razi] the time that is determined by motion would disappear were what is moving to disappear. It exists only through the existence [of what is moving], since it is determined by its motion. (Works 198.16–​17) Were the celestial sphere to be removed or at rest, time in the true sense—​ which is duration and eternity—​would not be removed. (Works 199.5–​6)

The same report tells us that Razi also used the technical terminology of Aristotelian falsafa in asserting time’s metaphysical primitiveness. Al-​ Iṣfahānī in fact says that (Works 199.7–​8) Razi inferred from the thought experiment in which the heaven is removed, but time remains, that time is a substance (jawhar), not an accident. This is because it has no need for a place or subject (ḥāmil). Here Razi is alluding to one of Aristotle’s criteria for substantiality, namely that substances do not subsist in other things (e.g., Categories ch.5, 3a7–​10). Yet again, he uses an Aristotelian idea to make an anti-​ Aristotelian point. And yet again, there seems to be a Galenic background too. We saw that more than one source reports Galen as calling time a “substance.” One of those sources was Razi, who said that for Galen time was a substance because it can be the subject (ḥāmil) for other things. This nicely complements the evidence just mentioned regarding Razi’s own theory. Razi’s report of Galen has him saying that time is a subject for accidents,18 while al-​Iṣfahānī’s report of Razi has him saying that time is not an accident that inheres in a subject. In keeping with this, both Galen and Razi are said to have proclaimed that time is “self-​ subsisting (qāʾim bi-​nafsihi),” that is, existent in its own right rather than as depending on something else.19 Another way that Razi tried to convey this idea of time’s metaphysical primitiveness can be found in Abū Ḥātim. In their debate, he asks Razi to “prove to me that the motion of eternity (ḥarakat al-​dahr) is absolute time,” and Razi replies:

108  Al-​ Rāzī Do you not see how what is of this world (amr hādhā l-​ʿālam) vanishes with the passage of time:  ṭaf, ṭaf, ṭaf? It [sc. time] is something which is not eliminated and is not abolished. The motion of eternity is like this, if you imagine absolute time. (Proofs 12.18–​19 [= Works 304.13–​14])

The somewhat puzzling phrase ṭaf, ṭaf, ṭaf seems to mean something along the lines of “little by little by little,” but the purpose of it is apparently to convey absolute time’s unrelenting passage.20 It is not only time’s independent existence that is at issue here, but also its independent motion. Razi has just said, in his previous remark, that absolute time “is moving and not abiding (lābith)” (304.7  =  Proofs 12.12). The metronome-​like phrase ṭaf, ṭaf, ṭaf is intended to suggest that absolute time is thus passing, or elapsing, irrespective of such things as celestial motions that measure it. Clearly, absolute time is not “eternity” in the sense recognized in Neoplatonism, a kind of timelessness or unending present. When Razi calls it “eternity,” he envisions rather an independent yet “flowing” or “moving” time that is unlimited in both past and future.21 Razi would also infer from time’s eternity that it is not created. Needless to say, this is a crucial further move, since it is this that leads us to acknowledge absolute time as a principle of the universe, rather than just a created but fundamental feature of that universe. We’ve seen that he tends to assume that createdness and eternity are mutually exclusive. On this assumption, time’s uncreatedness needs no further argument, once we have accepted its eternity. Razi gave an argument nonetheless, which we can read in al-​Iṣfahānī: God can create something only at a moment, and the moment does not vanish, such that actions (afʿāl) would occur without being at moments. For if the moment vanished, then it could not be true that some [actions] are prior to others and some later than others, and they would not be distinct from one another, but this is absurd. (Works 196.11–​13)

Here Razi makes (absolute) time a condition for the possibility of God’s creative act. Given the importance of the claim, one would like to see the reasoning spelled out with greater detail and clarity. It seems to amount to something like this:

(1) Creation is an action. (2) All actions occur at moments.

Time and Place   109

(3) Moments are ordered independently of the actions that occur at those moments. (4) Therefore moments are ordered independently of creation.

The most contentious premise looks to be (3); the rationale for it seems to be that the moments would continue to follow one another in sequence even if no actions were occurring. The independent flow of absolute time establishes such a sequence. Furthermore, a particular action (or motion, change, event, etc.) can be judged to occur before another one, because it coincides with an earlier moment of absolute time. Razi thereby solves, or perhaps better sidesteps, a problem that confronts Aristotle in the Physics: how the times of individual motions can be coordinated into a single, universal order.22 Indeed, Razi apparently went on the offensive by saying that Aristotle cannot solve this problem without positing an independent absolute time that is not the time of any particular motion. Nāṣir-​e Khusraw tells us: The sect of philosophers who said that matter and place are eternal also affirmed that time is a substance. And they said that time is an extended and eternal substance. They rejected the statement of those philosophers who said that time is the number of the motions of the body, and said that if this were so, then it would be impossible for moving things to move at the same time with different numbers. (Provision 107.3–​6 [= Works 266–​267])

The last sentence makes it clear that Razi did take his theory to solve the problem, whereas Aristotle could not. But a bit of reflection is needed to determine how exactly Razi’s solution is meant to work. I suggest that we should conceptualize absolute time as a line. The line is single and continuous, in itself undivided and undemarcated. However, segments of the line can be demarcated insofar as they are the temporal intervals during which a particular event took place. Such segments can of course overlap: if you are watching a film from one o’clock until three o’clock, and I am reading a book from two o’clock to four o’clock, then the intervals marked out by these events overlap in the middle, and are thus in part simultaneous. Similarly, both activities demarcate segments that fall within a longer segment that measures the sun’s motion around the earth on that day. But the sun does not produce time itself by moving, any more than I  produce it by reading a book. Furthermore, because time itself is always elapsing or flowing it has, we might say, a direction, with the past

110  Al-​ Rāzī ordered prior to the future. The time of a particular motion likewise has a past-​to-​future direction, but against Aristotle, this is not supervenient on the order of positions within the motion. Rather, the time of an individual motion borrows its directionality—​one is tempted to say, its “temporality”—​from absolute time. In short, for Razi, relative times are simply bounded segments of absolute time, in the way that, as we will now see, relative places are bounded regions of absolute place.23

5.4. Absolute place Like absolute time, absolute place is both epistemically and metaphysically primitive. We do not need the experience of a body that is in place to have a notion of place, nor does the existence of absolute place depend on a body that is in it. The epistemic point is made succinctly by al-​Iṣfahānī, who applies it to both absolute place and absolute time: “eternity (al-​dahr) and void subsist in the natures of the intellects without any process of argument (istidlāl)” (Works 198.5–​6). A passage from Abū Ḥātim’s report of his debate with Razi goes further still. Our awareness of absolute place is not merely accessible without the experience of bodies; the experience of bodies is simply irrelevant. Just prior to the passage, Abū Ḥātim has asked Razi to “indicate the place where we are” and Razi has laconically replied, “this is where we are.” When Abū Ḥātim presses him by alluding to such things as the earth and sky, Razi replies: These are all things that are placed in a place (mutamakkina fī l-​makān), whereas [absolute] place has no body (jirm) that one can indicate; one is acquainted with it only through the imagination (wahm). (Proofs 15.19–​ 20 [= Works 307.8–​9])

The term wahm sometimes carries a connotation of unreliability or uncertainty.24 But for Razi, at least in this context, it indicates the kind of direct intuition invoked in his hypothetical scenario about the removal of the celestial sphere. Indeed, Razi used the same thought experiment to argue for the reality of absolute place, as well as absolute time. Al-​Iṣfahānī’s report on this echoes the use of “imagining (tawahhum)” in a non-​pejorative sense: If anyone says that place does disappear when what is placed disappears, the response is that either the two are related, in which case they are the

Time and Place   111 same, because it is only the place of this placed thing, or it is absolute, in which case it is not [the same]. But it is obvious that, if we imagine the heavenly sphere to vanish, we cannot imagine the place where it is vanishing along with it. (Works 199.1–​3)

As with absolute time, the imaginary scenario is meant to establish not just the epistemic primitiveness but also the metaphysical primitiveness of absolute place.25 There is a kind of place that would disappear along with a removed body, but this is the place of that body, what Razi calls “relative place.” Absolute place is not dependent on any body in this way. Razi made the same point, with the same thought experiment of eliminating the celestial sphere, in the debate with Abū Ḥātim (Proofs 15.1 [= Works 306.12]). But Razi does not content himself with merely insisting on the primitiveness of absolute place. He also sees it as a necessary condition for relative location and for the six directions (up, down, left, right, forward, and backward). Let us look at these two roles in turn. That relative location presupposes absolute place is testified by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: They say it is possible for one thing to become far away or close to another, but farness (dūrī) never becomes nearness (nazdīk), nor does nearness become far. Meaning that when one individual is distanced 10 cubits from another, the farness between the two is 10 cubits. It’s possible for the two individuals to come closer together, so that no interval whatever remains between them. But between the two places in which the individuals initially were, the distance cannot become closer than 10 cubits. And, when these two individuals are absent from their own places, with air or some other body taking their places, that single distance between the two places where they were will never increase or decrease. (Provision 96.7–​14 [= Works 254–​255])

This passage provides the analogue of Razi’s point (at Works 196.11–​13, cited earlier in §5.3) that the moments at which actions are performed have their own independent ordering. As we saw, the moment of absolute time “does not vanish” and is always before subsequent moments and after prior moments. Likewise, the “span” or “interval” (masāfa) between any two locations in absolute place is independent of the bodies in those locations, and the two locations maintain a permanent distance from one another. This conception of unmoving locations makes it tempting to think of absolute place as something like our modern notion of space, with the various locations being conceived as coordinates in that space. Indeed, some have translated Razi’s technical term makān as “space” rather than “place.”26

112  Al-​ Rāzī This is perhaps misleading insofar as makān in the relative sense is simply the place of a given body. It is where the body is. (This should already be clear from passages cited thus far, but we will consider relative place further in §5.6.) “Space” does, however, come close to capturing Razi’s idea of absolute place. This is especially so because he associates place in this sense with the six “directions,” which is bound to remind us of the x, y, and z axes of Cartesian space.27 Nearly identical reports on this idea in Fakhr al-​Dīn and al-​Jurjānī both use the term faḍāʾ or “emptiness,” which one could also plausibly translate as “space”: Emptiness (faḍāʾ) is also something necessary in itself. For reliable instinct (ṣarīḥ al-​fiṭra) testifies to the impossibility of eliminating that which is necessary in itself, and space is like this [sc. necessary in itself]. For if it were eliminated, directions (jihāt) would not remain distinguishable through indications (ishārāt). But this is incomprehensible. (Works 215.1–​3) By “emptiness (faḍāʾ)” is meant void (khalāʾ). If it were not eternal, the distinction of directions (jihāt) would be eliminated, so that right would not be distinct from left, nor above from below. But that is incomprehensible. (Works 190.1–​3)

Absolute place guarantees not only the possibility of relative location, but also the very existence of directions like up and down. This idea recurs in Abū Ḥātim, who claims to have challenged Razi by asking him how directions, or as it is put here, “dimensions (aqṭār),”28 relate to absolute place. Razi responds that they are identical (Proofs 14.5 [= Works 305.17–​18]), though he also allows that dimensions “embrace” or “surround” (muḥīta) place. In yet another parallel with the theory of absolute time, Razi’s theory of absolute place seems to be in part a correction of Aristotle. Aristotle recognizes the existence of “natural places” which are the proper locations of elemental bodies. They are invoked to explain elemental motion—​ the elemental bodies tend toward their natural places. Thus Aristotle remarks: For “up” is not just whatever it happens to be (οὐ γὰρ ὅ τι ἔτυχέν ἐστι τὸ ἄνω), but wherever fire and the light move towards. Likewise “down” is not whatever it happens to be, but wherever the heavy and the earthen [move towards]. So they differ not merely in position, but also in power. (Physics 4.1, 208b19–​22)

Time and Place   113 For Razi, by contrast, the directions are not defined in terms of the tendencies of the elements, or any other bodies. Rather up and down, right and left, forward and backward, are distinguished in themselves regardless of bodies, just as a given distance is independent of bodies that might be distant from one another. The anti-​Aristotelian intent of the theory is made explicit in the debate with Abū Ḥātim. Just at the end of their debate on time and place, Razi remarks: What I say on the topic of place is again29 the statement of Plato, whereas you [sc. Abū Ḥātim] adhere to what Aristotle says. (Proofs 16.5–​6 [= Works 307.14–​15])

Certainly we can agree with Razi that his theory of place is non-​Aristotelian. But why would he think that it is Platonic? We are not told explicitly, but I  believe the answer can be found by turning once again to Plato’s Timaeus. This dialogue famously posits a “third kind” in addition to the Demiurge and physical bodies, a passive principle upon which the Demiurge imposes order. Timaeus calls it a “receptacle” (ὑποδοχή, 49a6). The receptacle cannot be grasped by sensation but only through intellection (νόησις, 52a4). Furthermore, “the third kind is space (χώρα), which exists always and cannot be destroyed. It provides a location (ἕδρα) for all things that come to be” (52a8–​b1, Zeyl trans.). As we have already seen, Razi’s absolute place can likewise be thought of as space, is likewise grasped directly by the mind rather than through sense-​ experience, and likewise provides location for bodies. More strikingly still, in his debate with Abū Ḥātim, Razi has used Plato’s vessel or container analogy: Absolute place may be compared to a vessel (wiʿāʾ) that contains bodies. If one imagines the bodies being removed, the vessel is not removed. Likewise, if we were to imagine the celestial sphere being removed, we would not remove that in which it is. Rather, it would remain in the imagination (wahm), like a wine-​jug full of drink: when the drink is removed in the imagination the wine-​jug is certainly not removed. (Proofs 14.20–​15.3 [= Works 306.10–​14])30

To some extent, this simply makes more vivid the independence of absolute place, which can survive the lack of what is placed in it, just as the jug can survive the removal of its contents. Yet there is more to the analogy than

114  Al-​ Rāzī this. We are being asked to conceive of absolute place as something that contains. This will be important shortly, when we come to the idea that absolute place is infinitely extended and thus surrounds the universe “from the outside.” But it also gives us an insight into Razi’s reasons for asserting the eternity of absolute place. When a body comes to be, it comes to have a determinate place. This means that indeterminate place—​that is, absolute place—​must already be present as a kind of container into which the body may be placed. When God and the soul join forces to create the universe, then, they must “put it somewhere,” like someone pouring wine into a jar. The idea of creating place is incoherent, because place in the absolute sense is needed as a receptacle for whatever is created, just as time in the absolute sense is needed to provide a moment at which the action of creation can occur. Like Plato’s receptacle, then, absolute place “receives” bodies when they are formed. A  caveat, however, is that whereas Plato’s receptacle is therefore described in terms of passivity, Razi’s absolute place is neither active nor passive. Ever since Aristotle, the Platonic receptacle had been assumed to play the role of matter. But Razi rigorously distinguishes matter, his passive eternal principle, from place.

5.5. Void And for good reason. As we have seen already in numerous passages, Razi identifies absolute place with void, just as absolute time is identified with eternity or duration: Void is extension (buʿd) which is devoid of body but may possibly have body in it. (Works 198)

This is why Razi compares absolute place to a vessel:  it contains and surrounds the bodies that come to occupy specific (“relative”) places. We have here not a mathematical notion of abstract extension, but a physical notion of actual emptiness that can be occupied by bodies. This is crucial, because it provides the link between absolute place and Razi’s atomic theory of matter. We’ve already found (§4.2) that, according to this theory, the proportion of void in a given body determines its physical properties, and bodies can only move through void. As established in his response to Galen’s attemped refutation of void, even apparently “full” bodies in fact

Time and Place   115 consist of particles scattered through a void space. This makes it possible to blow water into a portion of water, for instance. Razi also ascribes a “power of attraction” to void. Fakhr al-​Dīn reports: Razi said that void has a power which attracts bodies (quwwa jādhiba li-​l-​ajsām), and for this reason water stays in the vessels called clepsydras (sarrāqāt), and is attracted into the vessels called water-​pipes (zarāffāt al-​ māʾ). (Works 265.6–​8)31

Razi has in mind something you can try at home, by placing your finger over the top hole of a drinking straw to prevent fluid from draining out the bottom hole. Elsewhere (Works 218) Fakhr al-​Dīn seems to add that, for Razi, the same principle would account for the tendency of dense things to sink (one might think of sand filtering to the bottom of a bucket of water). The idea that void has a power to attract is often referred to as the principle of horror vacui. Now, this is rather puzzling, for two reasons. First, Razi describes absolute place or void as “neither active nor passive.” It is hard to see how something like this could have a power of attraction. Second, the horror vacui principle is usually understood as the idea that bodies will always move or remain in place to prevent any void from forming. This is what happens with the drinking-​straw or clepsydra: so long as air cannot enter the opening at the top, the fluid must stay where it is, lest it leave a void space behind as it exits. Similarly, a “water-​pipe” is a cylinder that pulls water in when its plunger is pulled up (like a hypodermic needle being used to extract a fluid from a bottle). The phenomenon was recognized in the ancient tradition, in particular among medical authors. Notably, Erasistratus invoked it frequently in his anatomical theory, using the phrase “following what is emptied (πρὸς τὸ κενούμενον ἀκολουθία).” For instance, he believed air is drawn from the lungs into the heart when it dilates.32 How then can Razi invoke this principle, given that for him void does exist pervasively throughout the physical world? The force of this objection is shown by the fact that Ibn Ḥazm offers the very same example of the clepsydra in a critique of Razi: The instrument known as a water-​pipe or clepsydra and the instrument which one inserts into the urethra in order to capture urine provide compelling demonstrations, confirming that there is no void in the world at all. For void, according to those who speak about it, is nothing but place with nothing placed in it. But this is absurd, in light of what we have

116  Al-​ Rāzī mentioned [i.e., the case of the clepsydra], because if water were to exit from the hole at the bottom of the clepsydra while its top were closed, then one would be left with an empty place that has nothing in it. (Works 171.8–​11)

To understand how Razi could answer this challenge, we need to appeal to a distinction that was also made by Erasistratus (according to Galen), between “massed (ἀθρόος)” void and void that is “dispersed (παρέσπαρται)” throughout a body.33 Massed void is distinguished by being large enough to occupy a perceptible region of space, whereas dispersed void is the void in the interstices of a body. We know that Razi was committed to the existence of dispersed void. It is this that explains the differences between dense and heavy bodies like those in which earth predominates, and subtle light bodies like those that are airy. But there is no evidence that has him positing massed void within the physical cosmos. So he can explain phenomena like the clepsydra by agreeing that bodies will shift to prevent such a void from arising. Furthermore, his critique of Galen on void shows that for Razi, each body is by nature trying to maintain a certain proportion of atoms to void. Thus he says that if air is sucked out of a flask and this is then placed in water, water will be drawn into the flask in order to return the air to its natural proportion of void and matter (Doubts §4.2; see §4.2 in the present volume for my translation of the passage). This could incidentally help to explain why bodies do not all lose or gain atoms until the entire universe is homogeneously dense. Each body has its own natural integrity, and the “following of what is emptied” occurs in order to maintain or restore that integrity. Ultimately, it seems that if Razi wanted to explain this, he would need to appeal not only to the mechanical processes of particles moving through the void, but also to God and the soul. For it is these two principles that imposed compostion on atoms scattered through the void. At any rate, we can now see how Razi can speak of void’s “power of attraction” even though void is not an active principle, and even though he accepts dispersed void. What he really means is that bodies naturally have a tendency to prevent massed void from forming (as in the clepsydra case) and also to return to their natural equilibrium (that is, their natural proportion of void to atoms). Because the phenomenon is caused by bodies, it only occurs within the physical cosmos. This must be the case, given that the cosmos is, according to Razi, surrounded by void, yet we do not find that the

Time and Place   117 extra-​cosmic void attracts the bodies of the cosmos into it. And a good thing too, since that would destroy the cosmos by scattering its parts through the infinite void. We might find it natural for someone who believes in void to think that the cosmos exists in infinitely empty space—​after all, this was the position of earlier atomists such as the Epicureans. But in fact Razi’s view is a curious hybrid, which cannot be perfectly aligned with any ancient cosmology. Unlike the ancient atomists, including the Epicureans, he thinks there is only a single cosmos. He further holds that this cosmos is surrounded by an infinitely extended void. In this, he would agree with the Stoics. But the Stoics were continuists and rejected the idea of any void (whether massed or dispersed) within the cosmos. The rationale for void’s infinite extension is akin to the rationale for the eternity of absolute time. Just as time must precede any creative act, so empty place must surround any delimited body. Hence Ibn Ḥazm reports: According to them void is place with nothing placed in it, and the celestial sphere, according to them, exists in the void, since void has no limiting surface (lā nihāya . . . min ṭarīq al-​misāḥa). (Works 245.16–​17)

And in what follows he makes clear that for Razi there is void outside (khārij) the celestial sphere (Works 251.11). Another relevant passage can be found in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: They prove that place is unlimited by saying that what is placed cannot be without place, whereas place can be without what is placed. They say that place is divided by34 what is placed, and everything in place is essentially limited and exists in place; so place must be unlimited. They say that what surrounds both worlds from the outside can only be body or incorporeal. If it were a body, then this body would be in place, and outside this body would be either place or no place; but if there were no place, then it would be body, and so would be finite. (Provision 95.5–​12 [= Works 253])

Razi here simply assumes that each body is “in” something, because it is “something placed.” Since the cosmos as a whole is a body, it too must be “in” something, either a further body or empty place with no body. Since all bodies are finite, the regress can be stopped only by empty place. The importance of this conclusion is made clear by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, who goes on to note that if place is unlimited, then since whatever is

118  Al-​ Rāzī unlimited is eternal, place is eternal. This looks like an unwarranted inference from spatial infinity to temporal infinity, which is interesting because Razi’s predecessor al-​Kindī made precisely the reverse inference from spatial finitude to temporal finitude.35 If this report captures Razi’s reasoning faithfully, then it was the infinite extension of place that persuaded Razi to include it among his five eternal principles. At least, that was one reason. We have already seen another reason, which is that place must already be present in order to “receive” whatever is “placed,” a point echoed in the passage just cited in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw. Thus Razi explicates the Platonic idea of a receptacle for the created cosmos in a highly un-​Platonic way, by positing an endless void into which the cosmos is placed, and which then continues to surround the cosmos. One might add that this position is also un-​Galenic. Galen prided himself on not getting involved with matters of pure speculation that were irrelevant to medicine and undecidable by sense-​perception, and named the debate over extra-​cosmic void as just such an issue.36 Razi had no such scruples.

5.6. Relative place Another important idea conveyed in the quote from Ibn Ḥazm is that absolute place has no “limiting surface.” This is in fact the difference between absolute and relative place, as Razi made clear in his debate with Abū Ḥātim: Relative place is related only to what is placed: if there is nothing placed there is no [relative] place. This is like a property (ʿaraḍ) such that, when it is removed in the imagination, the body is removed, like when you remove the line in the imagination, the surface (saṭḥ) is removed in the imagination. (Proofs 15.3–​5 [= Works 306.14–​16])

This passage follows directly on Razi’s comparison of absolute place to a vessel (cited earlier, §5.4). He now adds that we get a relative place when we actually have something placed in that vessel. The analogy to the line and surface should, I think, be understood as follows: a plane figure is simply a circumscribing of two-​dimensional extension, so the “surface” or figure is dependent on the “line” or boundary of the figure. Likewise, any body is surrounded by a limit, namely a surface, which circumscribes three-​ dimensional extension.

Time and Place   119 Although the second sentence here strongly suggests that a body depends for its existence on its relative place, this is probably the wrong way around. It seems more intuitive to think of relative place as resulting from the creation of a body in absolute place. This is what we find in al-​Iṣfahānī, who in the midst of drawing an extensive parallel between place and time, confirms what Abū Hātim says in the first sentence above: “relative place is the place of this thing that is placed, and if there were nothing placed there would be no [relative] place” (Works 198.15–​16). On al-​Iṣfahānī’s understanding, bodies that are placed produce relative places the way that motions produce relative times (Works 198.19). It follows from this that, whereas absolute time and place are substances that exist in their own right, relative time and place are accidents. Their dependence on motions and bodies is compared to the dependence of a square number on its root (Works 198.20–​21). Al-​Iṣfahānī relates another important point, which is that Razi thinks of a relative place not as the whole three-​dimensional volume that a body is occupying, but as the containing surface that surrounds it: Void is extension which is devoid of body but may possibly have body in it. [Relative] place, by contrast, is the surface (saṭḥ) shared between the container and the contained. (Works 198.11–​12)

We have confirmation from the testimony of Nāṣir-​e Khusraw: They apply the name “partial place (makān-​e jozvī)” to the magnitude of the body whose parts are in it, like a magnitude in which are the parts of an apple. And they call the “whole place (makān-​e kullī)” of the body the interior surface of another body that surrounds its exterior surface. (Provision 96.3–​6 [= Works 254])

It may seem surprising to think of the place of a whole body (“whole place”) as the surface surrounding a body, as distinct from the whole three-​ dimensional region occupied by the parts of that body (“partial place”). After all, a relative time (like an hour or day) is a circumscribed interval of absolute time, not only the limits of that interval (see §5.3 earlier in this chapter). But there is an obvious explanation: Razi takes his notion of relative place from Aristotle, who in the Physics defined place as “the immediate, unmoving limit of the containing (τὸ τοῦ περιέχοντος πέρας ἀκίνητον πρῶτον)” (Physics 4.4, 212a20), which can also be understood as a kind of “surface (ἐπίπεδος)” (212a28). Indeed, a perusal of Physics 4.1–​5 will show that Razi must have been reacting to Aristotle when he developed his ideas

120  Al-​ Rāzī about absolute place. For instance, Aristotle worries about a regress argument like the one by which Razi establishes the infinite extension of void (Physics 4.2, 210a5–​9), and suggests a definition of void very like Razi’s, “a place deprived of body” (Physics 4.1, 208b26–​27). This should encourage us to rethink the relationship between Razi’s physical theory and that of Aristotle. I have emphasized the fact that absolute time and place are offered by Razi as a friendly exposition of Plato and a correction of Aristotle. But while this is true, it should be noted that relative time and place look very like Aristotelian time and place. This is especially striking with place, where Razi actually accepts the definition of place as the containing boundary of a body, with the significant caveat that this is only its relative place.37 Things are less clear with time, but Razian relative time does share features with time as Aristotle defines it: it results from the measuring of motion, and is accidental. The five element theory, then, does not so much reject Aristotle’s physical notions as expose them as relative and superficial. Plato is more insightful, according to Razi, presumably because he recognizes absolute place and time in the Timaeus. That may not seem terribly impressive, given that for Razi the notions of absolute place and time are immediately accessible to anyone who has unspoiled intuition. But Plato gives us more than just the bare notions. He relates them to the creation of the universe, showing that we need absolute time and place as conditions for the possibility of a creation that ushers relative time and place into existence. To this extent at least, Razi’s five element theory has more time for Platonism than for any other ancient tradition, but it also finds a place for Aristotle.38

• 6

Prophecy

We have now examined Razi’s doctrine of the five eternals, which as we have seen includes what is probably Razi’s most celebrated philosophical idea: the distinction between absolute and relative place and time. We now come to his most notorious idea: the attack on prophecy and revealed religion. It is this attack which has led Razi to be dubbed a “freethinker,” along with the somewhat earlier Ibn al-​Rāwandī.1 According to this interpretation, at least, Razi was a forthright opponent of Islam, and indeed of revealed religion as a whole. He dismissed the Qurʾān as a compilation of wives’ tales and superstitions, and denied the validity of prophecy quite generally. Even though it was far easier to express eccentric and even shocking views in the medieval Islamic world than it was in Latin Christendom, this position would surely have pushed the boundaries of the acceptable. A few scholars have wondered about this, and have guessed that Razi’s expertise as a doctor allowed him a degree of latitude or even “special protection” in his views on religion.2 If you, like me, find this explanation somewhat hard to credit, you might begin to wonder whether Razi really took such a firm line against prophecy and revealed religion. There is historical evidence which raises further doubts. We’ve seen Ibn ʿAbī Uṣaybiʿa insisting that the imputation of anti-​religious views to Razi is mere slander (§1.2). Razi’s extant works Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0006.

122  Al-​ Rāzī bear this out to some extent, since they contain favorable references to prophetic teaching. As we also saw (§1.1), the Doubts about Galen calls one of Galen’s works the best book ever written, with the significant exception of the “books sent by God” (Doubts §2.1). And in the Philosophical Life he says that God rewards those who follow the sharīʿa, meaning “religious law” (Works 96). Al-​Bīrūnī’s list of the titles of Razi’s works is also interesting here. It mentions two works which look like they may have been anti-​religious: Fī l-​nubuwwāt (On Prophecies), which he adds is also called Naqd al-​adyān (Refutation of Religions); and Fī ḥiyal al-​mutanabbīyīn (On the Tricks of Supposed Prophets), also known as Makhārīq al-​anbiyāʾ (Superstitions of the Prophets).3 Yet it also has entries for two works called Fī wujūb daʿwat al-​nabī ʿalā man naqira bi-​l-​nubuwwāt (On the Necessity of the Prophetic Mission, Against He Who Insults Prophecies) and Fī wujūb al-​duʿāʾ ʿalā t.arīq al-​ḥazm (On the Necessity of the Mission by Way of Resolution).4 These titles seem to point in two opposite directions: the first pairing suggests that Razi attacked prophecy, the second that he asserted the need for prophets. This duality is mirrored in secondary literature on Razi and prophecy. Two of the more detailed discussions of the topic have reached opposite conclusions. Sarah Stroumsa, one of the scholars who has called Razi a “freethinker,” sees him as an implacable foe of religion. She writes that for Razi, “the senseless image of God upheld by the adherents of revealed religion reflected their general obscurantist bigotry” and that he “targeted Islam in particular [but] did not spare other religions.”5 She accordingly dismisses the two “pro-​prophetic” titles in al-​Bīrūnī as a “puzzling exception.”6 By contrast, Marwan Rashed is skeptical that Razi attacked prophecy at all. To the contrary, he suspects that Razi would have seen prophecy as an indispensable aid for bringing the soul toward salvation.7 These are two formidable scholars, and on the face of things it seems surprising that they could have reached such diametrically opposed positions.8 The explanation is simple: Rashed and Stroumsa are looking at two different bodies of evidence. Stroumsa bases herself on what is, by far, the most abundant source for Razi’s purported attack on prophecy, the Proofs of Prophecy (Aʿlām al-​nubuwwa) by the Ismāʿīlī philosopher Abū Ḥātim al-​ Rāzī. As we have already seen (§3.1), it is a major source for Razi’s views on the five eternals, especially in its first book. Stroumsa is well aware that Abū Ḥātim is a hostile witness, but takes the Proofs to be a basically reliable

Prophecy  123 source for Razi’s ideas. Meanwhile Rashed bases himself on a later, but much less biased, source: the Exalted Pursuits (al-​Maṭālib al-​ʿāliyya) of the great theologian Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī.9 Fakhr al-​Dīn presents a very different Razi, who seems to have no quarrel with revealed religion, and in fact is happy to cite the Qurʾān in defense of his own teachings, for instance the need to turn our attention away from worldly things. It is worth noting that Stroumsa’s work predates Rashed’s discovery of this evidence in Fakhr al-​Dīn, so that she did not have the benefit of being able to consider how this new information could be reconciled with the Proofs. That is the goal I will set for myself in this chapter. I should lay my cards on the table and say that I am persuaded by Rashed’s account, and do not believe that Razi was staging a general attack on prophecy or religion as Abū Ḥātim would have us think. On the other hand, I do not want simply to dismiss the Proofs, even if it is to be used with extreme caution.10 It is after all a report, however hostile, from someone who engaged in direct disputes with Razi; and as we have seen, it provides extensive evidence about Razi’s teaching of the five eternals. What I will attempt to do here is to supplement Rashed’s discussion by offering a critical reading of the Proofs. On this reading, the work does indeed shed light on Razi’s agenda. This agenda, I  hope to show, was not a general rejection of religion or prophecy, but rather a much narrower attack on certain schismatic groups within Islam, and on specific tendencies found in Islam and other religions. I  have already noted that the Ismāʿīlīs are extremely prominent among the sources of our knowledge of Razi (§1.4). In this chapter, I will try to explain why. They felt themselves, rightly, to be among the targets of Razi’s polemic. They responded by distorting his views, in order to make them seem far more scandalous than they in fact were. In addition, Razi was engaging in a more subtle dialectic with another group within Islam, the Muʿtazila.

6.1.  The historical context In order to understand the issues at stake in the Proofs, we need to take a look at the debates over the nature of religious authority that raged in Razi’s day. Obviously all Muslims, then as now, by definition accepted the absolute validity of Muḥammad’s revelation. Controversy erupted, however, when it came to the method for determining that revelation’s meaning.

124  Al-​ Rāzī Some held that in the absence of the Prophet himself, the prophetic message required a guide, a divinely appointed interpreter. For others, the Qurʾān and the ḥadīth—​reports about things said and done by the Prophet, which began to be gathered into authoritative collections not long before Razi’s career—​might stand in need of interpretation and reflection, but in principle this was a task for any member of the Muslim community. We have here the roots of the split between Shīʿī and Sunnī Muslims. For Shīʿīs, the community needs a leader, called an imām, who is authoritative in his judgments about religion. The first such leader was the Prophet’s cousin and son-​in-​law ʿAlī; subsequent imāms were his descendants, with different ʿAlid groups accepting different descendants as the legitimate imāms. This is the main basis for the subdivision of imamī Islam into various groups, including the Ismāʿīlīs. (They also developed diverging tactical and theological views. For instance, some encouraged armed uprising, while others praticed a more quietist strategy.) For Sunnī Muslims, by contrast, authority is vested ultimately in the community, which depends in the first instance upon trained scholars to explain the linguistic and interpretive niceties of Qurʾānic verses, and to establish which ḥadīths were genuine and which spurious, without recourse to an ultimate, divinely selected authority. The notion that the Islamic community should adhere to a moderate consensus was beginning to emerge around Razi’s lifetime. But it perhaps is only in the tenth century and later, with the rise of Ashʿarism, that we can really speak of a “Sunnī” outlook in Islamic theology. This fundamental dispute had wide-​reaching consequences in law, theology, and politics. A  central example, hotly debated among Muslim theologians before and during Razi’s lifetime, was the question of whether it is legitimate for a “less excellent (mafḍūl)” man to be named caliph. Of course the Shīʿī position was that ʿAlī was the designated successor of Muḥammad, and from this it followed that the first caliphs who preceded his office were usurpers. Proto-​Sunnī thinkers were bound to disagree, but took various lines in doing so. Some held that the historical order of caliphs was the order of merit, so that the first caliph, Abū Bakr, was the most excellent candidate, followed in merit by ʿUmar, then ʿUthmān, and in only fourth place ʿAlī. Others, seeking to appeal to ʿAlid sympathies without actually giving in to the Shīʿī claim of ʿAlī’s unique legitimacy, held that the community could licitly appoint the “less excellent” candidate as caliph.

Prophecy  125 For us, the key point in all of this will be that for the Shīʿa there could be only a single imām, in whom religious and political authority was properly vested. Other theologians disagreed. These proto-​Sunnī thinkers argued, with varying degrees of emphasis, that there was no unique claim to religious authority for any one man, and that the community was empowered to bestow the caliphate on any candidate (usually with some minimal requirement of excellence, and frequently with the caveat that in the case of the first few caliphs the choice had in fact always been of the most excellent candidate). If we look for example at the Muʿtazilite theologians up to the time of Razi, we see a range of views on this issue. Razi seems to have been most engaged with members of the Baghdad school of Muʿtazilites, which is rather unfortunate since we are better informed about the school of Baṣra. As already mentioned (Chapter 1), he disputed with Abū l-​Qāsim al-​Balkhī, known as al-​Kaʿbī, a prominent member of the Baghdad branch. Generally speaking, this wing of the Muʿtazilite movement was more consistently committed to the doctrine of mafḍūl (that it is acceptable to appoint a less excellent man as caliph) than were the Baṣrans, whose initial and characteristic stance was to leave undecided the question of relative merit among the first caliphs. Al-​Kaʿbī himself seems to have introduced a new focus, by concentrating on the question of whether the caliph could come from outside Muḥammad’s tribe, the Quraysh. He said, perhaps in an echo of the more general mafḍūl doctrine, that it was preferable to select a man from Quraysh, but that one could go outside if the result would otherwise be strife (fiṭna) in the community.11 As we will see, this emphasis on avoiding strife will be a major theme in Razi’s treatment of religious authority. During this period a consensus was emerging, between Muʿtazilite and Shīʿī theologians, that political authority should ideally be joined to some kind of religious authority. This is, no doubt, in part due to the way the ʿAbbāsid caliphs, especially al-​Maʿmūn and his successors, presented themselves as both theological and political heads of the community. It may also show a desire to accommodate Shīʿī groups by making certain concessions, a tactic also employed by al-​Maʿmūn. In this context the word imām is used by Muʿtazilite thinkers for a leader of the community. But for them this implies no endorsement of the unique claims of ʿAlī and his descendants. To a limited extent, they come to agree with the Shīʿa insofar as they admit the need for an imām. We find al-​Kaʿbī, Razi’s debating partner, holding that

126  Al-​ Rāzī the need for an imām is “known through reason” for the sake of the “benefit (maṣlaḥa)” of the community.12 This is one example of a distinctive feature of Muʿtazilism that resonates strongly with aspects of Razi’s thought: their confidence in the power of human reason to establish even truths of religion. For instance, it is a truth of reason that God cannot punish the sinner unless He has allowed the sinner freedom of choice in whether or not to sin. Similarly, in this case, reason can discover the need for an imām to unify and lead the community to salvation. On the other hand, al-​Kaʿbī stops short of the Shīʿī position by denying that the chosen imām will be infallible. When Muʿtazilite thinkers did make claims about infallibility, this always concerned either the Prophet himself or the outcome of the deliberations of the community as a whole.13 Another point which clearly distinguishes the Muʿtazila from the Shīʿa is that they allow for more than one qualified candidate to be caliph or imām (or both). Here a particularly stark position was, as so often, taken by the Baṣran Muʿtazilite al-​Naẓẓām (d. 231/​845), who remarked that the caliphate can be held by any follower of the religious law.14 He and some other Muʿtazilites rejected the need for any single religious authority figure, entirely denying the necessity of the imamate.15 Now, these disputes were about the question of leadership after the demise of the Prophet himself. They did not concern Muḥammad’s own revelation or the basis of his prophetic legitimacy. But unsurprisingly, there were other theological discussions that revolved around Muḥammad and, by extension, the prophets who had preceded him. It is important to remember that Muslims regard Muḥammad not as the only prophet there has ever been, but as the “seal” of the prophets. He ends the line of prophets which begins with Adam, the first man. (This is why it would have been shocking for Razi’s teacher Īrānshahrī to claim the mantle of prophecy, as discussed earlier at §1.1.) Despite the inclusion of biblical prophets and Jesus among these accepted prophets, there was a great deal of interfaith theological debate with Jews and Christians in the early centuries of Islam, going back well before Razi’s day. Given that Muslims accepted the prophecy of Muḥammad, but Jews and Christians did not, a question naturally arose as to how a genuine prophet may be recognized. One traditional answer, found in Christianity, Judaism, and Islam alike, is miracles. Razi lived in a period when there was a growing emphasis on miracles as signs of prophecy,16 and Abū Ḥātim’s Proofs is an important example of defending Muḥammad’s prophecy on the basis of his miracles. This is

Prophecy  127 unsurprising, since Shīʿī authors were early adopters of the miracle argument: they ascribed miracles not only to the prophets, but to their favored line of imāms. On this point the Muʿtazilites were more ambivalent. Their discussions of miracles frequently consist not of stories about valid miracles, but rather warnings against the spurious miracles practiced by fraudulent prophets. An example is found in the work of the great Muʿtazilite theologian, the Qāḍī ʿAbd al-​Jabbār.17 Furthermore, many theologians of this period, including the Muʿtazila, tended to narrow down Muḥammad’s miracle-​ working career to a single instance: the Qurʾān. The miraculous nature of the Qurʾān was shown by its “inimitability.” This is the basis of the doctrine of iʿjāz, meaning the “incapacity” of humans to equal this revealed text. The iʿjāz doctrine has a basis in the Qurʾān itself, which challenges skeptics about Muḥammad’s prophecy to produce something similar (e.g., 52:33–​ 34). Yet it took a considerable time for iʿjāz to develop into a standard view. Some of the first serious discussions took place in Muʿtazilite circles in the ninth century, in the generations just prior to Razi. The first authors to lay out explicit and detailed defenses of iʿjāz were after Razi: for instance, al-​Rummānī (d. 384/​994), al-​Khaṭṭābī (d. 338/​998), and most importantly al-​Baqillānī (d. 402/​1013).18 But the topic was hotly debated already in his time.19 As with miracles generally, the Muʿtazilite position on iʿjāz was somewhat ambivalent. Obviously, to uphold this doctrine one needed to say in which respect it is impossible to produce something “like” the Qurʾān. It is easy enough to produce something of a comparable length, for instance. Al-​Naẓẓām, one of the first theologians to engage with the issue seriously, argued that although it is in principle possible for humans to produce something like the Qurʾān, God stops anyone who attempts the feat from succeeding. This remarkable doctrine of ṣarfa (“averting”) seems, on the face of it, rather at odds with the Muʿtazilites’ cautious attitude toward miracles and also their commitment to human autonomy.20 The fact that al-​Naẓẓām resorted to it indicates how uncomfortable he was with the claim that the Qurʾān was in some sense simply “too good” to be imitated.21 But soon the idea developed that iʿjāz is because of the “eloquence” of the Qurʾān. This position was pioneered by al-​Naẓẓām’s student, the litterateur al-​Jāḥiẓ, who rather strangely combined the eloquence doctrine with the ṣarfa doctrine. Most of the Muʿtazila of the ninth century resisted the eloquence theory.

128  Al-​ Rāzī Nonetheless, it would in due course become the standard account of iʿjāz, even among the Muʿtazila, once it was embraced by members of the Baṣra school.22

6.2.  The testimony of the Proofs of Prophecy This, then, is a sketch of the theological background for whatever it was that Razi said about prophecy. As already intimated, the primary source for Razi’s supposed attack on prophecy and revealed religion is the Proofs of Abū Ḥātim. Thus the choice of whether to adopt the traditional reading of Razi as a freethinking opponent of Islam, or the revisionary interpretation of Rashed, depends in large part how much trust we place in Abū Ḥātim as a source. He claims to be drawing his knowledge of Razi from both personal encounters and at least one book, whose title he does not give.23 Abū Ḥātim says quite openly that he is at least shortening and summarizing Razi’s discussion, making remarks like, “[Razi] brought forth a lengthy discussion of this topic, but this was the gist” (Proofs 182, cf., e.g., 183, 191). And of course, the fact that he refers to Razi not by name but as “the heretic (al-​mulḥid)” also indicates a certain lack of objectivity, to put it mildly. The question thus inevitably arises whether we should dismiss Abū Ḥātim’s testimony as being so tainted as to be effectively worthless. I think this would be an overreaction, for several reasons. First, the fact that Abū Ḥātim was moved to write an entire book against Razi shows that Razi said something to provoke Abū Ḥātim. It is implausible that Abū Ḥātim’s portrayal of Razi’s position has no basis whatsoever in fact, even if it is also unlikely that we are getting a sympathetic or even accurate rendition of that position. If we can extract a plausible line of thought from the ideas ascribed to Razi here, we should do so. Second, in some cases we are able to check Abū Ḥātim’s presentation against testimony from other authors. As we have already seen, the Proofs, especially book 1, is a major source for Razi’s ideas about the five eternals. Even though Abū Ḥātim is more interested in displaying his own brilliance in refuting the doctrine than he is in explaining what Razi meant, what we learn from him about the five eternals corresponds fairly well with information from other sources, some of which are much less hostile. Finally, as I will shortly

Prophecy  129 try to show, there are passages elsewhere in the Proofs which mention ideas that are paralleled by authentic Razian material. Although these passages will give us a good example of how Abū Ḥātim does base himself on some source in Razi, they will also show that he shamelessly distorts that source. The moral of this story will be that we can often trust Abū Ḥātim to be quoting or paraphrasing things Razi really did say, but we can never trust him about the context or motivation of Razi’s remarks. But before going any further, let me summarize the views on prophecy and religion which are ascribed to Razi in Abū Ḥātim’s Proofs.24 The chief claim is set out as follows: [Razi] said:  what is most appropriate to the wisdom of the Wise and the mercy of the Merciful is to inspire all His servants with awareness (maʿrifa) of what is useful and harmful to them, both now and in the hereafter, without preferring some to others, lest there be combat and differences among them such that they be destroyed. This would be more attentive towards them than if he makes some of them imāms of others, such that each sect (firqa) ascribes truth [to] its own imāms and falsehood to the others, striking one another in the face with swords and spreading distress and bringing themselves to destruction with hostility and competition. Indeed many people have been destroyed in this way, as we see. (Proofs 1 [= Works 295])

Of course Razi is not saying—​and even Abū Ḥātim would not have us believe he was saying—​that God actually does inspire all humans with knowledge of what is useful and harmful. Rather, what he says is that if God were going to inspire anybody in this way, he would not select only certain individuals, namely the imāms, for this divine favor. That would be inconsistent with divine wisdom and mercy, because it naturally leads to violent conflict between the followers of different (supposed) imāms. Given that God has inspired neither all humans nor certain humans with this knowledge, what course of action should we follow? Razi, as presented by Abū Ḥātim, is emphatic in his reply: we should use our reason to engage in “inquiry and investigation” (naẓar and baḥth). All humans are capable of this, though not all humans exert themselves sufficiently to acquire an understanding of the beneficial and harmful. In this respect humans are in a worse condition than animals, who by instinct do manage to know what is appropriate for them (Proofs 182–​183). Humans’ benighted condition is only exacerbated by prophetic revelation, which is followed not

130  Al-​ Rāzī on the basis of reason, but rather by uncritical acceptance, or taqlīd (Proofs 24 [= Works 303], 31). Revealed works are full of “superstitions (khurāfāt),” and what’s worse, the revelations brought by different prophets are in mutual contradiction. In a particularly interesting passage, Abū Ḥātim tells us that Razi enumerated the conflicts between different religious teachings (Proofs 50–​51).25 For instance, the Christians say Jesus was the son of God, whereas Muḥammad denies that God has a son. Each individual revelation also contains internal contradictions. For example, in the Torah, Moses says that God can be neither benefited nor harmed. Yet Moses also claims that God demands the sacrifice of animals; He even complains when humans sacrifice the less valuable animals. The Torah says both that God is “not compound and uncreated” and that God is an old man with a white beard. Given that Razi, as portrayed by Abū Ḥātim, is a vigorous opponent of the prophets, it’s unsurprising that he should have denied the possibility of miracles. A whole section of the Proofs (139–​141) is devoted to this question. Abū Ḥātim begins by saying that Razi discussed miracles extensively in his unnamed book. In general, the thrust of his discussion was that supposed miracles are mere “tricks”: Then, he mentioned practicioners of legerdemain and juggleries, such as dancing on spikes, walking on sharp blades and over spears. [He further] adduced speech in rhyme and that of soothsayers, the magic performed by magicians, and other things with which he presumed to refute whoever claims that the prophets perform miracles. (Proofs 140 [Stroumsa trans. modified])

This apparent trivialization of prophetic miracles applies also to Muḥammad. As mentioned earlier, the Proofs is notable for its enumeration of prophetic miracles, including those performed by Muḥammad, and this enumeration is provoked by Razi’s denial of such miracles. For instance, we are told that Razi expressed doubt about the reports of miracles that go back to only a handful of witnesses, who may have been colluding (tawāṭuʾ, at Proofs 139). Abū Ḥātim mentions other remarks of Razi that had to do specifically with Islam. Razi had complaints about traditions, or ḥadīths, which in his view discouraged independent inquiry instead of taqlīd. He objected to other ḥadīths on theological doctrines such as free will and the precedence of ʿAlī (Proofs 24–​25). He heaped particular scorn, it would seem, on passages in the Qurʾān and ḥadīths which implied anthropomorphic ideas

Prophecy  131 about God (tashbīh). One such ḥadīth describes Muḥammad’s encounter with God Himself, whom he saw face-​to-​face before feeling God’s hand upon him (Proofs 85).26 Several verses from the Qurʾān come in for criticism, because they refer to God’s being seated upon a throne (Proofs 85, citing Qurʾān 20:5, 69:17 and 40:7). As part of his denial of miracles, Razi devoted a special refutation to the idea of the Qurʾān’s inimitability. Like Ibn Rāwandī and some Christian critics of the doctrine of iʿjāz, he cites examples of great works produced by non-​Muslims (Proofs 168)  such as Euclid and Ptolemy. Befitting his medical profession, Razi also emphasized the achievements of doctors in the discovery of useful drugs, which are of more help to humankind than anything in the Qurʾān or other “books of the people of the law.” This, then, was apparently a wide-​ranging and provocative attack on not only Islam, but also other religions. All prophets were subjected to Razi’s withering criticism, as were scholars of ḥadīth and, more generally, anyone who is so weak-​minded as to give credence to the superstitious nonsense of religious texts, rather than having the courage to think for themselves. Of course one mustn’t forget that the upshot of such rational inquiry was, for Razi, the doctrine of five eternals which included God. Thus Abū Ḥātim’s Razi was no atheist, but rather a man who had decided to substitute a theistic philosophical system, based purely on reason, for the revealed truths of Islam and every other faith. The question is how close this Razi depicted by Abū Ḥātim is to the real Razi. As a first step toward answering this question, let us examine in more detail a passage from book 5 of the Proofs, which is winningly prefaced by the title “another thing the heretic said.” I will quote most of the passage: The heretic said, “tell us, does someone who is faced with two paths travel along the longer and more difficult of the two? And is someone choosing what is better and more fitting if he finds a way to know something about these two directions, and, knowing which one is more difficult, remote, and formidable, has misgivings and doubts and is upset by the evil consequences, but ignores any other direction? If you say no, then we say: wouldn’t God inspire His servant with knowledge of what is beneficial and harmful for this world and the hereafter, preventing them from needing one another? For this has led to many people being destroyed and the infliction upon them of the greatest distress in their worldly life, as we see with our own eyes, and in their afterlife. In their worldly life, this is because of the faith (taṣdīq) each nation (umma) has in its imām,

132  Al-​ Rāzī with each attacking the others with sword-​blows to the face and their great efforts in doing so.” And he said, “if there were no groupings of people on account of religious sects (diyānāt) then the rivalries, warrings and suffering would be eliminated. For struggles occur either because of this world or the hereafter.” And he brought forth a lengthy discussion of this topic, but this was the gist. He also said, “if you say that the rivalries and warrings are for the sake of their preference for things in this world (aʿrāḍ al-​dunyā), then we say: but do you see anyone who prefers what is less instead of what is more—​unless it is because they have some misgiving that they could attain what is more? If you say yes, then you are just being obstinate. But if you say no, then [we say that] such is the man who prefers things in this world and its desires (shahwāt), instead of the exalted things and great rewards which are indescribable—​unless it is because he has some doubt about whether he will attain this enormous, great and permanent [prize] which is beyond description. It’s like seeing a man preferring one hundred dinars to one thousand dinars, because he is frightened that he will lose both. But if he is certain he will get the thousand if he turns down the hundred, we’ll never see him taking the hundred.” He said, “and likewise, if people were not deprived of certainty by what the imāms say and thus actually hindered from the reward and abundance, they would not prefer what is little in their worldly life to what is greater in their afterlife.” (Proofs 131–​132)

The passage then provides a reprise of the idea previously quoted, that God’s wisdom would be more consistent with bestowing knowledge on all humans, than selecting certain people as imāms. The passage also mentions the fact that animals do have an innate tendency to choose what is fitting for them. Abū Ḥātim wraps up by saying: This is what the heretic said, though I have cut out a lot of it to avoid prolixity; but I’ve mentioned the main points (nukat min-​hu). By saying “making some to be imāms for others,” he means precisely that [God] chooses some as prophets and messengers, and makes them to be imāms of others. (Proofs 132)

The first thing I want to point out about the passage is that Razi is not actually speaking about prophets. This is unintentionally underscored by Abū Ḥātim’s closing remark, where he feels the need to stress that when Razi spoke of imāms, he actually meant “prophets and messengers.” But neither here, nor as far as I can see, anywhere in the entirety of the Proofs,

Prophecy  133 is Razi quoted as having denied the possibility of prophets (anbiyāʾ or rusūl) as such, though he is quoted as using the term nubuwwa (prophecy) for the gift that would be given to the imāms (e.g., at Proofs 1 [= Works 295]). The term he consistently uses for the person who would receive this inspiration is imām. For now let us simply note this point; I will come back to it. The second thing I want to point out is that the reasoning ascribed to Razi looks, at best, incomplete. In the first paragraph, Abū Ḥātim has Razi saying that God, being wise, would not choose the more difficult path over the better path. The more difficult path is inspiring imāms, since it leads to dissension; the better path would be inspiring everybody. But even on Abū Ḥātim’s version of Razi’s theory, God does neither of these things. God does give us reason, which would allow us to discover what is beneficial and harmful (the same point is made in the first chapter of Razi’s Spiritual Medicine). But evidently He does not inspire all humans with knowledge. So the train of thought Abū Ḥātim seems to be imputing to Razi is this: if God were going to inspire anyone, He would inspire everyone (this being the better path); but He does not inspire everyone; therefore He does not inspire anyone. That looks like a valid argument, but it raises the obvious question why God couldn’t, or didn’t, go ahead and inspire everyone. One feels that, at a minimum, we are missing part of Razi’s account. Things are worse in the case of the second paragraph. Here Razi says that it is foolish to pursue what is less valuable than what is more valuable—​ there is a thematic resonance with the image of the two paths, but this is not exploited. Rather, Razi identifies the less valuable with things of this world, and the more valuable with a reward in the hereafter. But what does any of this have to do with prophecy or imāms? Nothing, except for the closing remark that the imāms confuse people and, ironically enough, lead them to pursue earthly things over heavenly rewards. No explanation is offered for this counterintuitive result. Nor do we have any rationale for the surprising claim that if only people were not confused by imāms, everybody would somehow have “certainty” of a great reward in the afterlife. These observations might already be enough to make us suspect that Abū Ḥātim is playing fast and loose with Razi’s ideas. That suspicion is increased by the fact that both paragraphs do have a basis in things Razi said, neither of which have anything to do with prophets (or imāms, for that matter). I believe it has not been noticed that the first paragraph repeats a saying ascribed to Razi by al-​Tawḥīdī. The saying, in al-​Tawḥīdī’s version,

134  Al-​ Rāzī goes, “is it wise, when faced with two paths, to choose the longer, more difficult one?” After quoting this, al-​Tawḥīdī remarks, “he here alludes to God’s relationship to His creature in this world, exposing [the creature] to constraint and danger.”27 As Marwan Rashed has argued in a discussion of the quotation in al-​Tawḥīdī, Razi’s point must have been that if God could have brought us to our perfection and salvation without our suffering, He would have done so.28 This makes perfect sense, and fits the other things we know about Razi’s theodicy. Notice, finally, that the tail end of the first paragraph in Abū Ḥātim, which mentions “sword-​blows to the face,” repeats material from an earlier bit of the Proofs (2 [= Works  295], cited earlier). Here Abū Ḥātim has been sloppy enough to show his hand: he is combining the “two paths” idea with an unrelated bit of Razian polemic against the doctrine of the imamate. The second paragraph too can be traced to a quite different context. In this case, the context is Razi’s ethical writings. In the Philosophical Life, Razi points out the foolishness of pursuing earthly pleasures at the cost of losing a reward in the afterlife: Given that the pleasures and pains of this world (dunyā) cease along with the cessation of life, whereas the pleasures of the world in which there is no death are eternal, unceasing, and without limit, he is a fool who buys transitory, ceasing, limited pleasure at the price of eternal, constant, unceasing, unlimited pleasure. (Works 102)

In Razi’s Spiritual Medicine, we have also the idea that animals, unlike humans, pursue what is appropriate for them: unlike us, they do not seek to increase their pleasures beyond what nature requires (Works 26).29 The language used in this paragraph from the Proofs is authentically Razian—​ for instance, shahwāt and dunyā—​which tends to confirm that Abū Ḥātim is taking this material from an authentic Razian source. But the point made in this source had nothing to do with prophecy or revealed religion. Rather, Razi was (as usual in his ethical works) trying to persuade his reader to cease pursuing earthly delights disproportionately. The example of the dinars makes more vivid the same point made in the Philosophical Life, that when we choose earthly rewards over heavenly ones, we lose what is more valuable for the sake of what is less valuable. Abū Ḥātim rather unconvincingly tacks on a sentence at the end, in an effort to make it look as though Razi blamed people’s preference for worldly things on (of all people) Muḥammad and his fellow prophets.

Prophecy  135

6.3. Razi’s target If this is a typical, albeit poorly executed, example of Abū Ḥātim’s strategy, then he is a thoroughly unreliable witness. He is in the business of twisting material from Razi to fit into a polemic aimed very broadly against all revealed religion, even when Razi is dealing with wholly unrelated issues. Why would Abū Ḥātim do this? The answer, I would suggest, is that he was provoked into it by Razi himself. I  believe that Razi did deliver a withering attack on religious beliefs, but one whose focus was a good deal narrower than Abū Ḥātim would have us believe. His polemic seems to have aimed at several targets, but foremost among them were the Ismāʿīlīs and other Shīʿī groups. We can see this if we take a closer look at what Abū Ḥātim imputes to Razi. First, consider the point I made earlier, that Razi talks about imāms rather than “prophets.” As should be clear from the discussion of the historical context in §6.1, one cannot blithely take the term imām as a synonym for “prophet,” as Abū Ḥātim explicitly (and suspiciously) encourages us to do. As I have remarked, Shīʿī and Muʿtazilite theologians both used this word to refer to a figure who would come after the Prophet and be a guide to proper religious belief and practice, in part by offering authoritative interpretations of the Qurʾān and ḥadīth. The point Razi makes about imāms in the Proofs is that a proliferation of such authorities leads to discord and violence between the groups who follow them. This, of course, was exactly the situation of third/​ninth century Islam. Uprisings in the name of various ʿAlid imāms were a constant source of violent conflict in this period. With this context in mind, passages like the following read rather differently: The followers of the religious laws (ahl al-​sharāʾiʿ) have learned their religion (dīn) through taqlīd. They reject and forbid inquiry (naẓar) and investigation (baḥth). . . . They transmit traditions in the name of their leaders, which oblige them to refrain from speculation on religious matters, and declare that anyone who contradicts the traditions they transmit must be branded an infidel (kafara).  .  .  . If the people of this mission (daʿwā) are asked about the proof for the soundness of their religion, they flare up, get angry and spill the blood of whoever confronts them with this question. They forbid inquiry, and strive to kill their adversaries. This is why truth became thoroughly silenced and concealed. . . . They adopted this approach as a result of their being long

136  Al-​ Rāzī accustomed to their teaching (madhhab), as days passed and it became a habit. (Proofs 24–​25 [Stroumsa trans., modified])

As Stroumsa notes, two features of the passage hint that its target may have been specifically the Ismāʿīlīs.30 Most strikingly, we have the word daʿwā, which often means the mission to convert others to this movement. (As Stroumsa points out, it need not mean this; but the term madhhab used here may also point toward a narrower target.) The reference to silence and concealment, too, could be a snide reference to the Ismāʿīlī belief that esoteric truths should be concealed from the non-​initiated, even by resorting to dissimulation. Another aspect of Razi’s polemic which suggests an animus against Ismāʿīlism, and perhaps other Shīʿī groups, is his criticism of taqlīd.31 This is a standard accusation to throw at Shīʿī Muslims, and no less a figure than al-​Ghazālī makes it the centerpiece of his attack on the Ismāʿīlīs in his Deliverer from Error (Munqidh min al-​ḍalāl). It is instructive here to see how Abū Ḥātim tries to rebut Razi. His first move is ad hominem: Razi and other would-​be philosophers indulge in taqlīd by following their own authorities, like Plato and Aristotle (Proofs 25–​26).32 His second move, however, is a defense of taqlīd: We say that the people of truth and justice do not approve of taqlīd regarding the principles, for example the knowledge of [God’s] oneness (maʿrifat al-​tawḥīd), the topic of prophecy, or the affirmation of the imamate (ithbāt al-​imāma). On these topics one may not speak of taqlīd. But, once one has affirmed [God’s] oneness, endorsed prophecy, and affirmed the imamate, after this, one is permitted taqlīd following the true, just, knowing Imām. It is not in the constitution (jibla) of man to reach the furthest end (ghāya) of knowledge, “since God is above all who have knowledge” (Qurʾān 12:76). If one abandons taqlīd after knowledge of these principles, as we’ve said, and all people were obligated to pursue the final end [by themselves], then they would be obligated to do something of which they are incapable. (Proofs 26)

This is one of the rare passages in the Proofs where Abū Ḥātim’s imāmī sympathies become really clear. His response indirectly shows that Razi’s attack hits home: the Ismāʿīlīs, despite their use of philosophical materials, do endorse a qualified practice of taqlīd in following the teachings of the infallible imāms. Abū Ḥātim’s insistence that one uses independent inquiry to establish certain fundamental points, such as God’s oneness, is a partial

Prophecy  137 answer to Razi’s attack, but no doubt one that would fail to satisfy Razi. Of course there is no need for us to decide here who has the better of this argument as to the legitimacy of taqlīd. I want only to establish that Razi aimed his critique specifically at those who endorse taqlīd, rather than indiscriminately ridiculing all religious believers. The Ismāʿīlīs would have been a prime target for his scorn, and Abū Ḥātim’s indignant and disingenuous response to Razi shows that he knew it. The evidence of the Proofs, however, suggests that Razi’s attack was not aimed solely at the Ismāʿīlīs. Rather, he protested against various trends within Islamic society that were schismatic, or merely controversial. Perhaps most striking here is the passage in which he complains about ḥadīth. Abū Ḥātim wants us to believe that Razi was attacking the whole practice of collecting and transmitting ḥadīth. But that is not the impression given by Razi’s actual complaint: There are traditions (āthār) which require that the Qurʾān is created, while others deny this; some reports about the precedence of ʿAlī, others about the precedence of someone else; traditions denying capacity (qadar), others denying compulsion (ijbār); and traditions about tashbīh. (Proofs 25)

This is no random selection of topics in ḥadīth, but rather a list of theological controversies that plagued the Islamic community in Razi’s day and in the preceding century or so. The creation of the Qurʾān was of course the dogma which the ʿAbbāsid caliphs attempted to enforce in their infamous “test (miḥna).” The precedence of ʿAlī was asserted by the Shīʿa and others with ʿAlid sympathies. And the question of qadar, which here seems to mean a person’s capacity to create his or her own actions, as opposed to ijbār, God’s compelling humans to act, is another central dispute in Islamic kalām. It’s interesting to note that the reference to tashbīh—​the comparison of God to humans or other created things—​is not balanced by any mention of ḥadīth in the contrary direction, which would be taʿṭīl, stripping God of His attributes. Here we have a clue to a positive theological claim made by Razi and preserved in the Proofs. For there are several other passages which have him attacking tashbīh, in Islam and beyond. As already mentioned (§6.2), Razi is said to have criticized Qurʾānic passages which put God on a “throne,” as well as ḥadīths indicating that Muḥammad was able to see God (Proofs 114). Regarding other religious texts, such as the Torah, Razi also

138  Al-​ Rāzī singled out passages which fell into tashbīh, for instance making God out to be like an old man (Proofs 70). When Abū Ḥātim responds to Razi’s criticism of such texts, he indirectly confirms that Razi was opposed specifically to anthropomorphic trends in religious texts: He who follows the lead of the heretics, judging the texts of the prophets by the outward expression (ẓāhir), rather than the meaning and interpretation (al-​maʿnā wa-​l-​taʾwīl), falls into doubt and confusion, which leads to blindness and perplexity: he retreats into stripping God of his attributes (kharaja ilā l-​taʿṭīl) and heresy, as with what the heretics believe. (Proofs 86)

Again, this points to the conclusion that Razi’s target was considerably narrower than revealed religion as such: he criticized aspects of religious texts which assimilated God to created things. There is an irony here, insofar as the Ismāʿīlīs themselves tended to adopt a rigorously apophatic stance on divine attributes. Abū Ḥātim’s fellow Ismāʿīlī philosopher al-​Sijistānī, for instance, is known for his theory of double negation:  God transcends even the characterization of Him as “indescribable” and is thus “not indescribable.”33 Razi’s view on the extent to which God may be grasped by the human mind was considerably more generous than this. So assuming that he did criticize certain features of the Qurʾān, as Abū Ḥātim claims, he presumably did not intend to endorse outright taʿṭīl. Rather, it seems likely that he meant only to correct the tendency of such passages to support tashbīh, a project that the Ismāʿīlīs might have found congenial, had Razi not been so provocative in his attack on their doctrine of the imamate. In Razi’s extant ethical treatises, we find more evidence that he aimed at only a moderate criticism of religious ideas. In several passages, he criticizes certain beliefs and practices found among Muslims and members of other faiths. Yet he does so without rejecting, or even criticizing, religion more generally. In a section of the Spiritual Medicine about being overly fastidious, Razi takes issue with the obsessive pursuit of ritual purity (he places this under the catch-​all term madhhab; Works 79). Razi does not reject the religious practice of purification, but simply says that one ought not to take the practice to extremes. If the senses report that one’s body or garment is clean, then it should be counted as clean. He concludes this discussion by remarking, “thus God has not imposed cleansing upon His servants in this way [sc. beyond what the senses can perceive], since this is not something

Prophecy  139 that is within their ability and capacity” (Works 80). This is the voice of moderation, not heresy. Similarly, in the Philosophical Life, Razi complains about Hindus, Manicheans, Christians, and Muslims who inflict harm on themselves out of religious conviction (Works 105–​106). Again, his point is that they have gone to extremes, not that they are foolish for having religious beliefs in the first place. It is in this spirit, albeit in a more theological sphere, that I think we should interpret Razi’s critique of the beliefs of other religions, as reported in the Proofs. If we read the report attentively, we will notice that Abū Ḥātim has Razi attacking a series of theological doctrines which would have been rejected by any Muslim and were indeed frequently refuted by Muʿtazilite authors. A good example is the dualism of the Manicheans and Zoroastrians. We do not get much of this material, but Abū Ḥātim says that Razi “stuffed [his book] to the brim with the allegations and innovations of the Magi and dualism (thanawiyya)” (Proofs 50). In the case of Christianity, he mentions the doctrine of the Incarnation and the Trinity, pointing out that it has been controverted by Muḥammad (Proofs 50). He also lists dubious miracles ascribed to Mani. In all of this Razi would be on safe ground, criticizing aspects of other religions that no Muslim would accept anyway. As a result, on these points Abū Ḥātim can respond only that it is wrong to “mix [Zoroastrianism and Manicheanism] with the content of the revealed scriptures and the traditions (āthār) of the prophets” (Proofs 51). But this is again misleading. Abū Ḥātim’s own evidence suggests that when Razi mentioned theological doctrines from within Islam, they were specific doctrines that were considered perfectly acceptable, even orthodox, to attack. He objected to tashbīh, and to controversial views on such topics as determinism, the creation of the Qurʾān, and the like. Abū Ḥātim provides us with no good reason to think that Razi placed Muḥammad’s prophetic message in general on a par with, say, Manichean dualism or the Christian doctrine of the Trinity.

6.4.  The value of religion So far I have largely been trying to defend Razi from the calumnies directed against him by Abū Ḥātim. Is it possible to go further, and use the Proofs, along with other sources, to reconstruct Razi’s positive doctrine of religion

140  Al-​ Rāzī and its place in the ideal human life? Can we say anything about the milieu that gave rise to these positive doctrines? Here we will be entering into even more speculative territory. But I think there is good reason to say that his views about religion were generally fairly positive, and that they first developed as part of a subtle and largely sympathetic engagement with Muʿtazilism. Let us go back once more to Razi’s central criticism of the imamate: that this doctrine is an endorsement of taqlīd rather than rational inquiry, and that the uncritical support of one imām against another leads to strife and discord. This critique resonates with Muʿtazilism in several ways. Most obviously, there is Razi’s insistence on the use of reason (ʿaql) and practice of inquiry (naẓar) at the expense of taqlīd. We have already alluded to the primacy the Muʿtazilites placed upon ʿaql, holding that it is within the power of human reason to (for instance) discover the nature of good and evil, and thus the principles which guide even the conduct of God. They also railed against taqlīd,34 and in some cases, as mentioned earlier, denied the need for an imām. Muʿtazilites, being theologians, most frequently expressed their support for independent judgment in the legal sphere. They cherished a well-​known ḥadīth which states that the jurist who makes an effort to reach the correct judgment will be rewarded for this, even if his decision is incorrect.35 There may be an echo of this idea in a statement ascribed to Razi in the Proofs: [When one criticizes one’s predecessor] this is not falsehood or confusion, because each of them [i.e., the predecessor and the one who criticizes him] is making an effort (mujtahid). When one makes an effort and occupies oneself with inquiry and investigation, one has entered upon the path of truth. (Proofs 8 [= Works 302])36

As it happens, Razi’s Muʿtazilite debating partner al-​Kaʿbī is notorious for adopting a rather tolerant attitude toward taqlīd. He claimed that the one who follows the truth by taqlīd (muqallid al-​ḥaqq) is saved. In much the same terms used by Abū Ḥātim in his own defense of taqlīd (Proofs 26, cited earlier), he held that an obligation on all Muslims to undertake their own inquiry (naẓar) would impose a requirement on them they could not fufill. Most other Muʿtazilites, in particular those of the Baṣra school, believed that there is indeed an obligation to engage in rational inquiry.37 Razi is aligned with mainstream Muʿtazilism and against al-​Kaʿbī and the Ismāʿīlīs in his emphasis on the capability of all humans for reaching

Prophecy  141 sufficient knowledge through inquiry. He admits that he has himself benefited from the use of philosophical forerunners like Plato. But he insists that in principle anyone can reach a high level of understanding—​such as his own—​if they would simply put in the required effort: I [sc. Abū Ḥātim] said: are people (al-​nās) equal in reason (ʿaql), resolution (himma) and natural ability (fiṭna), or not? [Razi] said: if they exerted themselves and occupied themselves with what would help them, they would be equal in their resolution and reason. (Proofs 3 [= Works 296])

As Stroumsa has pointed out, Razi is not committed to the view that all people are in fact equal. Rather, they are created equal, in the sense that they all have an equal capacity to achieve knowledge.38 Paul Walker suggests that there is a “curious hole” in Razi’s argument here, insofar as humans should all reach an equal level if they begin with equal gifts, including motivation.39 But as we know (§3.1), Razi is a firm believer in the possibility of spontaneous action on the part of souls, either for good or ill. His assumption that two humans who are born equal may be different in the exertions they make thereafter seems to be part and parcel of his libertarian stance, which is itself another affinity with the Muʿtazila. Razi, as Abū Ḥātim presents him, would seem to think that it is God’s justice which requires the innate equality of all humans. This principle underlies Razi’s insistence that God would not select only some people for inspired revelation. This would violate divine wisdom and justice not only in its inequality, but in the resulting harm that is inflicted upon the community by the presence of competing claims to religious authority: On what basis do you allow that it is in the wisdom of the Wise to choose this for them, to rouse some against others, establishing hostility between them and multiplying the struggles among them, and thus destroying the people? (Proofs 1 [= Works 295])

The crucial question is whether Razi meant to oppose the proliferation of mutually hostile groups within Islam, or to oppose the whole idea of religious teachers, including such figures as Muḥammad himself. Of course Abū Ḥātim wants us to believe the latter, but the former seems more plausible. Immediately following the passage just cited, Razi is quoted as saying that “each sect ascribes truth [to] its own imāms and falsehood to the others” (Proofs 1 [= Works 295]). This looks more like a complaint about strife within a single community than one about rivalries between different religions.

142  Al-​ Rāzī Again, we may detect here a resonance with Muʿtazilism, which first distinguished itself as a movement with Wāṣil b.  ʿAṭāʾ’s idea of the “intermediate status” of the grave sinner. This was an irenic move intended to undercut the violent absolutism of the Khārijites, who held that grave sinners had excluded themselves from the Muslim community, but without going so far as the Murjiʾites, who were willing to accept that the grave sinner is a believer.40 Of course Razi lived quite a bit later than Wāṣil, who died already in 748–​749. But in the intervening period the Muʿtazila had broadly stayed true to his example, frequently adopting views which were carefully formulated to defuse heated theological disputes. We have already seen an example of this in the idea of some Muʿtazilites that ʿAlī was the best of the first caliphs, but that the others had still held the caliphate legitimately under the doctrine of mafḍūl. More generally, they rejected the idea that “disagreement (ikhtilāf)” within the community can be a positive force.41 Razi, to judge from the Proofs, seems similarly to have hoped that the internecene disputes within the Islamic community of his time might be eliminated through the application of disinterested reason. By contrast, blind allegiance to certain supposed imāms was to be opposed because it would perpetuate discord, rather than heal it.42 This brings us to the question of Razi’s position on the necessity of the imamate. As we saw earlier, different Muʿtazilite thinkers held different views on this question. Al-​Kaʿbī held that the need for an imām is known by reason, but on the other hand he denied the imām’s infallibility. This latter point obviously goes hand in hand with the idea that a man need not be the perfect or best candidate to serve as imām. The earlier al-​Naẓẓām, by contrast, denied the need for the imām. Our evidence suggests that Razi adopted one or the other of these two views, placing him somewhere on the spectrum of Muʿtazilite positions. Obviously the evidence of Abū Ḥātim has Razi completely denying the need for an imām, which would align him with al-​Naẓẓām. But what Abū Ḥātim in fact has Razi arguing is that no imām is uniquely selected by divine fiat. This, obviously, would be a point of particular salience against ʿAlid claims that the imamate is determined by descendancy from the family of the Prophet. One could insist on this point while still admitting that the community will benefit from the leadership of a man of insight and sound leadership—​one of those who, in Razi’s words, has “exerted themselves” with what is beneficial. If this was Razi’s view he would for a change be closer to al-​Kaʿbī, albeit that Razi was even more broadminded about who could become imām.

Prophecy  143 Here it is relevant to recall that according to al-​Bīrūnī, Razi wrote works affirming the need (wujūb) for prophets to guide each community. As I’ve been stressing, there is a difference between talking of prophets and talking of imāms. So, even if these titles are authentic, one cannot assume that Razi would have applied the point to post-​prophetic imāms as well as prophets. In any case, it seems quite probable that Razi accepted the need for the community to have leaders, albeit leaders they would follow in a spirit of independent inquiry rather than taqlīd. Razi would then be taking in the religious sphere the same position we have seen him adopting with respect to philosophical and medical authorities: as with Galen, one should follow a prophet respectfully, but not uncritically. A  natural corollary of such a position would be a concern that religious authority should not be assumed by charlatans and frauds. This brings us to Razi’s critique of miracles. If we look again at the other book titles ascribed to Razi by al-​Bīrūnī, the ones which look “anti-​ prophetic,” we will notice that one of them reads On the Tricks (ḥiyal) of Supposed Prophets (mutanabbiyyīn). The target implied by this title is not prophets but those who pretend to be prophets.43 This again shows Razi making common cause with the Muʿtazila. They too set out to debunk the miraculous claims of Shīʿīs and others, for instance the mystic al-​Ḥallāj, whose supposed miracles are rejected by ʿAbd al-​Jabbār. But if Razi meant to attack only fraudulent prophets, as did his Muʿtazilite contemporaries, then why does he make critical remarks about miracles ascribed to Muḥammad himself? My guess is that Razi’s target here was simply the existence of miracles. As we will see in what follows, he believed Muḥammad’s message should be accepted on the basis of reason, rather than proven by miracles. Unfortunately, we are, for this topic of miracles, entirely dependent on Abū Ḥātim’s testimony. But even this testimony has Razi making remarks about the Prophet that are far short of scandalous. First, he rejects traditions which report Muḥammad as performing miracles. Abū Ḥātim says: It is no proof when the heretic alleges that the signs (aʿlām) of Muḥammad were transmitted (naqala) by [only] one, two or three people, who could have been colluding with one another. (Proofs 139)

I take this to show simply that for Razi, ḥadīth reports that describe Muḥammad’s miracles were unsound. There are two reasons for thinking this. First, it is striking that other ḥadīths singled out for criticism by Razi

144  Al-​ Rāzī are indeed non-​canonical.44 Second, the presence of only a small number of witnesses is given by other authors as a reason for distrusting a tradition. The Muʿtazilite Abū l-​Hudhayl in fact sets four as the minimum number of witnesses for a sound tradition, which agrees with Razi’s rejection of traditions tracable to only one, two, or three witnesses.45 Typically, Abū Ḥātim is pretending that an argument aimed at certain ḥadīths, which were in fact rather dubious in any case, amounts to a rejection of all prophetic traditions. Razi’s skeptical approach to miracles would be another point of broad agreement with the Muʿtazila: as we have seen, in the earlier period they tended to nominate the Qurʾān as Muḥammad’s sole miracle. But Razi goes further still. For one thing, we know that he tried to offer naturalistic accounts of “genuine” miracles such as those performed by Moses, who used his understanding of natural properties to turn a rod into a snake.46 Of course this undercuts the impression given by Abū Ḥātim. In the face of accepted reports about prophetic miracles, Razi was happy to ascribe the “miracle” to the superior understanding of the prophet. His solution allows him to deny miracles while showing a respectful attitude toward the prophet in question. On this score Razi is adopting the position we have come to expect from the “philosophers (falāsifa)” of the Muslim world, which will be criticized as such by al-​Ghazālī in his discussion of miracles in the Incoherence of the Philosophers. Razi’s other departure from the Muʿtazilite position in this area is his rejection of the miraculousness, or at least the inimitability, of the Qurʾān itself. The attack on iʿjāz is the part of the Proofs which is most difficult to square with the interpretation I have been offering here. It is not so much that Razi rejected its inimitability. As mentioned earlier, al-​Naẓẓām thought this is guaranteed only by the external factor of ṣarfa, the prevention of humans from doing anything similar, rather than by the intrinsic features of the Qurʾān itself. And the doctrine of iʿjāz was not yet, in Razi’s time, the standard piece of orthodox Muslim belief it would become. What is troubling is the disdainful tone taken toward the Qurʾān by Abū Ḥātim’s Razi: The heretic said: “you claim that there is a firm, present miracle, namely the Qurʾān. They say, ‘let whoever denies this produce something similar.’ ” Then he said:  “if you want something that is similar in the respects that discourse (kalām) may be excellent, we will produce for you a thousand similar things drawing on the discourse of rhetoricians,

Prophecy  145 wordsmiths, poets who write sajʿ and šiʿr,47 which are more happily expressed and more concise in [conveying] their meaning, and which better achieve their task and gist but in more perfect meter (sajʿ). If you are not satisfied with this, then we will demand to know what sort of thing (mithl) you are demanding.” Then he said, regarding the effect of this discourse, “by God, we are amazed by their speaking about a discourse which consists in a recounting of fables (asāṭīr) of the ancestors (awwalīn), while at the same time being full of contradiction, without containing anything useful (fāʾida) or clarifying anything. And then they say, ‘produce something similar to this’!” This is the statement of the heretic. (Proofs 167–​168)

Razi went on, according to Abū Ḥātim, to say that there are works of astronomy, logic, and medicine which are more useful than the Qurʾān, as well as poems which are more beautiful. Many of the points made by Razi are standard to the point of cliché, for instance listing other examples of great achievement from the Greeks and other areas of Arabic literature. This had already been done by other authors who objected to the doctrine of iʿjāz, including Christian writers like Qusṭā b. Lūqā, as well as Ibn al-​Rāwandī, who even gives some of the same examples (such as the books of Euclid and Ptolemy).48 Razi does seem to be unusual in his emphasis on the question of usefulness. In the preceding quotation and elsewhere in Proofs, he emphasizes that there are various “beneficial” kinds of knowledge which are not found in the Qurʾān, such as the measurement of the earth, the understanding of heavenly bodies, and the qualities inherent in medical drugs. The following passage may give us a clue as to the context in which Razi raised these points: Then [Razi] said, “tell us, where do your imāms indicate the difference between poisons and foods, or the actions of drugs? Give us one page such as the thousand which have been handed down from Hippocrates or Galen, and which benefit people. Give us anything from the sciences of the motions of the sphere and its causes, handed down from the men who are your imāms, or from [their] subtle natures anything so exquisite as geometry, and other things regarding languages, the knowledge of which your imāms did not devise.” (Proofs 206)

This text has the ring of authenticity, given its emphasis on medicine, including the technical Galenic distinction between foods and poisons. The

146  Al-​ Rāzī passage suggests that Razi’s enumeration of great achievements was related to Razi’s polemic against taqlīd. How can the imāms be the ultimate authorities for useful knowledge, given that so much useful knowledge is found in non-​imamic texts like those of the Greeks? Perhaps, then, Razi sought to undermine Shīʿī claims regarding the sufficiency of imamic guidance, by arguing that even if imāms were authoritative guides to the meaning of the Qurʾān, there were other areas of knowledge where they would have nothing to contribute. It’s quite possible that Abū Ḥātim is deliberately confusing the issue here by running together the critique of taqlīd with the issue of iʿjāz. However this may be, Razi was always bound to deny the miraculous inimitability of the Qurʾān insofar as he was committed to the rejection of miracles. Hence his discussion of this question purportedly began, “you claim that there is a firm, present (qāʾim mawjūda) miracle, namely the Qurʾān” (Proofs 167). The core of his argument against iʿjāz is contained in his demand that the opponent say in which respect the Qurʾān is inimitable. Not usefulness, as we have just seen; not poetic beauty, since other poems are its equal or superior in this respect. Unless Abū Ḥātim’s testimony on this point is entirely fabricated, it seems safe to conclude that Razi denied miracles, including iʿjāz, more stridently than any of the Muʿtazilites, even al-​Naẓẓām. But it would be wrong, I think, to suppose that Razi simply dismissed the Qurʾān as a hodge-​podge of superstitious fables, as Abū Ḥātim would have us believe. I  have already mentioned the evidence discovered by Rashed in Fakhr al-​Dīn, where we see Razi quoting the Qurʾān in support of his own doctrines and even offering specific interpretations of certain verses.49 In addition, we can point to a few passages toward the end of Razi’s Spiritual Medicine, which are an even more reliable guide to his attitude toward religion. We already saw that in the Philosophical Life, Razi criticizes religious beliefs which lead people to harm themselves. A  similar sentiment appears in the penultimate chapter of the Spiritual Medicine, where Razi accuses some religious systems for actually requiring evil actions: “destructive religious laws (sharāʾiʿ) and codes (nawāmīs) bring many people to an unjust way of life” (Works 91). He names, for instance, Manicheanism, which requires its adherents to withhold food from those who disagree with their teachings. This is a critique of religious practices, but it is a selective critique—​exactly what we would expect in light of the interpretation I have given of the Proofs.

Prophecy  147 Then, in the final chapter of the Spiritual Medicine, dealing with the fear of death, Razi says that an adequate discussion of the topic would require a survey of “all teachings and religions (al-​madhāhib wa-​l-​diyānāt)” to prepare the way for “a subsequent judgment as to which are right and which are wrong” (Works 93). Later in the chapter he affirms that no one need fear death if he has pursued virtue and carried out whatever is enjoined by the “religious law which speaks the truth (al-​sharīʿa al-​muḥiqqa)” (Works 96).50 These remarks make clear Razi’s attitude toward religious teachings: insofar as they accord with the results of rational inquiry, religions are to be endorsed. Insofar as they depart from the teachings of reason, they are to be rejected. As I already suggested (§1.1), this would be a rationalist version of his teacher Īrānshahrī’s claim that all religions are ultimately one. It would also explain much about Razi’s views as we find them in the Proofs. The legitimacy of religion is grounded in truth, not in miracles (including the miraculous inimitability of the Qurʾān), and one should not believe in religious doctrines by taqlīd but after “judging” which ones are right. Razi is not afraid to criticize religious beliefs, both within the Islamic community and outside it, insofar as they conflict with reason. Thus, for instance, he criticizes texts in the Torah that imply tashbīh, or ḥadīths that sow discord or discourage independent inquiry. I conclude that Razi presented a critique of selected views associated with religion, not of religion in general. The Ismāʿīlīs stood for much of what Razi rejected: the practice of taqlīd and the dependence on miracles as proofs of prophecy. Having borne the brunt of his criticism, the Ismāʿīlīs reacted with fury and successfully distorted Razi’s position for posterity. Abū Ḥātim was the main culprit with his Proofs. But the fact that he touched a nerve, to say the least, is shown by the book-​length refutation of the Spiritual Medicine by al-​Kirmānī, and of course the critical notices of Naṣīr-​e Khusraw. The Muʿtazila were far closer to Razi’s position. Yet he went further than they did by placing reason in the position of a judge, which determines the relative merits and correct interpretation of each religion. What verdict did Razi pass upon Islam? We have evidence external to the Proofs which shows that Razi discussed the Qurʾān quite respectfully. The evidence internal to the Proofs furthermore suggests that Razi attacked only certain doctrines from within the Islamic tradition, such as tashbīh, imamism, and miracles including iʿjāz. All of these were things attacked

148  Al-​ Rāzī by other authors of the period, and Razi was doing nothing radical in complaining about them. There is no reason to doubt that Razi thought Islam came through the test of reason fairly well, given that, as already mentioned (§2.2), Fakhr al-​Dīn tells us that in Razi’s dispute over theodicy with al-​Kaʿbī, Razi tried to show how his own position was in agreement with the Qurʾān. In this context, Fakhr al-​Dīn says: Muḥammad Ibn Zakariyyāʾ al-​Rāzī claimed that all the divine philosophers who were prior to Aristotle followed this teaching, and claimed too that the religions of all prophets (adyān jamīʿ al-​anbīyāʾ), peace be upon them, abided by precisely this teaching. The proof of this is that all the prophets and messengers (rusul) came with censure for this world (dunyā), rebuke of its states, and warning against them. (Exalted Topics 418.4–​7)

This stance will no doubt still strike most Muslims as insufficiently reverential. After all, primacy is here being given to human reason rather than divine revelation. But Razi was not alone in this. His position was, I  would suggest, comparable to that of his contemporary al-​Fārābī, who likewise saw philosophical reasoning as the ultimate arbiter of truth, capable of judging the adequacy and correct understanding of religious texts. “The heretic” Razi was no more heretical than al-​Fārābī, but also no less heretical.

6.5.  Is prophecy superfluous? Before closing this topic of prophecy, we should have a look at some evidence that has been brought to light more recently by Philippe Vallat.51 Vallat believes that a line of argument pressed against the validity of prophecy, and found in Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī’s Exalted Topics and al-​Maqdisī’s Kitāb al-​Badʾ, derives from Razi’s side of the polemic between himself and al-​ Kaʿbī. If this is right, we would have dramatic independent confirmation of Abū Ḥātim’s presentation of Razi as a bitter critic of revelation in all its forms, which looks like a refutation of everything I  have argued in this chapter. This is rather ironic, because the fundamental point behind the critique of prophecy uncovered by Vallat is the sufficiency of reason for determining what is good for humans, an idea that I have just ascribed to Razi. The question, though, is whether Razi would have inferred, from the

Prophecy  149 sufficiency of independent reason without taqlīd to prophets or anyone else, that there have never been any prophets. Immediately, a problem arises: we just saw Fakhr al-​Dīn saying that Razi eagerly claimed common cause with “all the prophets,” and did so precisely in his dispute with al-​Kaʿbī (Exalted Topics vol. 4, 418.4–​7, just cited at the end of §6.4). Vallat tries to exclude the relevance of this by suggesting that the prophets in question were only pagan ones, not those of the Abrahamic tradition recognized by Muslims.52 This cannot be right, though, because in the immediate sequel Fakhr al-​Dīn quotes Razi as illustrating his claim with an example from the Qurʾān (3:14) and even offering an exegesis of its wording. At best then, Vallat’s new evidence restores us to the unsatisfactory situation we were in when confronted with the conflicting evidence of al-​Bīrūnī’s list of his work titles: sometimes he argued against prophets, and sometimes welcomed them, presumably because they delivered messages that are consonant with the deliverances of reason. But this assumes that the new texts do in fact represent further evidence for Razi, even though they never mention him by name. Before considering this, let’s first look at the argument presented in them. Fakhr al-​Dīn’s report is at Exalted Topics vol. 8, 19–​33. It comes in a section entitled “on the doubts of those who deny prophecy on the grounds that intellect is sufficient for knowing about obligation, which means abandoning talk of sending and prophecy.” The title summarizes the argument nicely: if reason can determine moral obligations, this renders prophecy superfluous, but one cannot deny that reason is sufficient for determining obligations. The argument is full of moves and concepts familiar from Muʿtazilite kalām and even Islamic jurisprudence, as we can see, for example, from the first argument in favor of the sufficiency of reason. It divides actions into three types: those that reason deems obligatory, those it deems forbidden, and those that are unclear. In the third case, reason dictates that we should refrain from the action if possible (just to “be on the safe side”: iḥtirāz). But if refraining is impossible then we cannot be expected to do so, since God “imposes no obligation on His servants beyond their power and capability,” an idea we saw earlier in the discussion of taqlīd, as it happens. Following this there is a response which at the end is identified as the answer of “the Muʿtazila” (20.10–​20), to the effect that God might have reason for sending prophets even if reason is in theory sufficient. For example, some people might have defective reason and need a bit of help.

150  Al-​ Rāzī All this looks like a dialectical attack on Muʿtazilism and its rationalist ethical theory. If, as the Muʿtazilites claim and other theologians (particularly the Ashʿarites) deny, reason is sufficient for discerning good and evil, why bother with prophecy? Vallat is right to say that the response offered on behalf of the Muʿtazila would be in the spirit of al-​ Kaʿbī, who as we’ve seen thought that ordinary believers might need to engage in taqlīd because of their relatively weak minds. But there is no real reason so far to tie this passage to al-​Kaʿbī specifically, and still less is anything here reminiscent of anything we know about Razi. Neither in Abū Ḥātim’s Proofs nor in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s evidence about his polemic with al-​Kaʿbī is Razi presented as having argued that reason makes prophecy superfluous. The debate with al-​Kaʿbī seems rather to have concerned questions of theodicy, that is, explanations for the existence of evil in the world. This is why we drew on Fakhr al-​Dīn’s report of the debate in looking at Razi’s postulation of an eternal soul to explain suffering in the world (see Chapters 2 and 3). But wait, there’s more. As already mentioned, Vallat adduces a second source, namely the tenth-​century theologian al-​Maqdisī, who he thinks preserves more evidence for the debate between Razi and al-​ Kaʿbī.53 Vallat has perceptively noticed that a section of this author’s Kitāb al-​ Badʾ, on “affirming the necessity of prophecy,” contains an argument that closely parallels what we have just seen in Fakhr al-​Dīn (vol. 1, 109–​ 114). It identifies two groups who are opposed to prophecy, namely outright atheists, who are too contemptible to need refuting, and “brahmins (barāhima)” who accept the existence of God but “say that prophets are unnecessary, because we have reason which suffices, assuming that prophecy is in accordance with reason.” (This position is mentioned again at vol. 1, 144.1.) If, by contrast, prophecy conflicts with reason, then we should reject prophecy (109.8–​10). The response to this in al-​Maqdisī, ascribed simply to “Muslims,” in part aligns with that given by the “Muʿtazila” in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s presentation (“in some cases there may be advantages and benefits where one cannot arrive at them by reason alone”). As al-​Maqdisī frames the counterargument, God’s messengers never say anything that conflicts with reason, but reason may still be insufficient to determine our detailed obligations in every circumstances (110.5–​7). But we are still waiting for a link to al-​Kaʿbī, never mind to Razi. This comes a good deal later in the text, at 135.5–​7, where al-​Maqdisī admits,

Prophecy  151 “I have found nothing better or more complete than what was stated by Abū Qāsim al-​Kaʿbī in his book Principles of Proofs (Awāʾil al-​adilla) and I have reproduced it.” Vallat takes this to indicate that al-​Maqdisī has been quoting from al-​Kaʿbī for a long time, all the way back to the passage we are interested in, which lies more than twenty pages of Arabic above. But there is a problem with this assumption. The allusion to al-​Kaʿbī comes in the following section (faṣl) of the work, which is devoted to a new topic, namely proofs of creation (it starts at vol. 1, 115, and goes to 160). So even though it is true that the argument about the superfluousness of reason is adjacent to a discussion taken from al-​Kaʿbī,54 a change of topic separates the two. There is a further problem with Vallat’s reconstruction, which would stand even if the section on prophecy is indeed from al-​Kaʿbī. Al-​Maqdisī clearly identifies the authors of the anti-​prophetic argument: it was given by certain brahmins, that is, sages from India. This is of course pretty vague, but al-​Maqdisī is consistent about it. In a much later part of the same work, he brings up this group again when summarizing ideas about God in India (vol. 4, 9.4–​10.2). He says that there are many groups of Indian thinkers, but the main contrast is between Buddhists, who admit that we are punished for our deeds after death but reject the existence of God entirely (so these might be the “atheists” in our first passage), and “brahmins” who do believe in God but reject prophecy (9.10–​10.1). This of course is exactly the same characterization used for the proponents of the argument about the superfluousness of prophecy.55 So to tie the passage to Razi we would need to believe that al-​Maqdisī, who lived within a few decades of the debate between al-​Kaʿbī and Razi, was sufficiently well informed about that debate to quote from it extensively (25 pages or so), but so badly informed that he thought al-​Kaʿbī’s opponents were some anonymous Indians rather than Razi. Though I am not convinced that Vallat’s new evidence has anything to do with Razi, it is nonetheless tremendously interesting, and we should be grateful to him for drawing attention to it. This material illustrates a trap into which not just al-​Kaʿbī, but all Muʿtazilites, were in danger of falling. By putting so much emphasis on the efficacy of autonomous reason, especially in the ethical sphere, they were in danger of leaving no need for prophecy. But if anything, this is an objection that could be put against Razi, who likewise said that reason and the prophets are in agreement.

• 7

Medicine

So far this book has been largely devoted to excavating Razi’s philosophy as it was set forth in works that are now lost. We have had to depend on incomplete and mostly unsympathetic testimony to reconstruct his ideas on God, the soul, cosmology, and prophecy. Now as we turn to medicine, which was clearly Razi’s primary focus in his writing career, we face the opposite problem. Though we know from the medieval lists of Razi’s books that many of his works on medicine are lost, the primary texts that do survive are so abundant and extensive that it will not be remotely possible to discuss them in the depth they really deserve. Razi’s medical corpus would be a fit subject for a monograph in itself. The goal of this chapter is more modest:  to give a brief overview of Razi’s medical theory and its philosophical interest, especially from an epistemological point of view. Since a running theme of this whole book has been Galen’s centrality for Razi’s thought, I  will also focus on Razi’s use of Galen as a source for medical methodology and doctrine, and as a model for his own authorial persona.

7.1.  Razi’s medical works The range of Razi’s medical writings has already been sketched earlier (§1.3), but it would be worth saying more about this rather vast corpus and Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0007.

Medicine  153 the intentions pursued in the various treatises.1 A good place to start for an overview of his medical theories is the mercifully concise Introduction (Mudkhal). As its title suggests, it may indeed have been intended as a starting point for readers with an interest in medicine, much as Porphyry’s Introduction (Isagoge, in Arabic also Mudkhal) gave readers a first overview of Aristotelian logic. Another work with a title that rings classicist bells is entitled Aphorisms (Fuṣūl), in imitation of the aphorisms of Hippocrates.2 A far more extensive medical overview is offered in the Book for al-​Manṣūr which begins with its own “introduction (mudkhal)” to medicine and moves on to treat in detail some of the same topics discussed briefly in the Introduction and more besides, for instance a long section on the “maintenance of health (ḥifẓ al-​ṣiḥḥa),”3 which is a central goal of medicine according to the opening lines of this work:  “medicine is preservation of health in healthy bodies and the removal of disease from ailing bodies, so as to return them to health.”4 Then there is Doubts about Galen. As we have seen, it ranges considerably beyond strictly medical topics, but of course touches on many medical issues. Furthermore, it is the key source for understanding Razi’s attitude toward Galen, his chief authority and guide in this discipline. At the beginning of Doubts, Razi excuses himself for taking up what may seem a rather disrespectful project, pointing out the inadequacies and outright contradictions in the writings of the great Galen. He was right to worry, because the project did strike some readers in the medieval Islamic world as misconceived. Several rose to Galen’s defense, writing responses or “solutions” to Razi’s Doubts.5 Razi’s excuse for his irreverence is, in effect, that Galen would have wanted it this way: “this illustrious (jalīl) man, were he presently alive, would not blame me for composing this book and it would not trouble him given his partiality to the truth and love of thorough investigation” (§1.2). Indeed, in writing Doubts, Razi is simply holding Galen to his own standards, as set out in the unfortunately now lost work On Demonstration.6 Galen plays a rather different role in the largest work we have from Razi’s pen, the titanic Comprehensive Book (al-​Ḥāwī), whose modern printing runs to twenty-​five volumes. This work is sometimes described as a collection of Razi’s medical case notes gathered together by his students after his death. But that is not quite accurate.7 Though we are told that it was commissioned by the Būyid vizier Ibn al-​ʿAmīd and assembled by Razi’s students posthumously, Razi himself refers to a voluminous compendium

154  Al-​ Rāzī (jāmiʿ) of medical notes that he was keeping during his life; Emilie Savage-​ Smith has called it “his personal filing-​cabinet.”8 The Comprehensive Book is not, however, a set of “case notes.” There are certainly remarks drawn from Razi’s own practice scattered throughout the work, and occasionally we find “sections structured as if intended to be part of a more formal discourse, or portions in which Rāzī formally addressed a potential reader.”9 But for the most part the work consists of notes taken from Razi’s reading, as is stated openly at the outset: it is called the Comprehensive Book “because it contains all of medicine and the sayings of the eminent ancients who were in this profession.”10 As promised, the text consists mostly of passages quoted (or rather paraphrased) from a wide range of medical literature, especially Greek authors in their Arabic versions, but sometimes authors of the Islamic world such as the famous translator Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq. When Razi introduces remarks from his own medical experience, the purpose is to make an incidental comment about a topic he has come across in his reading. The notes are organized along anatomical lines, with remarks on disorders of the head at the beginning, then moving “tip to toe” down the body to the feet. This scheme may well have been present in Razi’s own files.11 Galen naturally occupies a central position in the Comprehensive Book. Not only does Razi cite him liberally, but when he quotes pre-​Galenic authorities he is often doing so by extracting quotations or testimonies about them from the Galenic works to which he has access. This has a parallel in Razi’s philosophy, of course, in that Razi so often uses material from Plato by way of Galen. Since the Comprehensive Book is effectively a collection of notes, it does not take the opinionated and even polemical approach to the Galenic corpus found in the Doubts. But Galen does come in for correction a number of times.12 In one interesting case, Razi cites a passage in which Galen recommends inducing vomiting in a patient for two consecutive days in order to achieve a complete purgation, since as yet undigested nutriment will otherwise come into the stomach. Razi objects that the second vomiting may be needless, and then adds: If the patient vomits the first day and then after the vomiting eats and drinks, then nothing will pass into the stomach through the vessels, as he claims it would. For were that to occur, it would be due to either the attractive power of the stomach, or the power of void. If it were due to the attractive power of the stomach, then hunger would abate, so that the

Medicine  155 nutriment taken in would provide enough for it; but if it were through the “following of the void (ittibāʿ al-​khalāʾ)” then the stomach would not do as [he says] because it would collapse in on itself and again, the nutriment would provide enough as a result.

Notice the allusion to the mechanism invoked in the atomical theories of Erasistratus, horror vacui or “following what is emptied,” that is, the attractive power of hypothetical void. As we’ve seen (§5.5), Razi accepted this principle, but here he does not insist on it, since he can refute Galen either on this hypothesis or by postulating a “power of attraction” in the stomach, as Galen himself would. In such passages the Razi of the Comprehensive Book is very clearly the same man who wrote the Doubts. Yet these cases are rare. Usually in the Comprehensive Book Galen is treated simply as an authority whose words are worth noting down, indeed as an authority more important than any other.

7.2.  Humors, organs, and spirit In this respect the Doubts is an exception among Razi’s works, since usually he adheres to medical theories that are of clear Galenic provenance. As mentioned earlier, his Introduction offers a concise overview of this medical system. We can start our overview of this overview with a remark buried in the twenty-​fourth of its twenty-​eight chapters: “the body is composed from three things, namely organs, humors, and spirits” (Introduction §24.5). Accordingly, much of the work is given over to explaining these three topics. Razi takes the humors first, so let us follow suit. Famously there are four of them, blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile, and their proper balance in the body is a major factor in explaining health and disease. Before naming them, Razi has already set out the underlying physics of human anatomy. The first two chapters deal with the four elements, which are important because they are the ultimate constituents of the human body—​no talk of atoms here. The elements are the fundamental bearers of the four contrary properties, hot, cold, moist, and dry, but the humors too have these properties, being basic bodily ingredients made out of the four elements. Blood is hot and wet, phlegm is cold and wet, yellow bile is hot and dry, and black bile is cold and dry (§6). This already prepares us to appreciate Razi’s informal definition of health, which comes early in the work: “in the body are many things which

156  Al-​ Rāzī produce illnesses when some are heated, cooled, rarified, or made moist by others, in a way different from the course of nature. But when these humors are according to the course of nature, then it [sc. the body] is healthy” (§2.3). When the body is too hot, cold, dry, or moist, it is the physician’s task to “return it to balance (iʿtidāl)” by introducing a therapy that brings the contrary property, for instance cooling foods or drugs in the case of excessive heat. This is just basic Galenism, as is the observation that different individuals have different “mixtures” or “temperaments.” Following Galen, Razi recognizes nine of them, with one mixture consisting in perfect balance (§3). Non-​human animals too are described by this same anatomical theory. Thus Razi mentions that different animals may have different typical mixtures, though it is humans who are most perfectly balanced (§3.3). Or rather it is healthy, adult humans who have perfect balance, since the young tend to be warm and moist, and the old the reverse (§3.4). All this might suggest a rather naïve approach to medicine, according to which the healthy body is simply the body that feels neither too warm nor too cold to the touch, neither clammy nor dried out. Of course that notion would not be entirely without empirical support, since illness often causes fevers, sweats, chills, and the like. No doubt that was an inspiration for the Greek theories that Razi is here summarizing. But he makes several points that would complicate this simple idea. First, there is his claim that different individuals have different temperaments, so that the doctor needs to know his patients and their characteristic “mixture” to treat them well. This is a commonplace notion in Galenic medicine,13 and one frequently endorsed by Razi.14 Second, Razi cautions us that the properties in question are in fact more abstract or theoretical—​we might even say “chemical”—​ than the foregoing may suggest. In this context, “hot” does not actually mean “hot to the touch,” but rather the heat that is judged by “inference and reflection (al-​istidlāl wa-​l-​rawiyya)” (§4.2). This has implications for therapeutic contexts. In some cases, it would be good practice to cool down a hot body in the straightforward sense of introducing a factor that is colder to the touch than the body is, following the principle of contrary properties, as stated at Doubts 16.7: “this rule (qānūn) is that everything is cooled by that which is colder than it, and likewise warmed by that which is warmer than it.” One good example is Razi’s short treatise on expelling heat.15 The point made by Razi here is that the relevant warmth is relative, which is why it is possible to cool down by

Medicine  157 putting clothes on when we are surrounded by hot air (imagine a bedouin putting on a robe to protect from the desert heat) but taking clothes off when the air around the body is cooler. Yet one shouldn’t suppose that what counts as “hot” in medicine needs to be perceptibly hot. Razi alludes to this issue in his Doubts (§17.5) by noting that if earth is, as Galen claims, “absolutely cold,” then one might wonder why the senses perceive ice to be colder than earth. Here he refers us to a different treatise (maqāla) he has written on the topic, which we no longer possess but which would presumably have explored the point already made in the Introduction, that the contrary properties are not necessarily evident to the senses. His atomic theory would have provided a good basis for this. For example, the “moist” could be, not that which necessarily feels wet, but that whose atoms are loosely packed and capable of quick and easy motion (see earlier, at §4.2).16 The condition of the body may not be immediately evident to the senses, and one can do only so much in directly perceiving a patient’s degree of heat, moisture, and so on. For this reason the “philosophers (falāsifa)” laid it down as a rule that illness should be defined for practical purposes as the impairment of natural activities, and not as just any departure from the body’s intermediary or natural state (Introduction §3.6). This brings us back to another aspect of Razi’s definition of health, its point that the balance of the body needs to be “according to the course of nature.” This is a leitmotif of Razi’s thought. He simply assumes that the natural has normative status, so that the healthy body is the one in the natural state. He will also use the idea in ethical contexts, explaining that pleasure and pain are respectively transitions toward and away from the natural condition (see Chapter 8, §8.3). Within medicine, a paradigm case of the “unnatural” would be an imbalanced temperament, which could in turn be caused by a build up of humors that have been generated unnaturally or “accidentally,” as when black bile is produced through the burning of the other humors (§6.5). In general, says Razi, not without circularity, “nature” in the body means “every power whose motion takes place in a natural way.” For example if an excess of nutriment is removed by the expulsive power—​we’re back to vomiting—​then this is “accidental” because it is provoked by an unnatural situation (§21.1). Like ancient doctors going all the way back to Hippocrates, Razi is conscious that the medical art may not always be able to improve upon nature. In his work On Smallpox and

158  Al-​ Rāzī Measles, he criticizes doctors who interfere with a fever that may help to heal the body, since this would be “acting against nature and disturbing it in its work.”17 Similarly, Razi’s medical training leads him to look favorably on such bodily functions as eating, drinking, and sex. Since these functions are natural, they may be, and in fact even should be, indulged so long as one proceeds with moderation. We are particularly well informed of his views on sexual intercourse, a topic on which he wrote a treatise and discussed in other contexts, such as the Book for al-​Manṣūr.18 Razi cites with approval Hippocates and Galen, who held that sex is beneficial, because it prevents a harmful buildup of seed, even when practiced with those we “do not desire.” We would naturally suppose that he is thinking of an excess of semen in men, but since women too have “seed” in the Galenic theory of reproduction, he may also have them in mind. Citing the Aristotelian maxim that “nature does nothing in vain,” Razi states that sex is, as it were, a natural prophylactic for preventing the “heaviness” that would result from the accumulation of seed. He makes similar points about the benefits of sex in his Book for al-​Manṣūr and, very briefly, in the Introduction (§5.8). The fact that he recommends sexual abstinence in his ethical work the Spiritual Medicine is thus rather puzzling, but this may be explained in light of the interpretation that I will offer in the next chapter (§8.3).19 To anticipate, in that work Razi gives advice to a reader who is not yet accustomed to a life of moderation, and needs to be offered strict advice that will help bring him toward temperance. Now let us turn finally to the higher level components of the body, the organs and the spirits (or pneumas). Unlike the elemental bodies and humors, the organs are not homoiomerous, that is, their subparts are not all alike. (Again, no talk of atoms here, but according to the atomic theory all bodies might ultimately be homoiomerous, depending whether all atoms have the same shape.) The organs’ complexity allows them to exercise different functions than those played by the elements or humors, functions for which Razi uses the term quwwa, meaning “power” or “faculty” (corresponding to Greek dunamis, covered in Introduction §11). Particularly significant in the medical context are the “natural faculties,” to which Galen devoted a lengthy treatise. We have already mentioned a couple of examples in this chapter: the “expulsive faculty” that is involved in vomiting and the “attractive faculty” that may draw nutriment into the stomach.

Medicine  159 As we saw in the case of the attractive power, speaking of the natural faculties is an alternative to using more “mechanical” explanations, brute pushings and pullings that could be induced by hydraulic principles like “following what is emptied.”20 In general, Razi makes free use of the theory of natural faculties in his medical writings. Yet his atomism suggests that ultimately his physics may be mechanical. In theory at least, all macroscopic phenomena could perhaps be reduced to primary qualities of microscopic bodies, such as size, motion, shape, and density. One might still, as a kind of “shorthand,” speak of something like an expulsive faculty, while realizing that the underlying physical explanation is atomic and has nothing to do with such a faculty. Perhaps this is what Razi is thinking of in a passage like the following: In On Purgative Drugs [Galen] says that, once the purgative drug has attracted the humor it should especially attract, it then attracts the most delicate of the humors. But if the purgation is achieved precisely by attracting whatever is suitable in the substance, then how can it attract some other, unsuitable humor, once it has attracted this [suitable] humor? For this suggests that the purgation does not occur through attraction, but through the acridity of the purgative drug acting on the vessels. (Doubts §21.26)

Still it must be said that in our extant evidence, there very little suggestion that Razi developed such a reductionist theory in any detail, beyond a promissory note that higher level properties can emerge from ever more complex atomic compositions (see Doubts §15.13). Perhaps he thought such a detailed account might be possible in principle, and perhaps his alchemical research was even an attempt in this direction (as we saw in §4.4). But if so, a significant exception to this reductionist project would have to be made for phenomena involving psychological states, including even such rudimentary events as the perception of pain. Galen attempted a refutation of atomist theories on the grounds that the interaction of atoms could not give rise to perceptions.21 But Razi dismisses this in Doubts, stating that the human soul is capable of noticing a disruption to the composition of the atoms that compose the body (Doubts §15.11). More generally, Razi makes full use of “faculties” in his remarks on psychology. Here we should not think only of higher level functions like conscious thought or even sensation, but of all activities involving the soul, which include such basic phenomena as digestion. We’ve already made mention (§3.3) of the

160  Al-​ Rāzī fact that the Spiritual Medicine and medical Introduction provide matching accounts, inspired by Galen and ultimately the Timaeus, with three principal organs: the brain, heart, and liver. The work of these organs can be described in higher level functional terms or in more brute, physical terms. In fact, one should do both, as he explains in the Introduction, repeating Aristotle’s famous example that anger needs to be understood both as a desire for revenge and as boiling of the blood around the heart (Introduction §5.10, cf. Aristotle On the Soul 1.1, 403a30–​b1).22 That point is crucial for understanding how Razi was able to reconcile his broadly Galenic medical views with dualism. For him the soul’s functions are realized physically, without being reducible to physical events. Thus, just as anger is both a desire for revenge and boiling of the blood, a function like voluntary motion may involve both an act of will on the part of the soul and a physical process in the nervous system. Here we come finally to the third of Razi’s bodily constituents, “spirit” (rūḥ, corresponding to Greek pneuma). As Razi explains in the Introduction (§23), there are three kinds of spirit corresponding to the three kinds of function carried out in the body, “natural, animal, and psychological,” governed by the three primary organs, liver, heart, and brain. Particularly interesting from a philosophical point of view is the “psychological (nafsānī)” spirit that that flows from the brain to the rest of the nervous system, in both humans and other animals. It has two main functions: sensation and voluntary motion. Spirit or pneuma already played a central role in Galen’s account of sensation, notably in explaining how vision occurs.23 I will not discuss Razi’s reception of Galen’s visual theory in any detail here, since it has received an excellent discussion recently from Pauline Koetschet.24 To make a long story short, Razi took issue with Galen’s extramission theory according to which spirit is sent forth from the eyes and transforms air in order to make it a suitable instrument for perceiving distant objects. His objections to Galen in Doubts fall in line with Aristotelian objections to the visual ray theory. But Razi himself adopts neither the Aristotelian nor the Galenic account, instead arguing for the possibility of an intromission theory according to which images or likenesses (ashbāh) of the visual object travel from the object to the eye. At first glance (if you’ll pardon the expression) this would seem to be another case where Razi defends his atomist physics against Galen, since these images could be films or sheets of atoms thrown off from the visible objects, as proposed in ancient Epicureanism. In fact,

Medicine  161 though, he states that the visual images are incorporeal, which is why the images do not interfere with one another. As for voluntary motion, Razi says in the Introduction (§11.2) that it is brought about through a power of a “single type (jins wāḥid)” that pervades the whole nervous system, from the brain through the spinal cord and then the nerves that branch out into the muscles. This system is also discussed at several points in Doubts, which accepts Galen’s encephalocentrism—​the view that it is the brain, and not the heart as Aristotle and the Stoics supposed, that is the seat of the ruling faculty—​despite faulting Galen’s method of arguing for this conclusion (§11). In this work Razi also discusses the cause of paralysis through damage to the spinal column (§20.4–​5). He correctly observes that a stroke victim who is paralyzed on one side is unlikely to have suffered a spinal injury, since it is hard to imagine how only one half of the cord could be damaged. The fact that brain damage can also cause impairment of the higher functions is no reason to adopt a physicalist theory of the rational soul, as Galen was inclined to do. Repeating a central idea of his dualist psychology, Razi says that such impairment is only what we should expect if the rational soul uses the brain as a mere instrument. Again there are implications for medical practice here. In the first section of the Comprehensive Book, a number of passages explain numbness or paralysis in terms of damage to the nervous system. If a nerve is actually severed then no treatment is possible, but so long as some capacity for motion remains then the doctor should realize that he is dealing with an inflammation and treat accordingly.25 Razi also speaks scornfully of certain doctors, whom he calls “naturalists (ṭabīʿiyyūn),” who refused to believe explanatory accounts invoking the spinal cord.26 In one striking passage from the same work, Razi describes healing a man of paralysis in the legs when other doctors had been unable to help. His solution was to relieve an inflammation of the bladder that was affecting the nerves to the legs. He must be thinking that the swelling was cutting off the flow of spirit to the lower limbs.27

7.3. Medical epistemology We should dwell for a moment on that case study, and think about why Razi was able to help the afflicted man when other doctors were unable

162  Al-​ Rāzī to do so. It is apparently not because Razi had more experience, and was able to apply a remedy he’d seen to be effective in the past. Rather, his advantage was that he understood the underlying cause of the ailment. This is a hallmark of Razi’s medical thought, and another significant inheritance from Galen. Galen was confronted by two opposed medical schools, the “empiricists” whose method was simply to do whatever has worked in the past without seeking an explanation as to why it worked, and the “rationalists” who sought underlying causal theories and de-​emphasized the role of experience. Galen struck a middle path, being impatient with rational theories that have no empirical basis (hence his dismissal of such unanswerable questions as whether there is void outside the cosmos:  we can’t go look, so we’ll never know), but also demanding that experience be supplemented by causal accounts.28 Razi wholeheartedly endorses this medical epistemology.29 Like Galen, he thinks that we should acquire as much experience as possible, but always strive to discover the underlying causes. Thus in his Letter to a Disciple he says, in a very Galenic spirit, that an expert in the principles (uṣūl) of medicine can heal a patient who would be untreatable by those who depend on experiences (tajārib).30 Sadly, Galen himself failed to live up to his own methodological demands, and frequently omitted to seek the causes of phenomena discussed in his works. This is a constant refrain in the Doubts, which complains again and again that Galen has in various passages not established the “cause” (Razi uses both ʿilla and sabab) when he should have done so (e.g., at §§4.2, 20.29, 24.12, 24.24, 25.2, and 24.8, where Galen is blamed for mentioning a cause but not an efficient cause). This is one way in which Galen fell short of his own stated standards in science, as laid out in the Galenic work that Razi most admires, On Demonstration. We saw already (§2.4) that this accusation is at the core of Razi’s response to Galen on the topic of the world’s eternity. It comes up in other parts of Doubts, too, as when Razi argues that Galen’s way of proving encephalocentrism is merely inductive and therefore not demonstrative (§20.27).31 Another example, on a less philosophically fraught question, comes when Galen says in On Semen that nerves are generated from sperm and not blood, as we can see from their white color. Razi retorts, “this statement is [merely] persuasive (muqniʿ), not demonstrative (burhānī), because it is not the case that whatever is generated from a thing retains that thing’s color; in fact it usually doesn’t do so” (§22.1). The remark is particularly

Medicine  163 stinging given that Galen’s On Semen itself begins by insisting that we must deal with this topic “not by recourse to plausible arguments . . . but by a demonstration that begins from and proceeds through what is clearly evident (ἀλλ’ ἐξ ἐναργῶν τε καὶ δι’ ἐναργῶν ἀποδεικνύντες).”32 Razi wants to insist on the high methodological standards envisioned by Galen, even when Galen himself doesn’t abide by them. In keeping with this, when Razi (in Doubts or elsewhere, as in the Comprehensive Book) cites his “experience” or cases from his medical practice, he is often doing so to provide a counterexample to a generalization, so as to show that the generalization falls short of demonstration. A somewhat comical example comes not long after the passage about the color of nerves. When Galen explains the generation of women and men in terms of a difference in cold and hot, Razi replies that some women run hotter than men: “I have seen a woman in Rayy who had a dark beard of substantial length, whereas many men grow no beard at all” (§22.4).33 Here one might recall the dissatisfaction with inductive generalizations expressed in Razi’s On Metaphysics (discussed earlier at §2.5), which had in large part to do with the possibility that counterexamples might always turn up. Of course Razi thereby puts a heavy burden on himself, as well as on Galen. He should, in principle at least, be satisfied that he understands a medical topic only when he can give a causal explanation, and one that is not merely a “best guess” but has the certainty demanded in demonstration. This is a standard that is rarely met by medicine even today in the twenty-​first century, so it goes without saying that Razi was unlikely to satisfy such a demand in the tenth century. He does his best, though, as when he supplies a general account of the causes (asbāb) of health and disease in his Introduction (§28). He mentions Galen’s “non-​natural” factors contributing to health, for instance, food, drink, and sleep,34 and goes on to list the causes of diseases associated with excessive heat, cold, and so on, as well as the causes of more specific ailments like fetal deformities and tremors in the hands. Here Razi is painting with a fairly broad brush, yet it is possible to connect his remarks to passages in other works that have a more concrete character. Think again of the case where Razi was able to cure paralysis in the legs with an incision to release swelling. The following passage in the Introduction provides the causal framework for his remedy: “the causes of numbness (khadar) are coldness that gathers around the body of the nerve

164  Al-​ Rāzī and presses against it so that the sensitive power cannot penetrate it, or blockage that causes thick, viscous humors to build up in it, or pressure that comes to it from outside, either from a body or from being tied. The difference between natural motion of the muscle and a tremor (kuzāz) is that the natural motion is voluntary (bi-​l-​irāda) whereas the motion of the tremor is not, and this may be due to dilation, swelling, or evacuation, and the motion can be obstructed by the disease called ‘paralysis’ (istirkhāʾ)” (§28.17). It was because Razi knew that voluntary motion in the legs is caused by a blockage of the passage of spirit through the nerve that he was able to effect a cure. One can multiply such examples almost at will by leafing through the medical corpus. Just within the Introduction itself, we find him explaining that diseases of the gall bladder are caused by accumulation of yellow bile which can be counteracted by phlegm (§8.2), a nice illustration of how the contrary properties work in practice, with the cold, wet humor canceling out the hot, dry one. He also describes how mental disturbances, like delusions, are caused by humoral imbalance, as with “melancholy,” whose very name in English comes from the Greek for “black bile” (§13.4).35 A more elaborate example can be found in his treatise On Smallpox and Measles.36 This work has been hailed as a milestone in the history of medicine because it is an early example of “differential diagnosis.” The idea here is that the two diseases in question are sufficiently similar that it may be difficult to know which of the two afflicts a given patient. Razi’s itemization of the exact symptoms associated with both ailments would help a doctor to determine which one he is dealing with. While it is true that Razi does discuss differences in symptoms, for instance by saying that back pain is a sign that one has smallpox and not measles, it would be a gross exaggeration to say that this is the main thrust of the work.37 Rather, Razi is attempting to give a causal account of the two diseases in terms of his humoral theory, which will be particularly useful because Galen does not say much about smallpox and it has also been ignored by Razi’s contemporaries. The fundamental idea is that smallpox results from putrefying blood, similar to the fermentation of wine. This is most liable to happen in a body whose temperament is warm and moist, which is why children are most vulnerable. So it may be a good idea, as he remarks later on in the treatise, to bleed them prophylactically—​the idea evidently being that this will make the child’s body relatively cool and

Medicine  165 dry. Medicines and foods can be used to achieve the same effect. By contrast, measles tends to affect those who are hot but dry rather than moist. A  sign of this is that the two diseases tend to come at different times of year:  smallpox in warm, rainy periods and measles in dry, hot, summer weather. What the two diseases have in common, then, is that they are both associated with heat. This is really the point of Razi’s discussing them in a single treatise, as becomes especially clear in the final chapter of the work, which makes no attempt to distinguish between smallpox and measles, in terms of diagnosis or anything else. Instead, it observes that both are acute diseases associated with heat, and goes on to discuss the pustules that appear as a symptom of both ailments. In short, then, this work is not a pioneering departure from the norms of Galenic medicine, but a superb example of that approach to medicine. This is not to say that we should be dismissive of Razi’s achievement here. To the contrary, one cannot but be impressed (and perhaps also disgusted) by the detailed description Razi lavishes on these pustules: their color and shape, their spacing on the skin, the speed with which they appear, and so on. This is the other side of Razi’s commitment to the Galenic program of causal explanation combined with experience. He is just as relentless in collecting empirical data as he is in collecting data from the medical book tradition, and he is alive to the possibility that the former might be used to correct the latter. We’ve seen that in Doubts he appeals to findings from his own practice to contradict Galen. And in one of the more celebrated—​this time justly so—​passages from Doubts, he almost casually reveals that he has been keeping statistical data on his patients and how often a certain idea about fevers was accurate. The numbers mentioned are extraordinary, since he speaks of 300 patients out of a group of 2,000 developing contrary indications (§20.17).38 He then adds that he has spent a long time investigating the issue, using a combination of “experience and reasoning (bi-​l-​tajriba wa-​l-​qiyās).” As so often, Razi strives to be more Galenic than Galen himself. Despite his ambitious standards for science, or perhaps because of them, Razi is usually fairly modest in his expectations about what we expect to learn from experience. Sometimes causal theories fail, and then we may need to fall back on inference from experience. A  striking, albeit non-​ medical, example comes from his work on the occult powers of substances, On the Properties of Things (Khawāṣṣ al-​ashyāʾ). He chastizes those who deny

166  Al-​ Rāzī that there are such powers simply because they cannot explain them, and says that in this case we must simply depend on experience (tajriba).39 In medical contexts, we might mention Razi’s skepticism concerning Galen’s ideas about the degrees of qualities in certain substances, and the range of different types of pulses. In both cases, Razi states that the subtle distinctions mentioned by Galen are not in fact perceptible to the senses (Doubts §17.11, 27.2). But when dealing with something that is not subject to direct perception, there may be alternative routes to understanding. In the Introduction he says that, although we cannot actually observe the internal organs at work, we can make inferences about them based on their functions (§4.5). This point, and several others we have made in this chapter, are illustrated by a discussion of embryology found in a rather surprising place: his dialectical philosophical work On Metaphysics.

7.4. The embryo Earlier (§2.5), I discussed the first and third sections to be preserved from this treatise, and suggested that it fits well enough into Razi’s philosophical profile to be accepted as genuine. Now I want to complete our picture of the text by looking at the middle section, which criticizes a series of views about the generation of the human fetus. One of the targets is Galen, and specifically his treatise On Semen. In that work Galen is himself highly critical of previous thinkers.40 In particular, Aristotle is attacked for his view that the semen merely imparts form by providing motion for the menstrual blood (I.1.1). Even worse are followers of Aristotle who think the semen is actually expelled from the body once it has done its work (I.3.2), a mistaken interpretation Galen is able to refute by quoting Aristotle himself (I.3.10–​11, quoting On Generation of Animals II.3, 737a7–​16). Either way, though, the Peripatetics have given the semen too small a role in the generation of the fetus. Galen wants to insist that, much as the stomach has a natural power of attraction for nutriment, so the uterus has a natural power to attract semen, in contrast to menstrual blood, which is actually expelled in the menstrual cycle (I.5.28). The semen has in it a craftsmanlike power for shaping the fetus, despite its homoiomerous physical makeup (II.3.13). All of this is, of course, in line with ideas we have already met. The natural power of attraction invoked in On Semen is an instance of the powers

Medicine  167 discussed more extensively in On Natural Faculties. The craftsmanlike power in semen, meanwhile, is an instance of the designing power of nature, as extolled in a text like On the Usefulness of the Parts. Here we have the key to understanding why On Metaphysics contains a discussion of embryology. As we saw, the first part of this treatise criticizes the Aristotelians’ doctrine of nature as a teleological principle, while the third takes up the question of the eternity of the world. The excursus on the embryo seems something of a digression. But in fact Razi is here testing the idea of a “designing nature” in the medical context on which he is so expert.41 In fact, the issue has already arisen in the first part of the treatise: We notice you describing nature the way you would describe a living being, as choosing, knowing, and wise.  .  .  . For example it makes the eye for the embryo for the sake of vision, and the hand for the sake of grasping, and the teeth for chewing. You say that it puts all things in their places, and puts them in the right order. And you say that it forms the embryo in the womb and arranges it in the most subtle of ways, so that it is made perfect. . . . Yet at the same time, you claim that it [sc. nature] is dead, lifeless, unsensing, bereft of power, choice and knowledge. This is a clear contradiction and manifest absurdity. (Works 118)

The middle section on embryology will do to Galen what Galen did to Aristotle in On Semen: complain that too little has been said to demonstrate a cause for the teleological developments we see in the natural world. As already mentioned, On Semen begins with a typically Galenic declaration that we should seek demonstration and not mere persuasion.42 Razi will turn this against Galen, in a move reminiscent of the Doubts. In fact, though, Galen’s is only one of six theories of the embryo attacked in On Metaphysics. The first target is the translator Abū Hilāl al-​Ḥimsī, known to have rendered Apollonius’s Conic Sections into Arabic, together with Isḥāq b. Ḥunayn. His theory is in a way the reverse of Galen’s, because he thinks the power to form an embryo is contained in the womb, and works on the semen to give it form. In a response typical of On Metaphysics, Razi asks, “why don’t you say that the power emerges from the mother, rather than the womb, or from the air, or the time [of conception], or something else?” (Works 124). In other words, he demands proof that the favored causal explanation is the only one possible, but such a proof is not forthcoming from Abū Hilāl. Next, Razi moves on to the “materialists (ahl al-​dahr),” who give the power of forming the embryo to the semen. Broadly

168  Al-​ Rāzī speaking, this is Galen’s view, as he will note later when discussing Galen more directly (Works 126). Razi complains that semen cannot be a sufficient cause for pregnancy, since frequently intercourse does not produce this result (Works 125). A third possible view is that the womb contains a pattern or matrix in which the semen is formed, something Razi compares to a mold used for shaping clay. Two further views are dealt with more succinctly (Works 127–​128). The fourth is Empedocles’ view that male and female semen both give something to the fetus. “All these are theories without proof,” remarks Razi. Finally, the fifth view is a briefly sketched version of preformationism:  “subtle parts go out from the man’s organs, and among these parts is every kind of organ for the body of man.”43 Razi rejects this on the basis that, for instance, a one-​eyed man would produce one-​eyed children. Within this section, I’d like to dwell particularly on Razi’s critique of Galen’s On Semen (Works 126–​127). As already mentioned, in this context he categorizes Galen as one of ahl al-​dahr, a standard expression in intellectual debates of this period, which can loosely be translated as “the materialists.” (Despite the term dahr, the phrase is not specifically tied to a view about eternity.44) This suggests a broad context for the critique, which would tie the section to the diatribe against Aristotelian theories of nature in the first part of On Metaphysics: Galen is trying to explain everything by appealing to the natural powers of material bodies, in this case semen. His failing is that he merely proposes a theory, without eliminating all other possibilities. Thus Razi mentions Galen’s emphasis on the viscosity of semen. This is important for Galen, because it indicates that semen can expand and be transformed into the fetus.45 Thus semen is better suited than blood to be the material basis for the fetus, which helps Galen defeat Aristotle’s rival theory that the semen only passes on a motion to the blood. But Razi sees no advantage for Galen here: “in this respect it is just like spittle, mucous, or blood, but this proves nothing” (Works 127). Similarly, against the idea that veins spread due to blood and arteries because of pneuma, Razi goes on to say, “what is this proof for this unargued assumption of yours, concerning these dark places where no observations have been made?” Still worse, Razi convicts Galen of engaging in a kind of taqlīd: “in the Book on Semen, I have seen Galen just appealing to Hippocrates, without giving any argument of his own about it, but just making unargued assumptions, producing arbitrary, foolish drivel (iddaʿā wa-​taḥakamma

Medicine  169 wa-​hudhāʾ wa-​kharaf )” (Works 126). The familiar approach of giving empirical counterarguments comes to the fore when Razi considers Galen’s idea that the fetus is like a plant, so that both are produced by nature.46 Against this, Razi points out several disanalogies between fetuses and plants. The fetus will eventually leave the place where it has grown, whereas plants stay put; unlike plants, fetuses can eventually do without being connected to a source of nutrition; one can take cuttings from plants without harming the plants, and even get new plants to grow from the cuttings—​not, obviously, something one would want to try with a fetus. On this score one might return to the critique of On Semen in the Doubts. Against Galen’s notion that the fetus’s tissues (“membranes, ligaments, cartilage, skin, and nerves”) are generated from semen, Razi points out that the baby can continue to produce these even after it is born and no longer physically related to semen. However, “we don’t observe that the infant can grow a [new] tip for its nose or cartilage for its ear, if these are cut off” (Doubts §22.3), which is very like one of the points raised against the analogy with plants in On Metaphysics. Of course, what one would really like to see here by way of confirmation of the Razian authorship of On Metaphysics would be a perfect match or at least significant overlap between the criticisms of On Semen here and in the Doubts. Though we don’t find that, the “immanent critique” of Galen—​that is, the use of Galenic methodological strictures against Galen himself—​is something shared by the two texts. Also, of course, the very fact that the author of On Metaphysics knows On Semen well and targets it for refutation should further encourage us to accept its authenticity.47

7.5.  Razi’s authorial persona Razi’s Doubts contains praise for Galen as well as refutation. But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then Razi’s most lavish encomium of Galen comes in the form of his own authorial persona, the way he presents himself to the reader across his extant corpus. Anyone who has spent even a little time reading both men will know what I  mean. Razi has even absorbed such details as Galen’s ostentatiously relaxed attitude about terminological precision, as at Introduction §8.7: “you must understand the meanings (maʿānī) and never mind the names [introduced] by the

170  Al-​ Rāzī troublemakers.” But more striking is his overall tone, full of swagger and lofty disdain of critics. Like Galen before him, Razi is always several steps ahead of his professional rivals, a trustworthy advisor for his clients, confident in both his learning and his personal virtue. We’ll come to the matter of personal virtue in the next chapter, as we see Razi adopting Galen’s role as a doctor for souls as well as bodies, dispensing ethical advice to benighted acquaintances and embodying a moderate, “philosophical way of life.” But when we do come to that, we should bear in mind that it is really an extension of the posture adopted by Razi, and Galen before him, when writing about medicine. Perhaps most fundamental is the way that both present themselves as outstanding experts who are constantly coming into contact with, and getting the better of, other physicians. Razi wrote on the question of why people don’t necessarily take advice from the best doctors, as they should, and also a now lost treatise whose content and tone we can imagine pretty well just from the title: On Why the Ignorant Physicians, the Common People, and the Women in the Cities Are More Successful than Men of Learning in Treating Certain Diseases, and the Physician’s Excuse for This.48 Those “ignorant physicians” and “common people” are recurring characters in Razi’s extant medical works. Even in the brief compass of his medical Introduction, Razi takes time to complain about incompetent medical practitioners, for instance those who do not have sufficient anatomical knowledge (§8.5). When he discusses his own medical experiences, he frequently describes how he was able to reach a diagnosis and correct remedy that eluded his colleagues. Actually we already saw an example from the Comprehensive Book, with the man whose legs were paralyzed. Even more dramatic is an anecdote in Razi’s Letter to a Disciple, in which Razi is just in the nick of time to stop a quack from administering a lethal bloodletting, and steps in to save the day by applying a safe and effective treatment.49 In another case from the Comprehensive Book, doctors are flummoxed by the case of a man with pus in his urine, and Razi is able to determine the culprit, an abscess in the kidneys.50 This case also illustrates the pitfalls of dealing with patients, since the man in question is not forthcoming about his medical history, which makes it harder for Razi to arrive at the correct diagnosis. Of course we’re meant to be impressed that Razi manages it anyway, but he is also teaching his

Medicine  171 medical student readers to be explicit in questioning their own patients. Elsewhere in the Comprehensive Book, we hear of patients who ignore Razi’s advice and suffer the consequences, before finally being healed once they fall back into line.51 In one of these stories, a woman makes herself ill by drinking camel’s milk “without asking advice” and rashly tries to remedy the effects herself. And I do mean “rashly,” because she comes down with smallpox. Razi treats her eyes and takes other measures to reduce her fever, with the happy end of a complete cure. This passage illustrates the theories we’ve seen in the work On Smallpox and Measles, as well as Razi’s impatience at patients who fail to seek and heed his guidance. Another excellent example of Razi’s authorial persona can be found in a short work he wrote on the rather unexpected topic of whether to eat mulberries after watermelon.52 It begins with Razi in full Galenic temper as he says without further preamble:  “If ignorant and stupid people who adorn themselves with useless frippery refrained from criticizing, slandering and vilifying what they do not understand, they would spare intelligent people the trouble of refuting them.” The occasion for this outburst is that someone has criticized Razi for advising Aḥmad ibn Ismāʿīl, the Sāmānid emir, to partake of fruits in the aforementioned sequence. Watermelon, as it turns out, is more hazardous than you may suppose, because when quite ripe its flesh turns easily into bile, causing jaundice. To combat this, Razi prescribed mulberries, since they can remove bile from its “natural state” and “remove its harmful and intense effect,” and also have a purgative effect. Notable here is not only Razi’s invective against his critic, presumably another self-​styled medical expert, but also his worry about how he will appear before other potential critics. He explains that he might have prescribed oxymel instead, but it is not as good as mulberries, and the vomiting it would have induced would have caused those observing the treatment to “blame” Razi. Noteworthy too is Razi’s attitude toward his royal patient. He extracts a promise from the emir to follow the recommended course of treatment and, more remarkable still, admits that there is no point in telling his patient to avoid watermelon completely since Ibn Ismāʿīl “would have opposed me and eaten it anyway.” You can’t expect a layperson, even (or perhaps especially?) an emir, to understand and accept everything a doctor would know to be right, and one must make concessions to this sort of everyday ignorance. This theme too can be found elsewhere in

172  Al-​ Rāzī Razi’s medical writings. It is a major concern of his Letter to a Disciple, which also features an ignorant king who rejects medical advice on his diet and demands that the doctor keep him healthy while eating whatever he wants.53 Obviously, Razi does not approve of this sort of attitude, but he advises students to meet their patients halfway, as it were. One must allow them to eat what they want, at least to some extent, since otherwise they will indulge themselves in secret.54 In the next chapter we’ll see that Razi took exactly this attitude—​at once accommodating and condescending—​in his ethical works, calibrating his advice for an audience that lacks his insight and self-​mastery.

• 8

Ethics

We now turn our attention from Razi’s medical work to a rather different topic. Or do we? His most substantial surviving ethical treatise, indeed his only extended surviving treatise on any philosophical topic (unless you count Doubts about Galen), is called the Spiritual Medicine. The title is to be taken seriously. It was written as one-​half of a matched set of works for the Sāmānid prince al-​Manṣūr ibn Ismāʿīl. The companion volume is the Book for al-​Manṣūr, named in honor of its dedicatee and dealing with bodily medicine, as we had occasion to discuss in the previous chapter. It is supposedly al-​Manṣūr himself who proposed that Razi supplement this with the Spiritual Medicine, so as to cover “the whole of what is beneficial, comprehending both the soul and the body” (Works 15.7–​8). It seems more than likely, though, that Razi himself is responsible for the pairing. Understanding ethics as a kind of medicine for souls has roots in antiquity. For Razi the main inspiration here would, as so often, have been Galen. There is also precedent in the Arabic tradition, notably the work Benefits for Souls and Bodies (Maṣāliḥ al-​abdan wa-​l-​anfus) by Abū Zayd al-​Balkhī, who as we saw (§1.1) may have had a connection to Razi. One goal for this final chapter, then, will be to understand why Razi, following Galen, drew the parallel between ethics and medicine, or, to put it as strongly as Razi himself does, why he thought that medicine actually Al-​Ra-z ī. Peter Adamson, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197555033.003.0008.

174  Al-​ Rāzī includes a branch that ministers to souls rather than bodies.1 But this is only one of several tasks that await us. For one thing, there is another, briefer text which explicitly refers back to the Spiritual Medicine and expounds Razi’s ethical doctrines. This is the Philosophical Life. Some commentators have detected a tension between the two works, in that the Spiritual Medicine seems to encourage a life of self-​denial, whereas the Philosophical Life openly rejects asceticism and embraces an ethic of moderation.2 Another objective, then, will be to determine what place pleasure has in Razi’s conception of the best life for mankind. Razi often counsels against certain courses of action on the grounds that they bring more pain than pleasure in the long run. This has led to misguided claims that Razi himself is a hedonist, albeit a sophisticated one who urges us to use reason to maximize pleasure in the long run (as already described at §1.1). In fact, we will see in the following that for Razi pleasure is certainly not the best thing in life, and that physical pleasures have only a doubtful claim to positive value. A further task, then, is to see whether we can tell what values Razi does identify as the goal of the best life.

8.1.  Truth, justice, and the Razian way As the title of Razi’s shorter surviving ethical work intimates, the person who lives this best life is one who merits the name “philosopher.” The occasion of the little treatise is a polemic aimed at Razi by certain unnamed opponents. These opponents have apparently pounced on Razi’s claim to model himself on his role model Socrates (his “imām”; Works 99.5). Their attack has two aspects. First, they point out that Socrates is famous for his asceticism: he was celibate, abstemious in diet and dress, avoided entertainment, and even resided in a wine jar (99.6–​9). Nor did Socrates mince his words in criticizing others, including powerful rulers (99.9). Yet Razi does none of these things. He is no ascetic, is socially engaged, and seeks to earn a living (99.3–​4). Given the point about Socrates’ fearless critique of rulers, perhaps part of the opponents’ accusation was that Razi was on friendly terms with the rich and powerful, which is unbefitting to a self-​styled “philosopher.” This is more or less confirmed later on, when Razi justifies his relationship with “the ruler (al-​sulṭān),” which we have said likely refers to al-​Manṣūr (§1.3), insisting that he is not implicated in any of the ruler’s

Ethics  175 wicked actions (109.19–​110.4). The opponents’ second complaint concerns the way of life that Razi hypocritically admires, but fails to adopt for himself. Socrates’ lifestyle is “at variance with natural behavior” and “would lead to the ruin of the world, and the perdition and extinction of mankind,” that is, because celibate people produce no children.3 Razi’s initial response to the opponents turns on the historical question of Socrates’ lifestyle. The critics’ portrayal of Socrates is an example of the conflation of Socrates with Diogenes the Cynic in the Arabic tradition.4 It was of course Diogenes, not Socrates, who supposedly lived in a wine jar and bluntly spoke his mind to rulers, as when he, according to one famous legend, told Alexander the Great to stop blocking his sunlight. Razi does not question the historical accuracy of this picture of Socrates. At the same time, he knows that this picture is in tension with other reports about the man, which would be known to anyone who has investigated the topic. These tell us that Socrates did have children, did drink wine, did attend social gatherings (majālis) for entertainment, and did fight in wars (99.17–​19). It seems that Razi is here drawing on some version of Plato’s Symposium, which mentions most of these points.5 To solve the apparent contradiction between the ascetic, “Cynic” Socrates and this more socially engaged Socrates, Razi posits a shift in Socrates’ lifestyle. As a young man who was carried away by love for philosophy, Socrates did indeed act in the way cited by Razi’s critics (100.1). Eventually though, he adopted a more moderate approach (iʿtidāl), as one might do with any enthusiasm as time passes and its novelty wanes (100.6). By himself pursuing a life of moderation, Razi can thus claim solidarity with the less radical, more mature Socrates. All this suggests that Razi rejects the ascetic lifestyle, and indeed that becomes explicit in what follows. For instance, he is in sympathy with the critics’ remark that celibacy is wrong-​headed, since mankind would die out (100.20). Later in the Philosophical Life, he singles out certain groups of ascetics and criticizes them for deliberately imposing harm on themselves. These include Manicheans, who “castrate themselves when they have the urge for sex, emaciate themselves through hunger and thirst, and become filthy by avoiding water and using urine instead” (105.18–​19). Less radical but still wrongheaded are ascetic Christians and Muslims (105.20–​106.2), whose practices constitute evildoing (ẓulm) against themselves rather than others.6 Despite all this, Razi clearly admires the mature Socrates for his relatively abstemious and self-​controlled lifestyle, admitting that in this

176  Al-​ Rāzī respect he falls short of his hero. Characteristically, though, he combines modesty with immodesty: “we may not deserve the title of ‘philosophy’ in comparison to Socrates, but we do deserve it in relation to people who do not aspire to philosophy at all” (101.3–​4). Thus, even without turning to the Spiritual Medicine, we already seem to have a tension or at least nuance within Razi’s view on asceticism. On the one hand, he is forthright in criticizing extreme asceticism, but on the other, he praises asceticism when it stays within its limits. Razi himself explains that he is endorsing the “quality” of Socrates’ life but not the “quantity” of Socrates’ excessive, early devotion to self-​abnegation (100.12–​13, 100.16). To make full sense of this, we need to turn to a set of principles Razi provides, on which is based “the philosophical way of life (al-​sīra al-​falsafiyya).” These principles are here simply asserted in brief; he refers us to other texts, and in particular the “indispensable” Spiritual Medicine, where these principles have been expounded at greater length (101.7–​12). (A) We have a state after death which is praiseworthy or blameworthy, according to our way of life during the time that our souls were together with our bodies. (B)  The best thing, that for which we were created and to which we are led, is not getting bodily pleasures, but acquiring knowledge and acting with justice. These two things [sc. knowledge and justice] liberate us from this world of ours, to the world in which there is neither death nor pain. (C) Nature and desire call us to prefer for the pleasure that is present, whereas the intellect frequently calls us to foresake the present pleasures for things it [sc. intellect] prefers. (D) We have a Lord, by whom we hope to be rewarded and fear to be punished, watches over us and is merciful to us. He does not want us to undergo pain, and He hates injustice and ignorance on our part, loving our knowledge and justice. So this Lord punishes those of us who cause pain and those who deserve pain, to the extent that is deserved. (E) One ought not subject oneself to a pain along with a pleasure, when this pain exceeds the pleasure in quantity and quality. (F)  The Creator, great and exalted, has assigned to us the particular things we need, such as farming, weaving, and other such things through which the world and livelihood are sustained. (Works 101.13–​102.4)

This may in fact be the most single important passage for understanding Razi’s ethics, and we will need to refer back to it frequently. Thus I have labeled the six principles by lettering them (they are clearly demarcated in the text: anna . . . wa-​anna).

Ethics  177 For our immediate question of asceticism, the key principles are (B), (C) and (E). These seem to embody the tension noted earlier. First, principle (B) discourages us from pursuing bodily pleasure. It is not pleasure we should strive for, but rather knowledge and justice. Principle (C) adds that intellect will frequently need to overrule our natural inclination to pursue pleasure. Coming on the heels of principle (B), we may take this to mean that one should not pursue pleasure at the cost of justice or knowledge. Yet principle (E) holds out the prospect of a much more favorable attitude toward pleasure. It instructs us to steer clear of pleasures that bring pains with them, whenever the pain outweighs the pleasure.7 The implication seems clear: if a pleasure does not bring with it an outweighing pain then we can go ahead and partake of that pleasure. Indeed this is a point that Razi makes numerous times, both here in the Philosophical Life and in the Spiritual Medicine: A reasonable person (al-​ʿāqil) should not yield to any pleasure which he fears will be accompanied by pain greater than the pain he would suffer were he to refrain from the pleasure and suppress his desire. (Works 103.1–​3) Desire and nature constantly call one to pursue present pleasures, and to prefer them with no thought or deliberation about the result:  they incite and hasten one on towards [the pursuit of pleasure], heedless of the painful outcome afterwards, or the prevention of [further] pleasure which is greater than the previous [pleasure]. For these two [sc. desire and nature] see nothing but the state they are presently in, and nothing else, and reject only the pain that harms them at this very moment. It’s like a child with opthalmia choosing to have itchy eyes, by eating dates and playing out in the sun. On account of this, it behooves the reasonable person to impede and restrain [desire and nature], never giving them free rein without having first established and considered what will result, imagining and evaluating this and then following the preponderant course, lest he be pained when he thinks he will be pleased. (Works 21.13)

Razi may seem here to be defending a sort of sophisticated hedonism, like that we associate with Epicureanism.8 According to this view, one should often refrain from pleasures that present themselves, but only in order to maximize pleasure (and, as principle (E) reminds us, to minimize pain) over the long term. In both of our texts, Razi emphasizes that this long-​term planning is the province of reason (ʿaql), thought (fikr), and deliberation (rawiyya), which are contrasted to nature and desire (for which

178  Al-​ Rāzī he uses both hawā and shahwa). This is why humans are able to hold back from pursuing pleasures, unlike irrational animals.9 One might therefore believe that Razi’s ethics consists in “rational hedonism.” This would be the view that the good life is the life that has the most pleasure, and that this end can be reached through the application of reason. However much Razi might encourage his readers to apply reason to the pursuit of pleasure, though, he is no hedonist. He says very clearly in principle (B) that the best goal to pursue is not physical pleasure, but knowledge and justice. Also, we still need to take account of his admiration for the relatively abstemious practices of the mature Socrates, who is explicitly admitted to be the ethical superior of Razi himself. Here it will be helpful to turn to a further passage from the Philosophical Life: The limit, past which one may not go, is that [people] should forbear from pleasures that can be attained only by engaging in evildoing, murder, and in general anything that displeases God, when the judgment of intellect and justice is that it is unnecessary. All else is permitted for them. This then is the upper limit, I mean, the limit regarding license to enjoy oneself. As for the lower limit, I mean, the limit regarding asceticism and austerity, it is that man should eat whatever does not hurt him or make him ill, without being excessive by partaking of the utmost pleasure or desiring it. Then his goal would be pleasure and desire, rather than the assuaging of hunger. . . . Whatever is between these two limits is allowed, and one does not thereby depart from what merits the name “philosophy.” Indeed, it may be called that. Nonetheless, it’s better to tend towards the lower, rather than the upper, limit. (Works 106.18–​ 107.4; 108.12–​13)

In this passage Razi explains that there are three possible approaches to pleasure, which we might call licentious, moderate, and ascetic.10 Licentious people fail to restrain desire with reason, and are criticized on two counts. First, they are liable to place a higher value on pleasure than on the chief ethical considerations identified in principle (B):  justice and knowledge. Second, as we have seen previously, the licentious approach is counterproductive on its own terms, since it often yields more pain than pleasure in the long term. So licentious pursuit of pleasure is condemned both in light of the paramount values in life (justice and knowledge) and in light of its own, hedonistic goals. The ascetic approach, meanwhile, is criticized because it

Ethics  179 leads to unnecessary pain or illness. It’s been mentioned that Razi attacks certain ascetic groups, such as the Manicheans. Tellingly, he concludes that passage with the remark, “all this is evildoing on their part aimed at themselves, and inflicts pain that does not ward off any pain that would outweigh it” (Works 106.3). Thus Razi’s recommendation to pursue a life of moderation takes into account two kinds of value: first, the value of justice and knowledge; second, the value of pleasure and corresponding disvalue of pain. Yet these two kinds of value are not on a par. Again, recall principle (B): “The best thing is not getting bodily pleasures  .  .  .  but acquiring knowledge and acting with justice.” Razi here does not deny that pleasure is good, but he does deny that it is best. Justice and knowledge are, we might say, indefeasible values. They trump the value of pleasure, whereas nothing can trump their value.11 Furthermore, the “limits” of the philosophical life are not, as we might initially expect, set by the good of justice at the upper bound (don’t pursue pleasure if it would lead you into injustice) and by the good of pleasure at the lower bound (make sure to pursue at least some pleasure, because pleasure is good). Rather, the lower bound too is set by the demands of justice. Extreme asceticism involves inflicting pain for no reason, and thus is an “evildoing (ẓulm)” that ascetics inflict upon themselves (Works 106.3, just quoted). In this it is just like any other case of injustice, for instance needless suffering inflicted on animals, which Razi inveighs against in the Philosophical Life (see §8.4 later in this chapter), or like the suffering that we see in the world, which cannot be traced to the decisions of a wise and just God (see §2.3). It’s just that in the case of asceticism, the victim of the injustice is the ascetic himself. As Razi says, “given that the judgment of reason and justice forbids man to cause pain to others, it follows that neither should he cause harm to himself” (Works 105.15–​16). The philosophical life, then, is a life of justice and the pursuit of knowledge. Within the boundaries that result from these values, we have ethical permission to pursue pleasure as we wish. After all, if pleasure is indeed good and pain bad, then all else being equal, the right thing to do is to enjoy pleasure and avoid pain. When exactly is all else equal? Razi tells us: We ought not to seek a pleasure that can only be attained by perpetrating some act that would prevent us from being liberated to the world of the soul, or that would force us to undergo pain in this world that is greater

180  Al-​ Rāzī in quantity or quality than the pleasure which we preferred. Other pleasures apart from this, though, are allowed for us. (Works 102.9–​12)

This attitude to pleasure is also expressed in the Spiritual Medicine: This extent of curbing the desires (shahwāt) is sufficient; that is, to give rein to those [desires] which one knows have no consequence that would bring with it a pain or worldly harm equal to the pleasure achieved through [the desires]. (Works 23.11–​24.1)

Here there is no talk of endangering our “liberation to the world of the soul” (as we know from principle [B]‌, liberation is secured through justice and knowledge). Yet Razi goes on to explain that he is articulating a consideration put forth even by philosophers who think the soul dies with the body. Other philosophers, who do accept the soul’s independent existence, “rise above the bridling of nature, the struggle and opposition against desire, to that which is very much greater than this” (Works 24.6–​7). This gives us an important clue about the complexity of Razi’s ethics. In his list of principles, it seems very much as though the pursuit of knowledge and justice are on a par with the rational restraint of desire. After all, principles (C)  and (E)  distill the advice, so frequently given in the Spiritual Medicine, to control ourselves in order to maximize pleasure and minimize pain in the long term. But by itself, such self-​restraint only secures a “second best” kind of life, which falls below the real philosophical life. This second best life would be a life of reason, insofar as the rational soul has managed to impose limits on the desires that arise in the appetitive soul (cf. §3.3). But it would not yet be a life devoted to the values of justice and knowledge, which are “very much greater” than the mere “struggle against desire.” This helps us to see why, even within the permissible spectrum between the “upper and lower limits” of the philosophical life, Razi finds it admirable to steer closer to the lower limit. The persons who do this are showing that they place a lesser value on pleasure-​seeking and pain-​avoidance than on the paramount values of justice and knowledge.12 On this basis, Razi is willing to concede that Socrates was more admirable than Razi himself. Razi does lead a life of moderation and has even undergone considerable hardship for the sake of knowledge. Yet he is not Socrates’ equal when it comes to “leading a righteous way of life, restraining desires, and devoting love and aspiration to knowledge” (100.11–​12).

Ethics  181

8.2.  Ethics as medicine The distinction between a second-​best, though acceptable, life of self-​ restraint or rational hedonism and the best, truly philosophical life is key to understanding Razi’s Spiritual Medicine. Previously I have raised the question of why ethics is here presented as a kind of medicine. There are a number of reasons for this. Among them, historical ones: Galen composed works which draw a parallel between ethical advice and medical treatment, notably On Character Traits and On Passions of the Soul. For instance, both texts describe anger as an “illness of soul.”13 In the Arabic tradition, we have already noted the precedent of Abū Zayd al-​Balkhī’s On Benefits for Souls and Bodies.14 One might also mention in this context al-​Balkhī’s master al-​ Kindī, who presents sadness as an illness in his On Dispelling Sorrow. A later author who contributes to this tradition of “Galenic ethics” is Miskawayh, who especially in the sixth treatise of his Refinement of Character draws on Galen and the idea that ethics is a psychological type of medicine.15 At a philosophical level, too, there are numerous reasons why it would be plausible to conceive of ethics as medical in nature. Since I have explored these reasons in depth elsewhere,16 I will simply summarize most of them here. First, ethics preserves and restores the good state or “health” of soul, just as bodily medicine does for the body. Second, the good state of the soul, like that of the body, can be seen as a kind of balance. Whereas in the bodily case, this means an appropriate relationship between the four humors, in the ethical case, the balance is between the three souls, that is, reason, spirit, and desire. Razi makes this point explicitly in the Spiritual Medicine, even using the term “equilibrium (taʿdīl)” (Works 29.3). Third, there is actually a causal connection between the health of body and that of soul. Defects in the body can cause psychological disruptions, a standard example being the obsessive thoughts (wasāwis) that arise due to humoral imbalance. Conversely, character defects cause bodily symptoms. Razi mentions that envy leads to various physical problems, including “corruption of the humoral mixture” (Works 51.16). Again, Galen is an important source for this last idea, since his treatise That the Powers of the Soul Depend on Those of the Body provides a theoretical basis for insisting on the mutual relation between bodily and psychological health. For present purposes, though, I  would like to focus on a fourth, less obvious feature of the Spiritual Medicine: the way its advice is tailored to a

182  Al-​ Rāzī certain kind of reader, as a medical treatment might be prescribed specifically to a certain patient (compare what we discussed in §7.2). In the ethical context, adapting treatment to the “patient” means giving advice that engages with the patient’s ethical condition. As we’ve just seen, Razi seems to suppose that people fall into at least three distinct groups. The worst group are those we earlier called “licentious.” These are people who pursue pleasure heedlessly, even to the extent of bringing upon themselves more pain than pleasure in the long run. Better than these are the self-​controlled, who are still motivated by pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain. These people are at least rational, since they are controlling their desires so as to maximize long-​term pleasure. Finally, there are the true philosophers, like Socrates and Razi himself, who are happy to enjoy permitted pleasures but are really motivated by justice and knowledge. Whereas the Philosophical Life, being a defense and articulation of Razi’s own lifestyle, presents the third and best ethical state, it would seem that the Spiritual Medicine is basically intended to move readers from licentiousness to self-​control.17 Razi assumes that in most cases, the person in need of ethical advice has an imbalanced soul, meaning that his or her soul is not dominated by reason. The reader is meant to come away from the book with better chances of giving reason control over the rest of the soul, without necessarily adopting the higher value system of the philosopher. Thus Razi writes: If from this book [the reader] does not acquire the highest rank and status in this respect, then the least he can do is to adhere to the lowest status, namely to take the view of someone who binds desire to the extent that he does not subject himself to worldly harm in this life. (Works 31.7–​32.1)

This passage should be read alongside the one quoted earlier, where Razi said that philosophers like Plato “rise above the struggle against desire.”18 In both cases, we see that Razi thinks the restraint of desire is a necessary, but not sufficient condition for the third, most admirable ethical status. It is a difficult step, but only a step, along the way to the philosophical life. A vivid example of Razi’s approach can be found in his treatment of gluttony. Here he tells the story of eating with a man who, after gobbling down a whole plateful of dates, wished to be hungry again so that he might enjoy the pleasure of the dates a second time. Razi chastised the glutton, pointing out that unrestrained eating causes bloating and illnesses

Ethics  183 that “would cause you many times more pain than the pleasure you have had” (71.3–​4). This, of course, is a deployment of principle (E) from the Philosophical Life: don’t fulfill your desires in a way that brings more pain than pleasure in the long run. Then Razi leaves off the anecdote and, as it were, turns to the reader: This and other such remarks are of more benefit to someone who has not engaged in philosophical training (riyāḍāt al-​falsafa) than proofs built on philosophical principles (uṣūl falsafiyya). For someone who is convinced that the desiring soul is connected to the rational soul only in order to get the body (which plays the role of a tool and instrument for the rational soul) what will preserve it long enough for the rational soul to acquire knowledge (maʿrifa) of this world, will restrain his desiring soul and hinder it from getting more than sufficient nourishment, since he sees that the goal and objective of nourishing oneself is not taking pleasure, but preservation, which is not otherwise possible. (Works 71.5–​11)

This passage dramatically confirms the interpretation offered previously: the philosopher seeks knowledge, not pleasure (in this case, justice is not mentioned). Yet Razi was ready to offer the glutton reasons for moderate eating that remain within a hedonistic framework. As with the advice given to the glutton, so with the Spiritual Medicine as a whole. It assumes that the reader will be motivated largely or exclusively by the pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain. So Razi contents himself, for the most part, with showing that pursuing pleasure successfully requires giving reason rule over desire. Razi is convinced that even this rather limited goal will be difficult to achieve for most people. Thus, in another parallel with medicine for bodies, he advises the reader to a regimen of ethical habituation, comparable to a diet or regular exercise prescribed by doctors.19 Razi hence speaks of “exercise (tamrīn)” for the soul (Works 20.9). Again, this process will vary from person to person: “because there is wide variety and large difference among the natures of people, it turns out to be easier for some people, and more difficult for others, to achieve certain virtues but not others, and to discard certain vices but not others” (Works 21.7–​9). Here Razi also suggests the philosopher “is just about (yakādu) the only one” who will achieve perfection in the restraint of desire (Works 21.3). I  take this to mean, not that perfect restraint of desire is sufficient for the philosophical way of life—​ we have seen earlier that it is not—​but that philosophical training and the

184  Al-​ Rāzī change to a philosophical set of values are (almost) the only things that can guarantee constant fortitude in the face of desire.

8.3. Pleasure It should by now have become clear that Razi has a rather subtle attitude toward pleasure and its place in the good life. He firmly rejects the notion that pleasure could be the best thing in life, never mind the source of all good and sole criterion of ethical deliberation.20 Yet from all we have seen, he seems to accept that pleasure is a good thing. Thus he permits us to enjoy pleasures “all else being equal,” that is, so long as there is no reason not to. We have not, however, considered anything remotely resembling an argument for this stance. Does Razi have a good philosophical basis for his rejection of hedonism, a rejection that would be compatible with accepting its defeasible choiceworthiness? It turns out that he does, though the evidence for this is found above all outside his extant ethical works. We can start, though, with a passage from the Spiritual Medicine that succinctly sets out his theory of pleasure: Because harm and the departure from nature sometimes occur little by little over a long time, and this is then followed by a sudden return to nature in a short time, in this case we fail to sense being harmed, whereas the return to nature is abundantly clear to the senses, and so we call this “pleasure.” So some uneducated people think that [pleasure] occurs without any preceding harm, and they imagine it to be separate and pure, entirely free from harm. But this is not the case. Rather, it is impossible that there be any pleasure at all except to the same extent as there was a preceding harmful departure from nature. (Works 37.4–​10)

An example may help to explain Razi’s thought here. Suppose that one enjoys a cold drink. In order to enjoy the drink, it is first of all necessary that one be thirsty. Pleasure comes from the satisfaction of desire, and thirst is simply the desire for a drink. But what is thirst? It is a state of deficiency in comparison to the “natural state,” that is, a state in which the body has no needs. Razi’s point, then, is that in order to enjoy the drink, one first needs to be in a deficient or “harmful” state, which is rectified by the pleasurable process that is drinking. He also cautions us to avoid the common mistake of thinking that one can have enjoyment without preceding harm.

Ethics  185 This is an illusion created by the fact that the harm occurs very slowly, too slowly to be perceived. In our example, we do not notice ourselves gradually getting less and less hydrated. Our condition comes to our notice, in the form of thirst, only once we need to drink. Though Razi does not say so here, the same could apply to restoration: we would not notice a return to the natural state if it were very gradual. An example of this might be healing from a wound over the course of weeks. In that case, the initial harm occurs quickly and is all too perceptible, but the restoration is too slow to impinge on our awareness. This theory is restated, and linked to Razi’s rejection of hedonism, in Doubts about Galen (§7.7).21 Here, he raises the question of whether according to Galen “the pleasure attained in the lifetime of man outweighs, or at least balances out, the pain.” The answer is no, because as “Plato and other natural philosophers have agreed, pleasure is a return to nature through respite from pain.” And the Maker (al-​muṣawwir) has not seen fit to give us lives of unrelieved pain or respite from pain. This is, of course, simply a restatement of the restoration theory. Razi then adds: Besides, this statement [sc. that pleasure would outweigh pain] would contradict what he says, and what all the philosophers say, about improving character (iṣlāḥ al-​akhlāq). For it would imply that the good to be sought in itself is pleasure. But this is obviously the contrary of what Galen says in On Character Traits, and especially what is said in the book of Plato, and by all the best philosophers. If pleasure were the best thing in life, then the best animals would be the ones who are most suited to attain it. But if this were so, then beasts would be better than people, nay, better than the stars and than the Creator! (Doubts §7.7)

Here Razi appeals to a phenomenon also mentioned in the Spiritual Medicine, namely that non-​human animals are capable of experiencing more pleasure than humans (Works 24.13–​14). But despite the generally ascetic trend of the Spiritual Medicine, this passage from the Doubts is a more forthright rejection of hedonism than anything we find in that work, because it explicitly states that pleasure is not the “good to be sought in itself (al-​khayr al-​maṭlūb li-​nafsihi).” Razi says here in Doubts that he is drawing on a critique of pleasure found in a “book of Plato.” As so often, the likely source is the Timaeus, which sets out exactly the ideas just summarized, including the point about gradual harm and restoration, at 64a–​65a.22 Perhaps because of its prominence in

186  Al-​ Rāzī that dialogue, Razi was evidently keenly interested in the phenomenon of pleasure, and devoted a whole treatise to the topic. He mentions it himself in the Spiritual Medicine (Works 38.5) under the title Treatise on the Quiddity of Pleasure (Maqālat fī Māʾiyyat al-​ladhdha). This work is lost, but fortunately we have reports about his doctrines in several sources. The most abundant evidence is found in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, but Kraus also collects passages found in Mullā Ṣadrā (Works 142), in Naṣīr al-​Dīn al-​Bayḍāwī’s Ṭawāliʿ al-​anwār quoted in the commentary by Maḥmūd ibn ʿAbd al-​Raḥmān al-​ Iṣfahānī (143), and al-​Qūshjī’s commentary on the Tajrīd al-​Kalām of Naṣīr al-​Dīn al-​Ṭūsī (Works 143–​144). Kraus finds reactions to a Razian theory of pleasure in a range of other authors, including Miskawayh, on whom more in a moment. Most notable here is the treatment of pleasure ascribed to Shuhayd al-​ Balkhī, a contemporary of Razi who disputed with him over the topic. Al-​ Bīrūnī tells us that Razi composed a work explaining their dispute, and the same treatise is reported in the various bibliographical lists for Razi under the title Counter-​Refutation of Shuhayd al-​Balkhī on the Topic of Pleasure.23 We do not know a great deal about Shuhayd al-​Balkhī, unfortunately, though there is some evidence in the Fihrist concerning his relation to Razi (see §1.1). Luckily, though, his views on pleasure were recorded in the Ṣiwān al-​ḥikma. Kraus rightly includes this report in his collection of information on Razi, since we can with some caution take it as a text aimed at refuting the Razian theory of pleasure. Shuhayd al-​Balkhī asserts four advantages that “pleasures of the soul,” which consist in the attainment of wisdom and knowledge, have over “pleasures of the body”:



(1) The soul’s pleasures are enduring, those of the body are fleeting. (2) When the soul takes pleasure “its act is complete,” but bodily pleasure is always followed by renewed need. (3) Whenever the soul takes pleasure, it becomes stronger to achieve similar and better things, whereas the body’s pleasures make it worse at enjoying similar pleasant sensible objects. (4) The soul’s pleasures contribute to human perfection (tamām), whereas the body’s lead us away from that perfection.

These claims do have some plausibility. Think again of the pleasure of drinking when thirsty. The pleasure gained does not last long; shortly thereafter one will get thirsty again; repeated enjoyment of the drinking is liable to become increasingly less pleasant because of its familiarity. Finally,

Ethics  187 obsession with such physical pleasures will distract us from what Shuhayd takes to be truly important, which is the attainment of wisdom and thus human perfection. This too is a Platonist understanding of pleasure. In fact it more fully reflects Plato’s own ideas about pleasure than the mere assertion of the “restoration theory” we found in Razi. Evidently Shuhayd also accepts the restoration theory in the case of bodily pleasures, but he also recognizes the possibility of another kind of pleasure. This is what Plato would call a “pure pleasure” or “true pleasure.” He mentions such pleasures at Republic 584b, giving the example of smells, which are very enjoyable even though they involve no relief from pain (cf. Philebus 51a–​52b, which mentions as “true pleasures” colors, smells, and the pleasure of learning). And Shuhayd is not the only author in the Arabic tradition to assert the Platonic distinction between two kinds of pleasures. Miskawayh, for instance, wrote a work called On Pleasures and Pains in which he explicitly refers to people he calls “the naturalists,” who “say that pleasure is a return to the natural state.”24 Much like Shuhayd al-​Balkhī, Miskawayh insists that this analysis leaves out “true pleasures,” which “reside in complete perfections.”25 Certainty on the point is unattainable in the absence of Razi’s treatise on pleasure, but there is strong evidence that Razi thought that all pleasure was susceptible to the analysis offered in the restoration theory. This emerges from the various reports of his view, several of which critique Razi on precisely this point. Both al-​Bayḍāwī and al-​Qūshjī give the example of suddenly coming into a windfall of wealth as one that Razi’s theory cannot handle (Works 143.10, 144.1); the latter also mentions seeing something beautiful with no prior desire that could have given rise to pain (Works 144.1–​2). Admittedly, these authors may not understand Razi’s account very well, and be attacking him in polemical fashion. Al-​Qūshjī actually cites, as a problematic case for Razi, the gradual restoration of health, which would not be pleasant (144.4). But in fact we know that Razi dealt with precisely such cases, with his point that only sudden changes away from or toward the natural state are painful or pleasant.26 The idea that Razi applied the restoration theory to all pleasures, though, seems to be on firmer ground. One obvious point in its favor is that he disputed with Shuhayd al-​Balkhī, since as far as we know the assertion of pure pleasures was the distinctive feature of Shuhayd’s position. Also, the relatively extensive discussion of Razi’s theory in Nāṣir-​e Khusraw alleges

188  Al-​ Rāzī that Razi went out of his way to deny the possibility of pure pleasures. Razi is said to have held that the pleasures of seeing beautiful faces and hearing beautiful sounds can be accounted for within the restoration theory (Works 155). The pleasure of hearing is made possible by previous experience of (relatively) less beautiful sounds. And, in a point whose amusing nature might well be taken as evidence for its genuine Razian credentials, we enjoy seeing beautiful faces because we are tired of looking at ugly people! Finally, the passage cited earlier from Doubts about Galen does not seem to recognize any exceptions to the restoration theory. All this is of great significance for our original question of why Razi was not a hedonist. If we again look at Plato, we will see that he put forward the restoration theory as a way of undermining hedonism: pleasure can hardly be the good if its occurrence demands that we first be pained, or, to take account of the point about gradual changes, at least harmed. In fact, the Platonic and Razian analysis of pleasure as removal of harm shows that pleasure-​seeking is a “zero sum game.” The amount of pleasure we can take in anything is directly correlated to the amount of harm that is being removed. For instance, the extent to which we enjoy drinking is correlated to the extent of thirst and dehydration. In the case of Plato or those who follow him in the Arabic tradition, like Shuhayd al-​Balkhī or Miskawayh, there might still be some prospect of pursuing a selective hedonism devoted to those pleasures that involve no replenishment. But that prospect is unavailable on Razi’s view, whether he simply failed to include such pleasures in his theory,27 or explicitly rejected their existence, as Nāṣir-​e Khusraw claims. The result is that Razi has every reason to reject hedonism, as he does in Doubts about Galen. As we saw earlier, he there links the falsity of hedonism with the impossibility of attaining more pleasure than pain in this life, an impossibility established by the restoration theory. Here it is also worth considering a passage from the end of the Spiritual Medicine, in which he is trying to persuade us that death is nothing to fear. For dialectical reasons, he has been addressing himself to people who do not believe that the soul will survive the death of the body (Works 93.7–​9). Even these people, he argues, should accept that death (which in their view means nonexistence) is better than this life, since it will involve no harmful experiences (93.10–​ 13). But what about the pleasures we’ll miss out on by being dead? Razi replies:

Ethics  189 What is this coveted pleasure for which people contend? Is it anything, in truth, but respite (rāḥa) from pains, as we have shown? If this is the case, then no one but the ignorant would imagine it as something to be prized or sought, since achieving respite from harm allows one to dispense with the respite which happens when that which is called “pleasure” ensues. (Works 94.17–​95.2)

In other words, if all you want is pleasure, then all you want is relief from pain; but you could have this by simply not existing. As convincing as this seems, there is a passage in the Philosophical Life that seems to fit badly with all the evidence just considered: Given that the pleasures and pains of this world (dunyā) cease along with the cessation of life, whereas the pleasures of the world in which there is no death are eternal, unceasing, and unlimited, whoever buys transitory, ceasing, limited pleasure at the price of eternal, constant, unceasing, unlimited pleasure has been duped. (Works 102.6–​8)

Here, Razi offers us the prospect of pleasure in the afterlife. This is hard to understand, if he really thinks all pleasure involves restoration to the natural state. What process of deficiency and restoration could possibly take place in the afterlife, in which (as he says numerous times in the Philosophical Life itself, and will in fact say two lines after this passage, at 102.10) the soul is “liberated” from the body to its own world? In the Spiritual Medicine, he has actually said (Works 30.12–​16) that on Plato’s theory of the afterlife, there will be no pain in the hereafter because it will be unaffected by “generation and corruption.” For the same reason, one would think, the disembodied soul will have no pleasure. But even in that passage, something like pleasure seems to be on offer in the next world, as Razi promises “bliss” or “rapture” (ghibṭa). This term may have been chosen deliberately as an alternative to (ladhdha), with the restoration theory in mind. Yet it must be said that “bliss” sounds suspiciously like pleasure, but even better. In a previous study, I wondered whether Razi was just losing sight of his theory of pleasure in the passage from the Philosophical Life, perhaps getting carried away by his own rhetoric.28 But upon reflection I find this rather hard to believe, since the passage carefully applies his ethical principle (E) to the question of punishment and reward in the afterlife. Also, there is a testimony in which Fakhr al-​Dīn, usually a reliable witness, says that Razi thought that when freed from matter the soul would come to be “in its own world [and] have pleasures free from pain” (206.4). So we might

190  Al-​ Rāzī wonder whether after all, Razi is founding his entire ethical theory on a higher kind of hedonism. He is not resting his theory on the fundamental value of knowledge and justice. Rather, he is offering us a consequentialist ground for pursuing those very values: a motive to be just and seek knowledge. This motive would not be bodily pleasure, of course, which is discarded in principle (B) and demolished as a value by the restoration theory. Rather, the goal would be some other kind of pleasure that is available in the afterlife, as a reward from God. This would incidentally explain why principle (B) speaks specifically of bodily pleasure rather than pleasure in general. On this consequentialist reading, principle (E)—​that we should plan out our lives so as to maximize long-​term pleasure—​turns out to be the most fundamental after all. It is just that Razi wants us to play an even longer game, calculating our actions in this life so as to win unending pleasure in the next. The prominent position of principle (A)  which promises reward or punishment, depending on how well we do in this life, could give some encouragement that we are now thinking along the right lines. On the other hand, the appeal to long-​term pleasure looks rather like a consideration that would fit with the “second best” set of values that he rejects (as we saw in §8.2). The admonition he is offering us here—​don’t misbehave, or you’ll miss out on pleasure in the next life—​may be like the advice he gave to the glutton in the Spiritual Medicine—​don’t overeat, or you’ll get a stomach ache. Good doctor that he is, Razi would be tailoring advice to his likely audience, for whom it would be counterproductive to admit that strictly speaking, there can be no pleasure in the afterlife. Nonetheless, our passage does forthrightly assert that the next life will indeed involve unceasing pleasure, and in terms strikingly similar to those urged by his debating partner Shuhayd al-​Balkhī. Also, the possibility of such a dialectical argument would seem more appropriate to the therapeutic aims of the Spiritual Medicine than the polemical and theoretically confident Philosophical Life. We might, then, try returning to the suggestion that Razi was a hedonist after all. He frequently emphasizes the fact that the afterlife involves no pain.29 What if he believed that the mere absence of pain would count as a special kind of blissful pleasure? But this interpretation is not viable either, because we know from Nāṣir-​e Khusraw that for Razi, the natural state itself is neither pleasant nor painful; in fact, we do not even notice it (Works 151–​153). Razi illustrated this with the

Ethics  191 example of someone sitting in a house where the air is at a moderate temperature and therefore not being aware of the temperature at all. Also, of course, we have seen a range of passages in Razi and in later reports of his view, in which the global applicability of the restoration theory is emphatically asserted. Probably then the best way to deal with the passages which promise pleasure in the afterlife is to take them as loosely describing a blessed but not literally “pleasurable” state in which there is no pain and, more importantly, in which the soul has returned to its own world and achieved knowledge.

8.4. Imitating God If pleasure is not the ultimate ground of Razi’s ethics, then what is? In light of the conclusion we have just reached, we might point yet again to principle (B) and its indefeasible values of justice and knowledge. With these two values, one might suppose, we hit ethical bedrock. But the Philosophical Life offers yet another candidate for the fundamental principle in Razi’s ethics: Because the Creator, the mighty and exalted, is the one who knows without being ignorant, and the one who is just without being unjust; because knowledge, justice, and mercy are absolute [in His case]; because we have a Creator and Master, and are to Him servants placed under His mastery; and because the servants who are most loving towards their lords are those who adopt their way of life and conduct themselves according to their customs, thus the servant who is closest to God, the exalted and mighty, is the one among them who is most knowing, most just, most merciful, and most compassionate. This whole doctrine is what was intended by the more succinct statement of the philosophers, that philosophy is “the imitation of God, the mighty and exalted, insofar as mankind is capable.” This, in a nutshell, is the philosophical way of life. (Works 108.4–​9)

The idea that humans should imitate God insofar as is possible goes back to a famous passage in Plato, Theaetetus 176b. So famous is the passage that there is no need to postulate knowledge of this dialogue on Razi’s part, since Plato’s idea of imitating God became pervasive in antiquity and was quoted in Arabic as a definition of philosophy, already before Razi’s time.30

192  Al-​ Rāzī With this passage, Razi’s principles (D) and, to a lesser extent, (F) finally come to the forefront. We have not had occasion to refer to these much yet; as a reminder, (D) states that God hates injustice and ignorance but loves knowledge and justice, and that He therefore punishes whoever causes pain. (F) then adds that God has mercifully given us whatever we need in this life, like the arts of farming and weaving. If we adopted the hedonist reading essayed just now at the end of §8.3, we might think that principle (D) boils down to a threat: pursue justice and knowledge, or else you will be punished, and painfully. But the idea of imitating God suggests a less consequentialist picture. Because God loves knowledge and justice, we too should love them, just like Him. The point of saying that God punishes the unjust would be not intended so much as a threat as an explanation of why God would inflict suffering on some people. We know that Razi is concerned with this issue because the Philosophical Life also states that much of our suffering is natural and inevitable, not sent by God for any choices (ikhtiyārāt) we have made (Works 103.14–​18). After all, God is merciful and “hates for us to suffer pain” (103.15). So if He does ever inflict punishment, this is as a just desert for pain we have caused other sentient beings. Of course this is all consonant with what we have learned earlier in this book about Razi’s theodicy. The ethical importance of imitating God becomes clear when Razi sets out a dramatic plea for the benevolent treatment of non-​human animals.31 Since God in His mercy hates suffering, we too should be merciful toward them, for instance by not overworking beasts of burden. Just as we worried that God should never punish any human without justification, so there needs to be a special reason to justify suffering inflicted on animals. For instance, it would be permissible to ride a horse to death in order that a human could save his own life, especially if the person in question is valuable to his fellow man (Works 104.8–​11). In some cases, we even have license to kill animals indiscriminately, if exterminating them would minimize suffering, as with beasts of prey (104.18–​105.6, see also Chapter 3, §3.5).32 As we might expect, Razi illustrates the “rationale (qiyās)” at work here with medical examples. Cauterizing a limb or administering unpleasant medicine does cause suffering, but it is consistent with the dictates of justice and reason because it averts more pain than it causes (104.3–​6). A similar line of thought applies to cases of justice between humans, for instance if two people are dying of thirst in a desert and there is only enough water

Ethics  193 for one, then the more useful person (like a doctor, perhaps?) should get it (104.11–​13). This fascinating passage not only indicates the importance of principle (D), but also gives us an insight into the whole issue of pain avoidance and pleasure maximization that has been occupying us through most of this chapter. It has now become clear that the advice to adopt a long-​term approach to pleasure and pain need not, and should not, be read as an invitation to pursue hedonistic goals in a self-​centered way. Imitating God, we should seek to minimize pain for every sentient creature (103.17), not only ourselves. By contrast, Razi doesn’t seem nearly as interested in our helping other creatures to maximize their pleasure and minimize their pain; he is no Jeremy Bentham. When he talks about positive goals in other-​regarding ethical contexts, he speaks more broadly of utility. For instance, the person riding the horse to death is more justified if he is rich, since his wealth could be of benefit to the people (104.10). This stands to reason, since as we saw before, Razi considers pleasure (at least in this world) to be a permissible good but not a particularly admirable one. The focus on pain can, in any case, be explained as a corollary of the emphasis on justice. When Razi thinks about injustice, he thinks first and foremost of inflicting suffering with no good reason. Imitation of God, and His mercy, thus has a much stronger case to be the fundamental ethical principle of the philosophical life than any form of hedonism or consequentialism. Consider again the criticism of the ascetics we have discussed earlier. The reason these people go astray is that they deliberately cause themselves to suffer, something Razi calls not only an “evildoing” but an “offense to God” (107.12). Even the complaints about Socrates’ lifestyle are related to Razi’s conception of divine mercy. When he lays down principle (F), that God has sent us such gifts as the arts of farming and weaving, we should remember that the extreme asceticism of Socrates’ youth was said to include abstemious eating and shabby clothes. Razi agrees with his detractors that such a lifestyle is “at variance with natural behavior and the continuity of cultivation and procreation” (99.11–​12). He can add a good reason why this is problematic: it spurns the merciful gifts that God has given us in this world. This line of thought can also help us to connect Razi’s surviving ethical works to his theory of the five eternals. There is barely any hint at that theory in the ethical writings themselves, which of course might

194  Al-​ Rāzī help explain why they survived, unlike his much-​maligned cosmological treatises. But if we think back to the theory and especially its account of the relation between soul and God, we will see strong resonances with the Spiritual Medicine and Philosophical Life. We saw (§3.2) that God helps soul to escape the pain of entanglement with matter by sending it “reason” or “intellect” (ʿaql). This explains the effusive praise lavished on ʿaql in the opening section (faṣl) of the Spiritual Medicine, a passage that is too long to quote here in full, but merits closer inspection (Works 17.16–​19.4). As in the testimonia concerning the five eternals theory, Razi tells us that ʿaql is a gift from God, indeed His “greatest blessing” to us. It distinguishes us from the beasts. As we have seen (§3.6), this point will be deployed in ethical contexts by stressing that we can, and animals cannot, resist the call of immediate pleasure. But ʿaql is more than an instrument for controlling desire. It is also of unparalleled usefulness, enabling us for instance to build ships and travel great distances, and, yes, to learn medicine, among other arts (18.4–​5). Here one might think again of the mention of farming and weaving in principle (F) from the Philosophical Life. ʿAql also has a less practical side, though. After mentioning the secrets of astronomy it reveals to us, Razi says, “through it we attain the understanding (maʿrifa) of the Creator,” which is our “most useful” achievement. If we wonder why such theoretical knowledge would be more useful than arts like medicine, and even than the control of desire, the answer seems clear:  it helps us to liberate ourselves from the body. In the Spiritual Medicine, Razi usually expounds this idea only by ascribing it to Plato. But in the Philosophical Life he asserts it in his own right, not least in the statement of principle (B): “knowledge and justice . . . liberate us from this world of ours, to the world in which there is neither death nor pain.” Again, this has obvious connections to the eschatology of the five eternals theory, which speaks frequently of the separation from matter that will enable the human soul to dwell in permanent happiness, free from pain (see quotations in §3.2, Chapter 3). Ultimately, then, the goal of Razi’s ethics is the undoing of the error made by soul when it entangled itself with matter. This deliverance results from the best possible imitation of God by using reason and achieving knowledge. Deliverance also frees us from pain, but since freedom from pain is imperceptible, that in itself could hardly constitute ultimate

Ethics  195 happiness. After all, as Razi himself points out in his reassurance aimed at those who don’t believe in the afterlife, one could achieve a painless state by simply ceasing to exist. Rather, liberation is a goal worth having, and worth making the foundation of an ethical theory, because it means that soul’s pre-​cosmic and current ignorance has finally been replaced by godlike wisdom. This is the outcome that Razi, doctor to souls as well as to bodies, prescribes for all of us.

Notes

Chapter 1 1.  For what follows, see Rante 2014. 2.  For this part of the story, see Kennedy 2004, 91–​96. 3.  Rante 2014, 133. 4.  Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 1882, 309. 5.  On the philosophical dimension of his Latin reception, see Burnett 1998. 6.  As in the titles of Urvoy 1996 and Stroumsa 1999. 7. Mohaghegh 1970 and 1973; Bar-​ Asher 1988–​ 1989; Koetschet 2011, 2015, 2017. 8.  Menn 2003. 9.  Goodman 1971, 1972, 1975, 1996, 1999, followed with qualifications by Groff 2014. 10.  Adamson 2008 (see also Adamson 2016a for a reading of Razi’s Spiritual Medicine explaining why it gives the false impression of being hedonistic), and the response in Goodman 2015. 11.  Goodman 2015, 251. 12.  Langermann 2009. 13.  Goodman 2015, 265–​266. 14.  See Allen 2019. 15.  See Adamson 2019. 16.  Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 358.21.

197

198  Notes 17.  Pines 1936, 93, points out that a title on Bīrūnī’s list of Razi’s works, Kitāb al-​ārāʾ al-​ṭabīʿiyya, matches the Arabic title of the Pseudo-Plutarch work. 18.  On this see, e.g., Opsomer 1994 and 2004; Baltes 2000; Dillon 2002; and Boys-​Stones  2017. 19.  See Rashed 2000, drawing on the testimony of Fakhr al-​Dīn vol. 4, 419. See also Vallat 2015b, 180–​181, for an aggressively hostile remark about Razi ascribed to al-​Kaʿbī, dismissing him as an ignorant dilettante in all three of the areas where Razi claimed competence, namely alchemy, medicine, and natural philosophy. His claim to alchemical knowledge is falsified by his supposed miserliness, and his expertise in medicine by the fact that he fell victim to an eye disease—​we will return to this detail of Razi’s biography . 20.  Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 357. The information is repeated by Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 1882, 311. See further Mohaghegh 1970, 9–​15. 21.  Biesterfeldt 2016, 237. 22.  On him, see de Blois 1996. 23.  On this report and its significance, see Urvoy 2008. 24.  Adamson and Biesterfeldt 2017. It should also be mentioned that according to the book lists (Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 1882, 317.5–​6), Razi wrote a refutation of a critique of Galen, on the topic of bitter taste, written by another of al-​Kindī’s disciples, al-​Sarakhsī. 25.  For useful overviews, see the articles by D. Kargar in the Encyclopedia Iranica and D. Janos in the third edition of the Encyclopedia of Islam. A survey of the evidence is provided by Minovi 1972, 31–​39. See also Mohaghegh 1970,  16–​19. 26. Abū l-​Maʿālī, 130. 27.  His remarks are usefully collected by Minovi and summarized by Pines 1936,  56–​60. 28.  As proposed by Minovi 1972, 39. 29.  For a discussion in Persian of Razi’s life, teachers, students, and works, see Mohaghegh 1970, chs. 1–​3 and 5. 30.  For a summary of what can be learned from these and other sources, see Daiber 2016. 31.  Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 356ff., English translation in Dodge 1970, 701ff. 32.  The report on Razi is in al-​Bīrūnī 1936, German translation in Ruska 1923, English translation in Deuraseh 2008 (which I was unable to consult). 33.  Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 357. 34.  al-​Bīrūnī 1936, 2–​3. 35.  al-​Bīrūnī 1936, 4. 36. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 1882, 320. On his attitude toward Razi, see also Stroumsa 1999, 107–​108.

Notes  199 37.  Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 1882, 310. 38.  Translation taken from Gutas 2014, 324 n.8; I also adopt the proposed emendation of the Arabic, which is at Nasr and Mohaghegh 1973, 13.10–​13. 39.  Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa 1882, 310. 40.  On the divergences, see Daiber 2016, 386–​387. 41.  And not to Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics as assumed in the bracketed insertion by Dodge 1970, 703. 42.  For these titles, see respectively Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 358.27 and 29–​30 (works on the soul), 359.3 (That the Universe Has a Wise Creator), and 358.10 (on matter; see also his counter-​refutation of the theologian al-​Miṣmaʿī, 358.7–​8, cf. 358.24, and his Great Book on Matter, 358.18). 43.  For his works on alchemy, see, e.g., Stapleton and Azo 1927; Ruska 1937; and my discussion in section §4.4. 44.  Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 357.21. 45. Edited at Works 99–​111. Translations in Kraus 1935; Arberry 1967; Butterworth 1993; Tornero 2004; and McGinnis and Reisman 2007; the latter also includes some of the indirect sources mentioned later in §1.4. For Italian summaries of many of Razi’s works, see Bausani 1981. 46.  Edited at Works 15–​96; translated in Arberry 1950; Brague 2003. See on the text also Gutas 1977. 47.  See Chapter 8 of this volume and Adamson 2016a. 48.  Edited in Ḥamid al-​Din al-​Kirmāni 1977. 49.  Edited at Works 116–​134; Italian translation with extensive commentary in Lucchetta 1987. 50.  Ibn Abī Uṣaybīʿa 1882, 318.29:  Fī ʿalāmāt iqbāl al-​dawla as noted by Kraus at Works 135; compare the phrase iqbāl wa-​l-​dawla at the opening of the work (Works 136.2). 51.  On this genre, see Gutas 1990. 52.  See Koetschet’s introduction to Doubts, xii. 53.  al-​Rāzī 1977, 30–​31, and 84 where Razi tells the story of a king who has precisely this deferential attitude toward his court physician. 54. See respectively al-​ Rāzī 1979, cited as Introduction, and al-​ Rāzī 1955–​1971. 55.  For this testimony of al-​Majūsī, see Savage-​Smith 2012, 164. 56.  al-​Rāzī 1977, 1982–​1985. 57.  See Greenhill 1848; Pormann 2007; and Pormann and Selove 2017. 58.  See Adamson and Key 2015. 59.  Pormann and Selove 2017, 288 (at §2.1). 60.  See Goodman 1999. 61.  On the latter, see Koetschet 2017.

200  Notes 62.  For a general introduction to the Ismāʿīlīs, see Daftary 2007 or Daftary 2011. 63.  Edited and translated in Abū Ḥātim al-​Rāzī 2011; excerpts were already translated into English by Goodman 1999, into French with explanatory notes by Brion 1986 and 1989, and originally edited by Kraus in Works 295–​316. 64.  As noted by Daiber 2016, 396, which more generally comments on various titles of lost works and how they may line up with the testimonies in the indirect tradition. 65.  See Ali 2013; Berthold 2019. Along with these two works, a third extant treatise, Kitāb al-​Iṣlāḥ, is a response to the philosophical theories of Abū Ḥātim’s fellow Ismāʿīlī al-​Nasafī. 66.  The Persian testimonies from his Zād al-​musāfirīn (for which see Nāṣir-​ e Khusraw 1923) were edited by Kraus in Works, with Kraus’s Arabic retro-​ translations at the bottom of the page. 67.  See Kraus’s comments at Works, 175–​176. 68.  See especially Shihadeh 2006, which has a valuable overview of what is known about his life and works. 69.  Rashed 2000 and 2008a. 70.  For examples concerning time, place, and void, with Razi’s views on these topics featuring in the background, see Adamson 2017, 2018a, 2018b, and Adamson and Lammer 2019. The following example of his use of Razi is taken from Adamson 2018b. 71.  Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī 1987, vol.5, 21. 72.  For this, see section §5.2, and Adamson 2012a. 73.  Adamson and Lammer 2019.

Chapter 2 1. Eriugena, Periphyseon (The Division of Nature), trans. I.-​P. Sheldon-​ Williams and J. J. O’Meara (Montreal: 1987), 441b. 2.  The relevance of this text was first brought to attention and discussed by Rashed 2000, which touches usefully on many of the points I will be treating in what follows. 3.  The distinction and terminology (athar) are strikingly reminiscent of a brief, possibly fragmentary work by al-​Kindī. There God is identified as the only “true” agent, who acts upon mediating causes which are both active and acted upon. This sets up a chain of agents ending finally in an unspecified last effect, which is only acted upon without acting. See On the True Agent in Adamson and Pormann 2012, 73–​75.

Notes  201 4.  I leave out of account the feature of being “alive” since this seems to be correlated with being “active.” 5.  Al-​Iṣfahānī actually complains about positing this category at all: “unless we say that God does things in vain, why would He make ‘a substance that is neither active nor passive’?” (Works 197). 6. I  owe this insightful formulation to a personal communication with Marwan Rashed. 7.  Already translated and discussed at Rashed 2008a, 172–​174. My thanks to Fedor Benevich for discussion of the passage. 8.  For this difficulty, see also Doubts §5.7: animals are a proof of a wise designing creator, yet also undergo great suffering. 9. The passage is at Maimonides, Guide to the Perplexed §3.12; I  give Friedländer’s translation, modified. 10.  Exalted Topics 411, 416–​417; cf. Proofs 17. 11.  Exalted Topics 412; cf. Works 205–​206, Proofs 18. 12.  al-​Ghazālī 1997, §1.11. 13.  See Sorabji 1983, 232–​238. 14. The example is also used in the Metaphysics of Avicenna’s Healing (Avicenna 2005), §6.5.15. For a discussion, see Richardson 2014. Note that, unlike Avicenna, Razi does not seem to be interested in anything like a “principle of sufficient reason.” Indeed, his point is precisely that if we invoke the foolish soul, we can say that some things happen for no good reason at all. I discuss the notion of al-​ḥaraka al-​faltiyya later, at §3.1. 15.  A point emphasized in Rashed 2000 and 2008a. 16.  Of course this would not solve the “why not sooner?” problem, so even on a less bleak assessment of our universe there would remain an argument for positing the soul. 17. For a wide-​ranging discussion of the evidence from Fakhr al-​Dīn comparing Razi’s position with Christian theodicies, see Vallat 2015a. 18.  A related analogy mentioned by Fakhr al-​Dīn in the context of Razi’s polemic with the Muʿtazilite theologian al-​Kaʿbī describes a father unwisely telling his son to swim across a river, knowing he will drown. See, on this, Shihadeh 2006, 103. 19.  Something like this point is found in al-​Kātibī’s commentary on Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Compendium:  “before its attachment to bodies [the soul] is ignorant and empty of knowledge [lit. ‘knowledges’:  ʿulūm], and it attains knowledge only after experience (mumārasa). But this happens only after it attaches to bodies” (Works 204). But this evidence should be used with caution, not only because al-​Kātibī may only be creatively elaborating on what we already know from Fakhr al-​Dīn, but also because this idea that a body is needed to achieve knowledge is so Avicennan. Indeed, later in his discussion (Works 212) al-​Kātibī

202  Notes makes it sound as if God wanted the soul to attach to matter to get knowledge, which doesn’t fit well with what we find elsewhere. Razi thinks that soul inclined toward matter to get pleasure, not knowledge, and that God knew it was a bad idea. 20.  See Davidson 1969; Adamson 2007a, ch. 4; and on the debate in general, Adamson 2016b. 21.  See, e.g., On the Opinions of Plato and Hippocrates V.766. 22.  Trans. taken from al-​Ghazālī 1997, 12, modified. 23.  Translation from CMG V 3,2 (ed. and trans. Nutton), 57. The full text of this work is lost, and the most complete version is a medieval Latin translation from Arabic; Nutton quotes the passage in question in Latin and in a further Hebrew version. 24.  The manuscripts have bi-​l-​ṣināʿa, not bi-​l-​tajriba, hence On the Art of Medicine, not On Medical Experience. But Koetschet argues in her commentary to Doubts (at 286, n.6) that this must be due to a confusion of the two titles, since the latter work but not the former has a relevant discussion on the eternity of the world. 25.  On this principle, see Judson 2010. 26.  Koetschet 2015. 27.  K VII, 671, cited at Koetschet 2015, 173. On the notion of the probable in Galen, see Chiaradonna 2014. 28.  Adamson 2016b, 90. 29.  That “the bodies in the universe” refers to the heavens is made clear by the allusion to astronomers in the quote from Galen; at Doubts §2.3, Razi mentions the earth while restating the premise, and refers more generally to “the other parts of the world.” 30. It is also one of numerous ancient texts that mentions premise (3), that corruptibility goes together with generability. See On the Heavens 1.10, 279b20–​21. 31.  Translation from Proclus 2001, 73. The term ἔχοθεν is supplied from the version quoted by Philoponus. 32.  Philoponus 1899, 300, trans. from Share and Wilberding 2004–​2010, vol. 2, 120. 33.  Discussed in Adamson 2007a, ch. 3, and Adamson 2011. 34.  On the Nature of the Celestial Sphere §13 in Adamson and Pormann 2012. 35.  Lucchetta 1987, 24. 36. At Works 114, Kraus refers to titles found in Ibn al-​Nadīm and al-​ Bīrūnī, On Physical Opinions and On Physics (Samʿ al-​kiyān). In the Philosophical Life, Razi himself cites a treatise of his own called “Introduction to Natural Science, also known as Physics (Samʿ al-​kiyān)” (Works 109). As Pines 1963, 199, points out, On Physical Opinions (al-​Ārāʾ al-​ṭabīʿiyya) is the Arabic title of the

Notes  203 Pseudo-​Plutarchian De placitis which is used as a source for the treatise On Metaphysics ascribed to Razi. 37. Sharīf 1963, 439. 38.  Bausani 1981, 14. 39.  Kraus makes another relevant point at Works 114, recalling that al-​ Bīrūnī ascribes to Razi a work entitled Doubts about Proclus. 40.  He refers here to Philoponus 1887, 197–​198: “Nature is a life or a power which has descended into bodies, and which molds and manages them” (trans. from Lacey 1993). 41.  Lammer 2015, 128, which points out the link to Philoponus. 42.  For instance in the Prologue of the Theology of Aristotle (see Adamson 2002, 39), reflected in other early texts like the Sayings of Socrates compiled by al-​Kindī (§27 in the translation in Adamson and Pormann, 2012). 43.  Physics 8.4, 255a5–​11, with the slight difference that there Aristotle talks about fire’s tendency to rise, not to burn. 44.  The word is from the same stem as ṭabīʿa, “nature.” 45.  See Theophrastus 2010, §22.3. This source is also noted by Lucchetta 1987, 103. 46.  The disparity between the infinite time and finite place of Aristotelian cosmology will frequently be exploited by al-​Ghazālī 1997, e.g., at 24–​27, 34–​38,  40. 47. This reading is supported by what he goes on to say regarding Thābit: against the latter’s idea that heavenly motion is “one,” he insists that it can be numbered as multiple motions. No actual moment of rest is needed to distinguish them (130).

Chapter 3 1.  See Adamson 2007a, 201. 2.  For instance in his Attainment of Happiness, at al-​Fārābī 1926, 20.5. 3.  Libro de la introducción, §11.2, 70.6–​7; Works 27.11. 4.  Works 122.1–​6. 5.  Fakhr al-​Dīn, Exalted Topics 411, has Razi describing the fall of soul in terms of “chance (ittifāq),” which assimilates Razi’s idea to the Aristotelian notion of chance familiar from Aristotle, Physics book 2. 6.  For al-​Kindī see, e.g., On First Philosophy §XIX.5–​6 in Adamson and Pormann 2012; for the Theology see Adamson 2002, 116. 7.  Cf. the German translation in Pines 1936, 59. 8.  al-​Kindī, Discourse on the Soul, §I.2, in Adamson and Pormann 2012, 273.

204  Notes 9.  Here Razi charts a course between saying that the entire soul is nothing but the mixture of the body, and on the other hand saying that the entire soul uses the body as an instrument. As we will see shortly, we have further evidence regarding Razi’s rejection of the theory that soul in general is nothing but mixture. Nemesius’s On the Nature of Man criticizes what he takes to be Galen’s view that the soul is indeed such a mixture. See Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 61–​63. 10.  In this passage Razi refers to the soul that survives as “sensitive” (30.12), but this presumably does not imply that the soul continues to have sensation given its lack of a body and hence of sense organs. Rather he seems to mean simply that the soul which is responsible for sensation by means of the brain—​ that is, the rational soul—​is the one that survives. 11.  For example, in ­chapter 7 on envy he recapitulates the account of the three souls and their ideal interrelation, at Works 51.8–​10. 12.  Ibn al-​Malāḥimī 2008, 159.14–​160.4. For the second citation, see §3.5 later in this chapter. I owe my awareness of the passages to Wilferd Madelung. 13.  Compare Aristotle, Physics 8.5, 256b15: every motion presupposes a potentially moved thing. 14.  al-​Ghazālī 1997, 19. Marmura trans., modified. 15. The same terms are used in another work by Fakhr al-​Dīn in the Muḥaṣṣal, quoted at Works 205.2. 16. The argument of §3.5–​ 6 was first developed in Adamson 2012b, though I am now less skeptical about ascribing to Razi belief in animal-​human transmigration. 17. Complaints about the paucity of evidence can also be found in Alexandrin 2002 and Walker 1991. 18.  Works 175. 19. al-Jāḥiẓ 1966, vol. 3, 394.9–​395.3. Cited in J. van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 6, 155. For discussion see vol. 3, 407–​408. 20.  Ibn al-​Malāḥimī 2008, 179.17–​21. 21.  Druart 1996, especially at 251–​253. Note that in this section, I use the term “animals” to refer exclusively to non-​human animals. 22.  Introduction, §10.1, 65.5–​8. These are repeated as the three “governing powers” at §11.1, 70.4–​5. 23.  So here I must disagree with Druart 1996, 252, who takes the locution “irrational animals” to indicate merely that animals are “not fully rational.” 24.  Galen 1937, 25. For a translation of this work, see Mattock 1972. 25.  Introduction §10.2, 65.11–​66.4. 26.  al-​Rāzī 1987, 368. Cited by Pormann 2008, 111. 27.  Fakhr al-​Dīn’s Exalted Topics, vol. 7, 303–​304, mentions the example and suggests that the mouse must be going through a chain of reasoning. It

Notes  205 can also be found in al-​Jāḥiẓ’s Kitāb al-​ḥayawān (1966, vol. 5), 248–​249, and can be found in Timotheus of Gaza’s On Animals, ed. Haupt (1869), 38. My thanks to Sarah Virgi for these references. Furthermore, Kirsty Stewart brought to my attention that the example also appears in a later Byzantine poem, the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds: see Nicholas and Baloglou 2003, 44, discussing lines 138–​140 of the poem.

Chapter 4 1.  Pines 1936; Baffioni 1982. 2.  Adamson and Pormann 2012, §158 in the List of Works. 3.  Fihrist 358.7, Biruni no. 58. For brief discussion of how al-​Miṣmaʿī fits into the early kalām tradition, see van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 4, 120–​121. 4.  Pines 1936, 34. 5.  Baffioni 1982, 117, 141. 6.  Pines 1936, 79; translation taken from the 1997 English version. 7.  Baffioni 1982, 124. 8.  Dhanani 1994. 9.  Baffioni 141. 10.  As Marwan Rashed points out to me, contemporary kalām also drew a distinction between matter in its fundamental sense—​which is atomic—​and the body that results from the composition of atoms. This provides us with another parallel between his physics and that of the mutakallimūn, even if the details of his atomic theory are not like those recognized in kalām, as we will see later in this chapter, §4.3. 11.  al-​Tawḥīdī 1988, vol. 4, 27–​29. For the relevance of this remark for his theodicy, see section §6.2. 12.  This ingenious point was also suggested to me by Marwan Rashed. 13.  Schwarb 2017, 131. 14.  Pauline Koetschet also links Razi’s atomism to the Timaeus: see Doubts, introduction, lxiv. Notice, however, that Razi here departs from the teaching of Timaeus that the world will never be dissolved (41b). 15.  As mentioned earlier (§1.2), the lists of Razi’s works also contain a title On Absolute and Particular Matter (Kitāb al-​Hayūlā al-​muṭlaqa wa-ljuzʾiyya). 16.  Pines 1936, 41. 17.  One might also think of the Greek ἁπλῶς as a term corresponding to muṭlaq; Philoponus 1899, 404.14–​15, uses the phrase “absolute matter (ἡ ἁπλῶς ὕλη).”

206  Notes 18.  For the passage see also Adamson 2018a, 310–​311. 19. Nāṣir-​e Khusraw adds an empirical argument given by Razi (Works 222). A spark appears when stone is struck with iron, because the air is dispersed and thus turned into fire. It’s clear that the fiery spark is not generated from the stone or iron, since these are not heated up in the process, so the spark can only come from air. 20. See his On the Nature of the Celestial Sphere §6, in Adamson and Pormann 2012. 21.  Notice incidentally that Nāṣir-​e Khusraw does not relate the claim we find in Fakhr al-​Dīn, that earth is dense to the point of containing no void at all. 22.  Of course absolute place, or void, is infinite and thus has no center—​the midpoint is defined relative to the body of the cosmos. 23.  Reported by Pines 1979, 142. 24.  See further Koetschet 2017, 177. 25.  For discussion of how the passage relates to other evidence concerning Galen’s views on void, see Adamson 2013. 26.  See Dhanani 1994, 78–​79, and compare also Themistius 1900, 133. 27.  See, for instance, Aristotle, Metaphysics 12.10, 1075b. 28. Compare the more detailed argument presented by Aristotle at On Generation and Corruption I.2, 316b, with discussion by Hasper 1999. 29.  See Vlastos 1965; Betegh 2006. 30.  Dhanani 1994, 95, 121. 31.  For the ancient commentators’ struggles on this point, see Opsomer  2012. 32.  The problem here, as pointed out in the Timaeus, is that the triangles making up the square faces of a cube would not be the right shape to form faces for the other Platonic solids. For further discussion of the shapes of the atoms, see Koetschet’s introduction to Doubts, at lxvii. 33.  If he in fact thought that all atoms are cubes, that would be a point of agreement with certain Muʿtazilites: see Dhanani 1994, 104–​105. 34.  Dhanani 1994, 192 n.26; my thanks to Gregor Schwarb for pointing this out to me. 35.  Dhanani 1994, 66. Note that one of Razi’s debating partners, Abū l-​ Qāsim al-​Balkhī, denied the existence of void: see Dhanani 1994, 67 and 73. 36. Simplicius in De Cael. 294.4. For the most comprehensive collection of passages on Democritus, see Luria 1970. 37. Simplicius in Phys. 571. Translation from Taylor 1999, §67a. See also, e.g., Philoponus in Phys. 630. 38.  The word διάστημα is translated as buʿd in the Baghdad Physics; see Badawī 1964, 309. 39.  See, for instance, Aristotle, On Generation and Corruption 325a. Notice also that the “inertness” of void, endorsed by Democritus (Simplicius in Phys. 533), would conflict with Razi’s idea that void has a power to attract.

Notes  207 40. Strictly speaking, we probably should reserve the term “body” for atomic compounds rather than atoms themselves. Ibn al-​Nadīm’s Fihrist, 358.27, reports that Razi wrote a work called That Substances Are Not Bodies (Anna jawāhir lā ajsām). 41.  See Taylor 1999, §44a, 45, 47, 49, 51a. 42.  Translation from Taylor 1999, §54a. Cf. Taylor 1999, §44a, 54b, 55b. 43. Simplicius, in Phys. 36. 44. Translation from Taylor 1999, §56. Compare Theophrastus, On the Senses 61. 45.  Meaning Aristotle’s argument at 215a, that motion in a void would be impossible. 46.  For our purposes we can ignore the question of how density might relate to atomic size and shape in the Greek atomists’ theory. I will also sidestep the thorny question of whether atoms themselves have “weight” in the Greek theory—​on which see O’Brien 1981 and Taylor 1999, 179–​84. 47. The Arabic version of the remarks quoted earlier are preserved in the Baghdad Physics at Badawī 1964, 372–​373 (“according to the adherents of Democritus, earth is the most difficult thing to affect because it is composed of indivisible parts and void, whereas the void in air more extensive than that in water,” etc.). This is Isḥāq b.  Ḥunayn’s translation. The first four books of this commentary had already been rendered into Arabic by Qusṭā b. Luqā, in good time to be read by Razi. Note that the reference to Philoponus in On Metaphysics is to book 2 (the passage quoted is in Phys. 197–​198, which was also covered by Qusṭā’s translation). 48. Langermann 2009. At 293 n.30 he mentions the passage from the Doubts which I am about to discuss. It is likewise briefly mentioned by Kraus 1942–​1943, 154 n.6, and Koetschet 2011, 188. 49.  CMG 2.12, K 417. 50.  CMG 2.16, K 418. 51.  CMG 2.17, K 418–​9. 52.  On this criticism, see Leith 2014. 53.  I take this to mean that there is still variation of composition between, say, the sun and the moon, but both share the “common” kind of composition found throughout the celestial realm. 54.  This is from On the Elements According to Hippocrates, 2.20–​21, 2.48–​49. 55. Razi goes on to complain that Galen has picked an easy target by attacking a weaker version of atomism: it’s evidently false that all things have exactly the same material basis, just as a human cannot be made out of only one bodily humor. I take his point to be that a plausible atomism must first show how the familiar “elements” (aether, fire, air, water, earth) are derived from atoms, and then construct more complex bodies out of these elements.

208  Notes 56. On Fakhr al-​Dīn’s own views about place and void, see Adamson 2017, 2018a. 57.  See Opsomer 2012, 156, which gives the nice example of Simplicius saying that both Democritus and Plato were trying to explain qualities in terms of a more fundamental underlying physics (in de Cael. 36). 58.  Diels Kranz fragment B115. 59. Badawī 1955, 23. 60.  Daiber 1980. I have discussed this work earlier at §1.1. 61.  See generally Ruska 1935. My thanks to Bink Hallum for his advice on this topic. 62.  For an English translation and Arabic text of the alchemical Introduction, see Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927. 63.  Edition in al-​Rāzī 1964, translation in Ruska 1937. 64. Razi mentions it himself in the prologue to the Secret of Secrets, mentioning that he also responded to a second author named Muḥammad ibn Layth, who is better known for having penned a letter on behalf of Harūn al-​ Rashīd that was sent to the Byzantine emperor. 65.  Cited by page number from al-​Rāzī 1964. Translation from Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, 377, modified in accordance with the new Arabic edition. 66.  Ruska 1937, 8: “Rāzī’s Lehre von Raum und Zeit und seine allgemeine Kosmogonie haben für die Grundlegung der Alchemie und ihrer praktischen Aufgaben keine weitere Bedeutung.” The atomic theory too is “kein Führer zu praktischen Erfolgen.” 67.  Ruska 1937, 25. 68.  On this see Stapleton and Azo 1910, 68–​73. 69.  As documented by Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927; they remark that “the procedure of Jābir did not . . . differ in any marked degree from that of al-​Rāzī” (328). On Jābir, see above all Kraus 1942–​1943. 70.  Ruska 1937, 35. It is, however, worth noting that the manuscripts for the Secret of Secrets vary in terms of their use of code names; see ibid., 42. 71.  Puzzlingly, Razi then adds that he will treat of the missing subject in a future work called Secret of Secrets; this passage should be taken into account in future research on the title and composition of the text as we have it, as should the anecdote mentioned in the following concerning Razi’s outdoing of his alchemist colleague Hamadhānī. 72. Modified translation from Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, 358; Arabic text at ibid., 415. 73.  Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, English 360, Arabic 416. It should be admitted that Razi sometimes seems more favorable to the idea of concealing alchemical knowledge. For instance, here in the Introduction (347/​412) he speaks

Notes  209 of keeping the properties of salts secret from all other than the practicioners (ahl) of the art and “those who are in the know (al-​ʿārifīn).” 74.  Translated at Ruska 1937, 80–​82. 75.  For another example of Razi’s winner-​take-​all approach to conversation at mealtime, see §8.2. 76.  Cf. Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, 352 n.3 which quotes Razi’s Book of Properties, to the effect that he personally observed the poisonous properties of arsenic, noting how it killed rats. 77.  Ruska 1935, 299. 78.  Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, English 355, Arabic 414, with a comparable use at 361/​417. The Introduction similarly says that iron is hard to melt without using “remedies” (ʿilāj, 354/​414). 79.  For more detailed accounts see Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, 321–​ 335; Ruska 1935, 63–​80. I will pass over the question of the equipment used in alchemy (distillation vessels, ovens, etc.), which are discussed in both of these studies. 80.  Modified translation from Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, English 345; Arabic at 412. 81.  Ibid., 360/​416. 82.  Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927, 368, note that both Jābir and Razi tend not to distinguish rūḥ and nafs, but Kraus 1942–​1943, 21 n.1, adduces a Jābirean text that subdivides six substances into two groups, spirits and souls. Another Jābirean text identifies sulphur with spirit and mercury with soul (ibid., 5 n.4). 83.  Stephanus of Alexandria, On the Great and Sacred Art, in Ideler 1841–​ 1842, II.210, cited by M. K. Papathanassiou in Viano 2005, 121. 84.  For an Arabic edition of his short work on alchemy, see Sayili 1951. 85.  Cf. the translation at Ruska 1935, 126. There are some textual problems here: where Danechpajouh reads nawra (“blossom”), Ruska reads nuqra, which he takes to be another term for “dust.” Here I have followed Ruska. More relevantly for our purposes, Ruska reports the reading lā juzʾ la-​hā adopted by Danechpajouh but prefers the variant lā ḥiss la-​hā (“that has no sensation”) which he translates “unfühlbar fein.” The two readings are orthographically very similar. The phrase and the textual issue reappear in following parallel passages, e.g., on Secret of Secrets 33. It seems to me that juzʾ makes more sense than ḥiss: Razi wants to emphasize the fineness of the calcified, powdered stone, not the imperceptibility of it. 86.  Razi is said by Nāṣir-​e Khusraw to have used the word jawhar as a synonym for matter (hayūlā); see Works 224. 87.  A  similar line of thought, albeit without the proposed connection to Razi’s theory of matter, is put forward by Stapleton, Azo, and Husain 1927,

210  Notes 327:  “Believing, as [Razi] apparently did, that the essential substance of all matter is the same, all that was necessary to effect transmutation was to bring about various changes in the proportions of the ingredients of any substance—​ probably in the direction of increasing the proportion of ‘spirit’ (or colouring principle) and ‘soul’ (oily or combining principle). This, in ordinary language, may be interpreted as meaning the removal of the excess of any constituent which was regarded as an impurity.” Closer still to my interpretation is Kraus 1942–​1943, vol. 2, 10–​11 (see his n.3 and vol. 2, 154, for similar ideas in Jābir), who draws attention to the phrase “dust that has no part” and the possible connection to atomism. Kraus aptly notes a passage in the alchemist Stephanus of Alexandria which makes reference to atoms (Ideler 1841–​1842, II.223).

Chapter 5 1.  Walzer and Kraus 1951, 8.6–​10 (§V). 2.  The Platonic background is also noted by Mohaghegh 1970, 159–​160. In general, Mohaghegh’s book and articles from the 1970s anticipate my stress on the Platonic (and Galenic) background of Razi’s cosmology and ethics. 3.  Proofs 13.15–​16 [= Works 305.7–​8]. 4.  For what follows, see also the more detailed discussion in Adamson 2012a. 5.  Ιn Phys. 149.4–​7; Todd translation, modified. 6.  For more on this, see Coope 2005. 7. Themistius Ιn Phys. 144.23–​29. 8.  For which see Pines 1955. 9.  Omitting the first innamā. 10.  I follow Pines in supplying a negation here. 11.  Arabic text in Yaḥyā Ibn ʿAdi 1988, 318–​319. 12.  Walzer and Kraus 1951, 4.13–​5.1 (§II a–​b). 13.  Cf. Walzer and Kraus 1951, 22.14 (§VII a). 14.  The same point is, however, made by a less friendly witness, al-​Iṣfahānī (Works 198.5–​6, quoted at §5.4). As for Fakhr al-​Dīn, he actually goes on to offer arguments on behalf of Razi, which rather undermines the point about epistemic primitiveness (see Works 272.7ff). 15. Simplicius in Phys. 718.14, 719.11; 719.16. 16. Philoponus 1899, 115.3–​ 7, English translation from Share and Wilberding 2004–​2010, vol. 1, 85. 17.  Here I would suggest reading min ajlihā or li-​ajlihā. 18.  As I suggest in Adamson 2012a, this this may be an unintentional distortion of what Galen actually said. He may have applied the Greek word οὐσία

Notes  211 to time simply by way of asserting its existence, without intending to suggest that time is tantamount to an Aristotelian substance. On the other hand, both Razi and Ibn Abī Saʿīd al-​Mawṣilī ascribe to Galen arguments in favor of time’s substantiality. This parallel may encourage us to think that Galen was at least saying in a dialectical spirit that by Aristotle’s own lights, time would count as a substance rather than an accident. 19.  For Razi, see Works 196.15 (cf. 199.9–​10); for Galen, see the report of Ibn Abī Saʿīd al-​Mawṣilī, at Khalifat 1988, 318. Al-​Iṣfahānī says that for Razi time has “guaranteed existence (taʾakkud al-​wujūd),” a phrase that Avicenna used to characterize the necessary existence of God; see Avicenna 2005, §I.7.6. 20.  The vocalization is not obvious; Khalidi vocalizes ṭaffa, ṭaffa, ṭaffa. The word ṭafīf can mean “little in quantity,” and the verb ṭaffa means “to draw close to.” Khalidi’s note ad loc. rightly says, “the sound of the phrase suggests an onomatopoeia.” It has been suggested to me that it might be meant to suggest a beating pulse, which would fit well with Razi’s medical interests, or dripping water (perhaps as in a water clock). But of course the point is that the moments of absolute time are occurring regardless of any such actual motions. 21.  For the idea of time “flowing,” see Works 267, 269. 22.  For instance, at Physics 4.11, 220b5–​6: time “is the same everywhere.” Earlier, at 4.10 218b1–​5, he has denied that time can be the revolution of a heavenly sphere, since many spheres would yield many times. 23.  My thanks to Ursula Coope for helpful discussion of how Razi’s theory compares to Aristotle’s. 24.  Thus al-​Kindī, in his On Definitions, defines wahm as “something’s making the soul remain between affirmation and negation, without inclining towards one or the other” (Adamson and Pormann 2012, On Definitions §39), suggesting a translation of “guess” or “conjecture.” In an extant fragment, al-​ Kindī says that wahm is ambiguous and can mean imagination, uncertainty, or forgetting (ibid., 324–​325). 25.  For this argument, see also Philoponus, in Phys. 574–​575, and Simplicius in Phys. 574; on this, see McGinnis 2006, 53, and Sedley 1987. 26. For instance, Khalidi in Proofs; Dhanani 1994, 66, speaks of the Muʿtazilites using makān to mean “empty space.” 27.  A comparison made explicitly in Goodman 1999, 94 n.14. In fact, the closest analogue to Razian absolute place in early modern philosophy is not Descartes’s notion of space, but the conception we find in Pierre Gassendi (1592–​1655). Some passages in his Syntagma (1658) are indeed startlingly close to Razi’s theory. In part  2, book 2, ­chapter  1, he writes (translation Brush 1972, 384–​390): “the common opinion holds place and time to be corporeal accidents, and consequently that if there were no bodies upon which

212  Notes they depended there would be neither place nor time. Since, however, it appears to us that even if there were no bodies, there would still remain both an unchanging place and an evolving time, it is therefore apparent that place and time do not depend on bodies and are not corporeal accidents. . . . There is no substance and no accident for which it is not appropriate to say that it exists somewhere, or in some place, and exists sometime, or at some moment, and in such a way that even if the substance of the accident should perish, the place would continue nonetheless to abide and the time would continue nevertheless to flow. From this we conclude that space and time must be considered real things, or actual entities. . . . And we must admit that place is a quantity, or some sort of extension, namely the space or interval made up of the three dimensions length, breadth, and depth in which is it possible to hold a body or through which a body may travel. But at the same time it must be said that its dimensions are incorporeal; so place is an interval, or incorporeal space, or incorporeal quantity. Therefore, two sorts of dimensions are to be distinguished, of which the first may be called corporeal and the second spatial.” He goes on to defend the claim that “space as here defined may be inferred to be uncreated and independent of God.” My thanks to Jasper Reid for the reference and for discussion of the point. 28. This is also the translation offered by Goodman 1999; puzzlingly, Khalidi goes for “masses.” 29.  Here the force of “again (ayḍan)” is, I take it, that he has already asserted the Platonic pedigree of the theory of absolute time (see, in this chapter, §5.1). 30.  The Razian provenance of the idea is confirmed by al-​Iṣfahānī, who compares absolute place to a wineskin (ziqq, at Works 200.22). 31.  On this passage, see Pines 1936, 47, who notes parallel reports in al-​Ījī, al-​Shīrāzī, and Jurjānī. 32.  For this and Galen’s response, see Adamson 2014. 33.  See, e.g., Galen Nat. Fac. §II.6, Kühn vol. II, 99. The distinction is also made at, e.g., Philoponus, in Phys. 613, explaining Aristotle, Physics 213a31–​b2. 34. Reading borīdeh; also possible is porīdeh, “filled with.” 35. See On First Philosophy §VI.15, in Adamson and Pormann 2012. To be fair to al-​Kindī, he does not make the inference immediately, but by way of the supplementary premise that nothing finite can have an infinite predicate. 36. See PHP Kühn V.766–​767, and further Chiaradonna 2012. 37.  Ibn al-​Haytham distinguished between two views of place, as either the inner surface of a container or as a void that body can occupy (cited at Dhanani 1994, 68). Razi actually endorses both views, but sees the latter as more fundamental. 38.  In discussion with me, Marwan Rashed has raised the interesting question whether God, like the other four principles, appears in Razi’s system in

Notes  213 two guises, one “absolute” and one “relative,” something we can securely say about matter (atoms vs. bodies), time (eternity vs. measure of motion), and place (void vs. the place of bodies), and arguably about souls (the cosmic Soul vs. souls of individuals). It’s notable that in these four cases the “relative” version of the principle arises by tying the “absolute” principle to particular bodies. Thus one might suppose that God, in His transcendence, should have no “relative” aspect. But perhaps one might think about God in His role as Creator as “related” to created things, i.e., to bodies. If so, then Razi would have room in his system for the traditional kalām contrast between God’s intrinsic or essential attributes (God as absolute) and His attributes of action (God as related to creation).

Chapter 6 1.  For his death date, which is variously estimated at 245/​860 or 298/​912, see Stroumsa 1999, 38. 2.  Walker 1992, 70; Stroumsa 1999, 118; Vallat 2015b, 181–​182. 3.  Al-​Bīrūnī 1936, 20 (items 173, 174). 4.  Ibid., 18 (items 138, 139). 5.  Stroumsa 1999, 99. 6.  Ibid., 108 n.139. 7.  Rashed 2008a. 8.  The same difference, albeit less stark, can be found in other authors who have discussed our topic. Walker 1992 largely tries to play down the heretical appearance of Razi’s views (e.g., at 89). Also leaning in Rashed’s direction is van Ess 1991–​1995, who thinks that Razi was merely attacking the pretentious obscurantism of contemporary theologians (vol. 4, 93, cf. 333). But Goodman 1999 takes a line like Stroumsa’s: “reason for Rāzī is salvation, and revelation is superstition” (102). 9.  Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī 1987. The relevant sections are at vol. 4, 401–​419. 10.  Rashed 2008, 177, complains that the Proofs has been “toujours pris pour argent comptant par les orientalistes.” 11.  I here summarize the material presented in el-​Omari 2007. 12.  el-​Omari 2007, 51, citing Mānkdīm, Sharḥ al-​Uṣūl al-​khamsa, ed. ʿA. K. ʿUthmān (Cairo: 1965), 758. 13.  See al-​Khayyāt 1957, §60, 72 [Arabic pagination]. 14.  See Nader 1956, 325. 15.  See Watt 1998, 226, van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 3, 416. 16.  van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 4, 632. 17.  Martin 1980, 175.

214  Notes 18.  On the latter’s defense of iʿjāz, see Von Grunebaum 1950. For other studies of the issue, see Aleem 1933; Larkin 1988; Vasalou 2002. 19.  See Rashed 2008b. 20.  As pointed out by Vasalou 2002, 30. 21.  It should be noted that al-​Naẓẓām added a further rationale for iʿjāz: that the Qurʾān includes true statements about the future which no human would be in a position to know. See al-​Ashʿarī 1929–​1933, 225.11–​13, quoted by van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 4, 159. 22.  For all this, see Martin 1980, especially 181–​183. 23.  For references to Razi’s “book (kitāb),” see, e.g., Proofs 3, 113–​114, 192. 24.  I  cite by page number from Proofs, which has a facing page English translation by Khalidi. For the Arabic text there are also incomplete excerpts in Works which I  cite where Kraus has included the passage. For partial translations of the Proofs (none of which covers all of the Razian material), see Goodman 1999; Brion 1986; and quotations provided in Stroumsa 1999. Stroumsa provides the most detailed overview of Razi’s attack as it is presented in the Proofs. 25.  For Abū Ḥātim’s own views on religious diversity, see Daiber 1989. 26.  For theological discussions in this period about whether it is possible to see God, see van Ess 2006, ch. 2. 27.  al-​Tawḥīdī 1988, vol. 4, 27–​29, as reported by Rashed 2008, 174. We saw Razi invoking a similar idea in his argument for the eternity of matter; see §4.1. 28.  Rashed 2008a, 174–​175. 29.  Interestingly, just before this passage in the Spiritual Medicine (Works 25–​26) there is an example about dinars, albeit making a different point than is made in our passage from the Proofs. 30.  Stroumsa 1999, 97–​98. 31.  For the rejection of Imamism as taqlīd as a point of conflict between Razi and the Ismāʿīlīs, see Mohaghegh 1970, 160–​161. Mohaghegh has also expressed skepticism as to whether Razi really issued a blanket denial of prophecy, in light of the animosity of Ismāʿīlī authors toward Razi, which for Mohaghegh turns on the question of whether ʿaql is sufficient for humans’ epistemic needs or is subordinate to the guidance of the Imām. 32.  Al-​Ghazālī likewise threw the accusation of taqlīd against philosophers, as well as Ismāʿīlīs. See Griffel 2005. 33.  See Walker 1993, 78. 34.  Cf. van Ess, Erkenntnislehre 45ff. 35.  See van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. IV, 663–​664. 36.  I am grateful to Tariq Mudassar for suggesting the connection to the juridical issue.

Notes  215 37.  El Omari 2016, 150–​158. 38.  Stroumsa 1999, 112–​114. Unlike Stroumsa, I  cannot see any tension between this doctrine and Razi’s Philosophical Life. He does say there that if two people are dying of thirst, the more beneficial person should be saved. But this is consistent with the idea that the two were born equal; one may have made himself more useful than the other through exertion. The Philosophical Life does not commit Razi to the claim that “human beings are unequal by nature” (Stroumsa 1999, 114). To the contrary, he there adds a point that would be useful for the Razi of the Proofs, namely that circumstances can habituate people to enduring greater or lesser discomfort, for instance (Works 106–​107). Thus we can add environment to variation in effort as an explanation of the different achievements of different people. 39.  Walker 1992, 91 n.65. 40.  On this, see van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. II, 260–​267; Watt 1998, 120. 41.  van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 4, 659. 42.  Cf. al-​Khayyāt 1957, §106, which remarks that the Shīʿa depart from the consensus of the community. 43. Nāṣir-e Khusraw claims that Razi saw bogus prophets as demonic souls which appeared in the guise of angels, to dupe people into claiming to be prophets. This would be the source of discord in the community (Works 177–​178; cf Stroumsa 1999, 106). It’s not at all impossible that Razi did invoke this sort of explanation for the bogus prophets he attacked, and certainly the reference to discord fits the evidence of the Proofs well. But whether he applied the explanation to all prophets (including Muḥammad) is of course another matter. 44.  As noted by Stroumsa, 97, n.63. 45. Baghdādī, Farq 109, quoted by van Ess 1991–​1995, vol. 5, 453. 46.  See Rashed 2008a, 179. 47. On this contrast between two different poetic forms, see Aleem 1933,  65–​66. 48.  See Rashed 2008b. 49.  See again Rashed 2008a, and for Razi’s interpretation of Qurʾān 3.14, see Rashed 2000. 50.  In the context of the reference to religions earlier in the chapter, and the sharāʾiʿ which lead one astray in the previous chapter, I think it is clear that sharīʿa does here have a religious connotation. By contrast, Druart 1996, 255, takes this to be a reference to philosophy. But as I suggest here, the contents of correct religion and philosophy will wind up being one and the same. 51.  In Vallat 2015a and b, 2016. 52.  Vallat 2016, 223.

216  Notes 53.  I cite from al-​Maqdisī 1899–​1919, which has both a French translation and Arabic edition. 54.  Vallat 2015b, 225–​226, admits that this is his only textual warrant for connecting the section on prophecy to al-​Kaʿbī. 55.  This passage also shows that the reference to “brahmins” is not to be taken as an allusion to Buddhists, as suggested by Vallat 2015b, 202. As he says, one should see further on this designation Stroumsa 1985.

Chapter 7 1.  See further Richter-​Bernburg 1994. 2.  al-​Rāzī 1961, French translation in Moubachir 1980. Note that Razi’s contemporary al-​Fārābī also dubbed one of his own works Selected Aphorisms. 3.  al-​Rāzī 1987, 203–​235. 4.  al-​Rāzī 1987, 29. 5. Namely, ʿAlī ibn Riḍwān (d. 1068), Ibn Abī Ṣādiq (d. 1068), and ʿAbd al-​Laṭīf al-​Baghdādī (d. 1162). See Koetschet’s introduction to Doubts, cxxxiv. 6.  On this work, see Chiaradonna 2009. 7.  For what follows I draw on Bryson 2000. Note that Razi did write another work that consists of case histories, called Book of Experiences (Kitāb al-​ Tajārib), edited in al-​Rāzī 2006. On this work, see Álvarez-​Milán 2000. 8.  Savage-​Smith 2012, 180. She shows that the title Ḥāwī was, however, given to the work posthumously. 9.  Savage-​Smith 2012, 174. 10.  al-​Rāzī 1955–​1971, vol. 1, 2, translation from Bryson 2000, 230. 11.  As suggested by Bryson 2000, 13 n.1. A more systematic treatment of illnesses may be found in al-​Rāzī’s work On Classification and Tabulation of Diseases (Kitāb al-​Taqsīm wa-​l-​tashjīr), edited and translated into French in al-​Rāzī 1992. 12. As studied in Mokhtar 1969. The following example is edited and translated by Mokhtar at 54–​56; see also al-​Rāzī 1955–​1971, vol. 6, 158–​159. 13.  See van der Eijk 2008, especially 286–​268. 14. For instance, the Book for al-​Manṣūr talks about different medical treatments to be given to people of different ages (al-​Rāzī 1987, 234). For other relevant passages, see, e.g., Introduction §4.5–​6, §5. For the ethical implications of this “particularist” view, see Adamson 2019. 15.  Edited and translated in Pormann and Selove 2017. 16.  A similar idea was presented by the late Byzantine author Nikephoros Choumnos, who made the counterintuitive claim that air is wetter than water because it is more susceptible of motion. See on this Bydén 2003, 133–​141.

Notes  217 17.  Greenhill 1848, 44. 18.  For what follows I draw on Pormann 2007. 19.  The fact that Razi never suggests that sex is good because it is pleasant also fits with the interpretation offered in the following. 20.  For this contrast in Galen, see Adamson 2014. 21.  See Leith 2014. 22.  On the example, see Rapp 2006. 23.  See Ierodiakonou 2014. 24.  Koetschet 2017a and part V of her introduction to Doubts. 25.  al-​Rāzī 1955–​1971, 7, translated at Bryson 2000, 234. 26.  al-​Rāzī 1955–​1971, 8, translated at Bryson 2000, 236. 27.  For this case, see Meyerhof 1935, 336. 28.  A good introduction to this debate and Galen’s stance is his treatise On the Sects for Beginners, translated in Walzer and Frede 1985. See also van der Eijk 1997. 29.  For studies of this aspect of his thought, see Pormann 2008; Koetschet 2017b. Relatedly, in the Book for al-​Manṣūr he states that the excellent doctor is the one who combines experiences through personal observation with study of ancient medical literature: see al-​Rāzī 1987, 235.14. 30.  al-​Rāzī 1977, 82; see also Koetschet 2017b, 101. 31.  See Koetschet’s introduction to Doubts, at cviii. 32.  On Semen I.1.2, De Lacy trans. 33.  For more on women in the medical works of Razi see Pormann 2014. 34.  For this, see Galen’s On the Medical Art, ch. 23. For discussion, see Pormann 2019. 35. For melancholy in the Greek and Arabic traditions, see Peter E. Pormann’s extensive research on the ailment as presented in Rufus of Ephesus 2008. See also Pormann’s contribution and the other articles in Harris 2013. 36.  Translated in Greenhill 1848. 37.  But for passages from the Comprehensive Book that do seem to engage in differential diagnosis, see Iskandar 1962. 38.  See Pormann 2008 and 2013 for the passage. 39.  For the passage, see Iskandar 1962. 40.  Cited by section number from De Lacy 1992. 41.  As rightly pointed out by Lucchetta 1987, 147. 42. See von Müller 1895 and more recently Chiaradonna 2014 and Havrda 2015. 43. In Aetius Arabus this view is ascribed to Democritus:  see Daiber 1980, V.3.6. 44.  See Patricia Crone’s articles, “The Dahrīs According to al-​Jāḥiẓ” and “Ungodly Cosmologies,” both in Crone and Siurua 2016.

218  Notes 45. See On Semen I.4.37, I.5.16, I.10.10, I.12.12. 46. Galen, On Semen I.9.40, cf. On the Formation of the Embryo K IV.667. See also Wilberding 2013, 249–​268. 47. Another point worth mentioning here is that the author of On Metaphysics apparently refers to his own dissections of sheep when rejecting the “mold” theory of fetal formation (Works 126). 48.  Mentioned in the medieval book lists, e.g., at Ibn ʿAbī Uṣaybiʾa 1882, 319 (I borrow the title’s translation from P. E. Pormann). The first work on taking advice from doctors is extant only in Hebrew and has not yet been edited. 49.  al-​Rāzī 1977, 72–​74. 50.  See Meyerhof 1935, 312–​313. 51.  See the case at Meyerhof 1935, 337, and 338 for the following story. 52.  Edited and translated in Pormann and Selove 2017, which concludes with a brief acknowledgment that the “vaunting” tone and “rhetorical flourishes” of the work evoke the style of Greek medical literature. I  quote from their translation in what follows. 53.  al-​Rāzī 1977, 17. 54.  al-​Rāzī 1977, 41–​42.

Chapter 8 1. For a summary and discussion (in Arabic) of the Spiritual Medicine, which emphasizes the Galenic and Platonic background and gives numerous parallels, see Mohaghegh 1973. 2.  Druart 1997, 56–​57, following Bar-​Asher 1988–​1989. 3.  The Christian philosopher Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī wrote a treatise in defense of chastity, in which he deals with this objection. See Griffith 2006; Druart 2008. 4.  On which see Adamson 2007; Alon 1991 and 1995; Strohmaier 1974. 5.  For his having children, one could think of Phaedo 116b or Apology 34d. Both of these mention that he had three sons, whereas Razi reports that he “died leaving daughters” (Works 99.17). On the Arabic reception of the Symposium, see Gutas 1988. 6.  Fakhr al-​Dīn has him complaining about ascetics who discipline themselves now in hopes of being rewarded after death:  “The predominant view among most people is that the human is nothing other than this body, and that there is no happiness in this world or the next life apart from bodily pleasures, so that the ascetics who relinquish these worldly pleasures do so only in order to attain the pleasure of eating and sex in the afterlife!” (Exalted Topics 416.20–​23).

Notes  219 This provides further evidence against the reading of Razi as a hedonist, on which see further later in this chapter. 7.  Notice the qualification “in quantity and quality.” I assume this means that pleasures can be compared in two ways. First, one might enjoy the same thing but in different amounts: for instance, the contrast between eating one bite of chocolate and two bites of chocolate. Second, one might compare two different pleasures, for instance eating chocolate and watching television; this would be a difference of “quality” (kayfiyya:  “how” one goes about getting pleasure). A  possible implication is that pleasures need not be quantitatively commensurable for us to prefer one over another. For instance, I  might not be able to say how many bars of chocolate would give as much pleasure as watching one hour of television, but I could still have a general preference for the pleasure of television over the pleasure of chocolate. 8.  So Goodman 1972, 34: Razi “remains unswervingly loyal to the hedonic principle as the ethical ground.” 9. For the psychological implications of this point, see §3.6 and Adamson 2012b. 10.  This is of course highly reminscent of Aristotle’s theory of virtue as a mean, but if this is Razi’s inspiration he does not say so. 11.  Razi usually focuses on justice in this context, which is natural enough since conflicts between pleasure and justice are more common than between pleasure and knowledge. However, speaking about his own lifestyle at the end of the Philosophical Life, he boasts that he has pursued knowledge at the cost of “great harm” to himself (110.10). For instance, he has given up other pursuits and destroyed his eyesight in order to read books, and strained his hand through copious writing. 12.  Notice again, too, that the upper bound of the philosophical life is not defined merely in terms of hedonistic calculus. By itself, rational hedonism would permit unjust actions that maximize long-​term pleasure for the agent, but this is of course ruled out by the strictures imposed by justice. 13.  On Character Traits 42–​43; On Passions of the Soul 24. 14.  See further Adamson and Biesterfeldt 2017. 15.  See, for instance, On Refinement of Character 175: “We will discuss in this treatise the cure of the diseases which affect the soul of man and their remedies, as well as the factors and causes which produce them and from which they originate.” 16.  Adamson 2019. 17.  On the propaedeutic nature of this work, see also Druart 1997. My own interpretation of the Spiritual Medicine was first set out in Adamson 2016a, whose conclusions I still follow here.

220  Notes 18.  For Razi’s critique of desire, see Mohaghegh 1970, 179–​180 (on the Platonic background of the clash between reason and desire), and Mohaghegh 1973, 43–​44 (for the Quranic background and etymology of hawā, “desire”). 19.  This idea of an ethical “regimen” is already mentioned by Galen at On Character Traits 34. 20. Yet a further piece of evidence comes in the Muʿtazilite treatise Establishing the Proofs of Prophecy, already mentioned at §4.1, which quotes Razi as saying that God does not create us for the sake of pleasures. See Schwarb 2017, 132. 21.  As also noted by Schwarb 2017, 137. He also shows (at 140) that Islamic theologians were concerned to refute Razi’s view that pleasure lies only in replenishment of what is lacking and relief from pain. See further the polemical refutation of Razi’s restoration theory in a commentary on Ibn Mattawayh’s Kitāb al-​Tadhkira, with Arabic edition and English translation in the appendix to Schwarb’s article. Further confirmation of Razi’s commitment to the restoration theory can be found in Fakhr al-​Dīn’s commentary on Avicenna’s Ishārāt, §7.8.1, which identifies Razi by name as a proponent of the view that pleasure consists in nothing but elimination of pain, and says that the theory is widely rejected. I  am grateful to Ayman Shihadeh for bringing this passage to my attention. 22.  The Platonic background to Razi’s views on pleasure was already well noted by Mohaghegh 1973, 51–​55. 23. See Works 145 for references. 24.  Edited in Arkoun 1961/​2, 4; Badawī 1981, 100. 25.  Arkoun 1961/​2, 5; Badawī 1981, 101. Miskawayh’s account is more complex than the one we find in Shuhayd, in part because of his greater use of Aristotle’s ideas about pleasure. See on this further Adamson 2015. 26.  The report of Nāṣir-​e Khusraw also makes this clear, at Works 153. 27. Despite the evidence cited earlier, this is not implausible, since the Timaeus was probably his main source for the Platonic theory and that dialogue does not mention pure pleasures. In fact at 65a, the Timaeus suggests that the imperceptibility of gradual departures from the natural state would explain why pleasant scents seem to be an exception to the restoration theory, but actually are not. That point is in fact also suggested at Philebus 51b also, since there we are told that the “pure” pleasures of smells and sounds presuppose imperceptible deficiencies. 28.  Adamson 2008, 93. 29.  Notice that even in the passage from Doubts about Galen in which Razi rejects hedonism, he is denying that we could ever be free of pain in this life. 30.  For antiquity, see Sedley 1999, and for the Greek-​Arabic transmission of the slogan Hein 1985, especially 99–​101. For Razi’s use of it, see Mohaghegh

Notes  221 1973, 62, which suggests the interesting idea that Socrates represented for Razi the “practical (ʿamalī)” complement to the “theoretical (naẓarī)” philosophy offered by Plato and Galen. 31.  On this see further Adamson 2012b. 32.  Ibn al-​Nadīm 1964, 358.23, tells us that Razi wrote a work “on the creation of wild beasts and vermin,” which presumably explained why it was consistent with divine providence for such pests to exist in the first place.

Bibliography

Frequently cited primary sources, with short titles Doubts:  al-​Rāzī, Doutes sur Galien, ed. and trans. P. Koetschet (Berlin:  2019). Older editions:  Kitāb al-​Shukūk ʿalā Jālīnūs, ed. M.  Mohaghegh (Tehran:  1993); Kitāb al-​Shukūk ʿalā Jālīnūs, ed. M.  L. ʿAbd al-​Ghanī (Cairo: 2005). Exalted Topics: Fakhr al-​Dīn al-​Rāzī, al-​Maṭālib al-​ʿāliya, ed. A.Ḥ. Al-​Saqqā, 9 vols (Beirut: 1987). Cited from vol. 4 unless otherwise specified. Introduction: al-​Rāzī, Libro de la introducción dal arte de la medcina o “Isagoge,” ed. and trans. M. Vasquéz de Benito (Salamanca: 1979). Proofs: Abū Ḥātim al-​Rāzī, The Proofs of Prophecy, trans. T. Khalidi (Provo: 2011). Provision: Nāṣir-​e Khusraw, Zād al-​musāfir (Tehran: 2014). Older edition: Nāṣir-​ e Khusraw, Zād al-​musāfir, ed. M.B. al-​Raḥmān (Berlin: 1341 ah/​1923  ad). Works: Abū Bakr al-​Rāzī, Rasāʾil falsafiyya, ed. P. Kraus (Cairo: 1939).

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223

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Index

ʿAbbāsids, 125, 137 ʿAbd al-​Jabbār, 127, 143 Abū Bakr, caliph, 124 Abū Bishr Mattā, 19 Abū l-​Hudhayl, 144 Abū l-​Maʿālī, 8

accident, 59, 83, 107, 118 adab, 13 Adam, 126 ʿadl, 28 ʿAḍūd al-​Dawla, 12 afterlife. See eschatology alchemy, 13, 14, 91–​98, 198n19, 199n43, 208n62, 208n66, 208n71, 208n73, 209n79, 209n84 Alexander the Great, 8, 175 ʿAlī, caliph, 1, 124–​125, 130, 135, 137, 142 al-​Andalūsī, Ṣāʿid, 10, 11 anatomy, 13, 115, 154–​156, 160, 170, 178–​179 animals, 52, 60–​61, 63–​70, 94–​96, 129–​130, 132, 134, 156, 160, 179, 185, 192,

194, 201n8, 204n16, 204n21, 204n23, 204n27, 209n76, 221n32. See also beasts anthropomorphism, 130–​131, 137–​139,  147 Apollonius, 167 argument about superfluousness of reason, 150–​151 anti-​hedonism, 184–​185 from design, 14, 29 dialectical, 37, 44, 51, 65, 75, 189 for the eternity of matter, 73–​75,  214n27 for the eternity of the soul, 60–​61,  201n16 for the eternity of the world, 31, 35–​37,  45 for the existence of soul, 53 miracle, 127 for nature, 42 regress, 120 “why not sooner?” 31, 49, 201n16

237

238  Index Aristotelian exegesis, 8 logic, 153 physics, 5, 26, 38, 46, 78, 82, 97, 100, 203n46 psychology,  55–​57 teleology, 44, 167 theology, 54 theory of matter, 97 theory of nature, 17, 43–​45, 168 theory of place, 112–​113, 119 theory of time, 101–​103, 105, 107–​108 Aristotle, 4, 8, 10, 22, 24, 37–​38, 41–​42, 44–​45, 47, 52, 55, 72–​73, 76, 83–​ 85, 91, 100–​110, 112–​114, 119–​ 120, 148, 160–​161, 166–​168, 203n43, 203n5, 211n18, 211n23, 219n10, 220n25 works Nicomachean Ethics, 52 On Democritus, 83 On Generation of Animals, 16 On Generation and Corruption, 76 On the Heavens, 37, 85 Physics, 24, 26, 42, 84–​86, 89, 101, 108, 119 Posterior Analytics, 4, 199n41 Theology (see Ps.-​Aristotle) Aristotelianism, 3, 4, 41–​44, 54–​56, 166 asceticism, 174–​178, 193, 218n6 Ashʿarism, 124, 150 astrology, 14 astronomy, 8, 145, 194, 202n29 atheism, 28, 131, 150–​151 atomism, 14, 42, 45, 62, 71–​73, 76–​91, 97–​98, 114, 116–​117, 155, 157–​ 160, 205n10, 205n14, 206n32, 207n40, 207n55, 208n66, 210n87, 213n38 ancient, 6, 72, 82–​91, 117, 155, 207n46 geometrical, 5, 82, 86, 89–​90, 206n32 kalām, 72, 82–​83, 205n10, 206n33

Atticus, 103 Augustine, 31 Avicenna, 2, 3, 4, 10, 12, 22, 201n14, 211n19 Baffioni, Carmela, 71–​72, 82, 83 Baghdad Aristotelians, 19, 43 al-​Balkhī, Abū Zayd, 7, 8, 173, 181 al-​Balkhī, Abū l-​Qāsim, 7, 82, 125–​126, 140, 142, 148–​151, 198n19, 201n18, 201n19, 206n35, 216n54 al-​Balkhī, Shuhayd ibn al-​Ḥusayn, 7, 21, 186–​188, 190, 220n25 al-​Baqillānī, 127 Bar-​Asher, Meir, 3 Bausani, Alessandro, 41 al-​Bayḍāwī, Naṣīr al-​Dīn, 186–​187 Bentham, Jeremy, 193 Biesterfeldt, Hans Hinrich, 8 al-​Bīrūnī, 8, 10–​13, 21–​22, 24–​26, 28, 40, 53, 106, 122, 143, 149, 198n17, 202n36, 203n39 brahmins, 150–​151, 216n55 brain, 57–​58, 67, 69–​70, 78, 160–​161, 204n10 Buddhism, 151, 216n55 al-​Bukhārī, Muḥammad ibn Mubārakshah, 89 choice, 44, 52, 192 Christianity, 126, 130–​131, 139, 175, 201n17 contraries, 24 creation ex nihilo,  73–​75 deliberation, 68, 70, 177, 179 Demiurge, 40, 74, 100, 103, 113 Democritus, 72, 82–​86, 89–​90, 92, 206n36, 206n39, 207n47, 208n57, 217n43 Descartes, 4, 211n27 desire, 30, 34–​35, 51, 57, 62–​63, 70, 88, 132, 134, 160, 176–​178, 180–​184, 187, 194, 220n18

Index  239 determinism, 51 Dhanani, Alnoor, 81 Diogenes, 175 disease, 30, 153, 155–​157, 162–​165, 171, 179, 181–​182, 198n19, 216n11, 217n35, 219n15 Druart, Thérèse-​Anne, 66–​68, 70 dualism of cosmic principles, 139 of mind and body, 160–​161 duration, 22–​26, 49, 62, 72, 76, 99–​110 elements, 5, 42, 73, 76, 80, 82, 86–​89, 97, 113, 155, 158, 207n55 emanation, 25, 28, 33, 53–​55 embryology, 41, 43, 166–​169, 218n47 Empedocles, 72, 88–​91, 168 Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds, 206n27 Epicureanism, 5–​6, 59, 81, 117, 160, 177 Epicurus, 5–​6, 82, 84 Erasistratus, 115–​116, 155 Eriugena, John Scotus, 26–​27 eschatology, 53–​57, 59–​60, 63–​66, 131–​132, 134, 151, 176, 189–​192, 194–​195,  218n6 Establishing the Proofs of Prophecy (Tathbīt dalāʾil al-​nubuwwa), 73, 220n20 eternalism, 32, 35, 38, 40, 41, 45, 162, 167, 202n24 eternals, five, 24–​26, 32, 48–​49, 51, 53, 60, 62, 73, 104, 118, 121–​123, 128, 131, 194 Euclid, 131, 145 evil, 29–​30, 33, 50, 64, 140, 146, 150, 175, 178–​179, 193 falta,  51–​52 al-​Fārābī, 3, 10, 52, 97, 148, 216n2 Fāṭimids, 20 fiṭna, 125, 141 free will, 33, 50, 52, 126, 130

al-​Ghazālī, 4, 31–​32, 36, 62, 136, 144 works Deliverance from Error (Munqidh min al-​ḍalāl), 136 Incoherence of the Philosophers, 36, 62, 144 Galen, 3–​4, 6–​7, 13, 18, 36, 38, 41–​42, 49, 58, 68–​69, 72, 78–​80, 86–​88, 91, 99, 101–​107, 114, 116, 118, 121, 143, 145, 152–​170, 173, 181, 185, 198n24, 202n27, 202n29, 204n9, 207n55, 210n18, 211n18, 211n19, 212n32, 217n20, 217n28, 220n19, 221n30 works Book of Demonstration, 4, 36, 37, 42, 79, 100–​101, 103–​105, 153, 162 Commentary on Hippocrates’ On the Nature of Man, 86 Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 3 On Character Traits, 68, 181, 185 On Demonstration, 4, 36, 37, 42, 79, 100–101, 103–105, 153, 162 On Marasmus, 37 On Medical Experience, 36, 202n24 On My Own Opinions, 36 On Natural Faculties, 167 On Passions of the Soul, 181 On Purgative Drugs, 159 On Sects for Beginners, 217n28 On Semen, 162–​163, 166–​169 On the Art of Medicine, 202n24 On the Elements According to Hippocrates, 86 On the Opinions of Hippocrates and Plato, 69 On the Usefulness of the Parts, 4, 167 Paraphrase of Plato’s Timaeus, 3, 100–​101,  103 That the Powers of the Soul Depend on Those of the Body, 181

240  Index Gassendi, Pierre, 211n27 Gnosticism, 33 God as agent, 9, 28, 30–​33, 35, 40–​42, 44, 46, 50–​53, 65, 73–​75, 83, 108, 114, 133, 137, 140–​141, 200n3, 201n5, 201n19, 213n38 (see also creation ex nihilo; providence; theodicy) benevolence, 9, 28–​29, 33, 54–​55, 126, 179, 190 as eternal, 24–​47, 49, 53, 71, 99, 131, 212n38 (see also five eternals) imitation of, 56, 191–​195 omniscience, 28–​32, 49–​50, 56, 75, 132–​133,  179 proof of existence, 14, 28, 150–​151 as transcendent, 54, 213n38 uniqueness (see tawḥīd) Goodman, Lenn, 5–​6 ḥadīth (prophetic teaching), 122, 124, 130–​

131, 135, 137, 140, 143–​144, 147 al-​Ḥallāj, 143 al-​Hamadhānī, Ibrāhīm ibn Jaʿfar, 94, 208n71 Hārūn al-​Rashīd, caliph, 2, 208n64 Hastī, 8 health, 13, 153, 155–​157, 163, 172, 181 hedonism, 5–​6, 174, 177–​178, 181–​182, 184–​185, 188–​189, 192–​193, 197n10, 218n6, 219n12, 220n29 heresy, 128, 132, 138–​139, 143, 148, 213n8, 218n6 Hermes, 92 al-​Ḥimsī, Abū Hilāl, 167 Hinduism, 139 Hippocrates, 13, 92, 145, 153, 157–​158,  168 horror vacui, 115, 155 humors, 155–​158, 164, 181, 207n55

Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, 2, 10–​13, 15, 20, 22, 121 Ibn ʿAdī, Yaḥyā, 7–​8, 43, 102, 218n3

Ibn al-​ʿAmīd, 153 Ibn Ezra, Moses, 78 Ibn al-​Haytham, 212n37 Ibn Ḥazm, 21–​22, 63–​64, 66, 70, 115, 117–​118 Ibn Ḥunayn, Isḥāq, 167, 207n47 Ibn Isḥāq, Ḥunayn, 13, 154 Ibn Ismāʿīl, Aḥmad, 171 Ibn Ismāʿīl, al-​Manṣūr, 173–​174 Ibn Juljul, 10 Ibn Layth, Muḥammad, 208n64 Ibn al-​Malāḥimī, 59–​60, 65, 70 Ibn Mattawayh, 220n21 Ibn al-​Nadīm, 6–​7, 10, 12–​14, 40, 186, 202n36 Ibn al-​Rāwandī, 121, 131, 145 Ibn al-​Qifṭī, 10, 13 Ibn Qurra, Thābit, 41, 45, 203n47 Ibn al-R​Īwand​Ī, 121, 131, 145 al-​Ījī, 212n30 illness. See disease. imagination, 57–​58, 67–​68, 70, 87, 89, 110, 113, 118, 177, 211n24 imamism, 20, 124–​127, 129, 131–​133, 135–​136, 140, 141–​143, 145–​147,  214n31 imitation of God, 191–​193 incarnation, 139 India, 10, 151 infinity, 41, 44 inimitability of the Qurʾān (iʿjāz), 127–​128, 131, 144–​147, 214n18, 214n21 intellect, 25–​26, 28, 34–​35, 54–​57, 61–​62, 65, 67, 70, 126, 129, 131, 133, 140–​141, 147–​149, 177–​178, 192, 194, 204n27, 214n31 Īrānshahrī, 8–​9, 21, 72, 82, 126, 147 al-​Iṣfahānī, Ibn al-​Ḥasan al-​Marzūqī, 21, 25, 27, 49, 53, 61, 71, 84, 100–​101, 106–​108, 110, 119, 201n5, 211n19, 212n30

Index  241 al-​Iṣfahānī, Maḥmūd ibn ʿAbd al-​Raḥmān, 186 Ismāʿīlism, 2, 7, 15, 19–​22, 122–​124, 135–​138, 140, 147, 200n62, 200n65, 214n31 Jābir ibn Ḥayyān, 92, 97, 208n69, 209n82, 209n87 al-​Jadīdī, 59 al-​Jāḥiẓ, 14, 64, 127, 204n27 Jesus, 126, 130 Judaism, 102, 126 al-​Jurjānī, 112, 212n31 al-​Kaʿbī. See al-​Balkhī, Abū l-​Qāsim kalām, 14, 59, 72, 82, 104, 137, 144, 149, 205n3, 205n10, 212n38, 214n26 al-​Kātibī, 28, 201n19 Khārijites, 1, 142 al-​Khaṭṭābī, 127 Khusraw, Nāṣir-​e, 8–​9, 21, 55, 62–​63, 71–​78, 81–​85, 104–​105, 108, 111, 117–​118, 147, 186–​188, 190, 206n19, 206n21, 209n86, 215n43, 220n26 al-​Kindī, 3, 7–​8, 10, 36, 40–​41, 45, 52, 54, 56, 71–​72, 78, 90–​91, 118, 181, 198n24, 200n3, 203n42, 203n6, 211n24, 212n35 works On Definitions, 211n24 On Dispelling Sorrows, 181 Sayings of Socrates, 203n42 al-​Kirmānī, 15, 20, 21, 147 Koetschet, Pauline, 3, 7, 19, 36, 160, 202n24, 205n14 Kraus, Paul, 15, 21, 41, 64, 77, 186 Langermann, Y. Tzvi, 5–​6 Leucippus, 83 Love (ʿishq) 17, 30, 35, 62 Lucchetta, Giulio, 40

al-​Mahdī, caliph, 1 Maimonides, 29, 33 majlis, 18–​19, 175 al-​Majūsī, 18, 199n55 al-​Maʾmūn, caliph, 125 Mani, 139 Manicheanism, 11, 14, 139, 175 al-​Manṣūr, Abū Ṣālīḥ,  17–​18 al-​Maqdisī, 148, 150–​151 al-​Masʿūdī, 7 materialism, 48, 59, 167–​168 matter eternal, 32–​33, 62, 71–​73, 205n17 relative, 76 al-​Mawṣilī, Ibn Abī Saʿīd, 102, 210n18, 211n19 medicine, 2, 12–​14, 18–​19, 67, 94–​95, 118, 145, 152–​173 methodology, 13–​14, 161–​166 memory, 16, 57, 58, 67 Menn, Stephen, 4 miḥna, 137 miracles, 126–​127, 130–​131, 139, 143–​144, 146–​147 mirror for princes, 16 Miskawayh, 181, 187–​188, 220n25 works On Pleasures and Pains, 187 Refinement of Character, 181 al-​Mismaʿī, 21, 72, 75, 82, 199n42, 205n3 mixture, bodily, 57, 59–​61 Mohaghegh, Mehdi, 3 Moses, 130, 144 motion atomic, 5, 49, 159 celestial, 78, 100–​101, 103, 107–​109, 145, 203n47, 211n22 compelled, 51–​52, 163–​164 disorderly, 74, 103 elemental, 42, 78, 82–​83, 112, 157, 159 eternal, 107–​108 first,  45–​46

242  Index motion (cont.) measure of, 47, 76, 100, 102, 105–​107, 109, 120, 212n38 natural, 36, 51–​52, 62, 73, 99, 109, 119, 157, 164, 204n13, 211n20, 216n16 sudden, 51–​52, 201n14 voluntary, 52–​53, 57–​58, 160–​161,  164 Muḥammad (prophet), 123–​126, 130–​131, 137, 139, 141–​144, 215n43 Muḥammad ibn Yūnus, 93 Mullā Ṣadrā, 186 Murjiʾites, 142 mutakallimūn, 42, 50–​51, 72, 81–​82, 104, 124, 140, 150, 205n10, 213n8, 220n21 Muʿtazila, 7, 52, 59, 64–​65, 72–​73, 75, 80, 82, 123, 125–​128, 135, 139–​ 144, 146–​147, 149–​151, 201n18, 211n26, 220n20 al-​Mutanabbī, 12 al-​Nasafī, 200n65 nature,  41–​44 al-​Naẓẓām, 64, 127, 142, 146, 214n21 Nemesius, 204n9 Neoplatonism, 6, 43, 54, 56, 108, 120 Nikephoros Choumnos, 216n16 occasionalism, 42, 44 origination, 73 pain. See suffering paradise, 65 perception, 54, 55 Peripateticism. See Aristotelianism Philoponus, John, 31, 35–​36, 39–​40, 43, 85, 105, 202n31, 203n41, 207n47 works Against Proclus on the Eternity of the World, 36, 39 Commentary on the Physics, 85 Pines, Shlomo, 71–​72, 76, 82

place, 111–​112 absolute, 9, 24–​25, 45–​46, 62, 72, 76–​77, 83–​84, 99, 109–​120, 206n22, 211n27, 212n30, 213n38 (see also void) Aristotelian, 5, 46, 72, 84, 100, 112, 120, 203n46 relative, 62, 72, 76, 83, 109, 111–​112, 114, 118–​120, 212n38 Plato, 4, 6–​7, 10, 35, 40, 49, 53, 56–​60, 62, 72–​73, 76, 78, 82, 86, 88–​89, 91–​92, 99–​102, 113–​114, 120, 141, 154, 182, 185, 187–​189, 191, 194, 208n57, 220n30 works Phaedo, 53 Philebus, 187, 220n27 Republic, 57, 187 Symposium, 175, 218n5 Theaetetus, 191 Timaeus, 4, 7, 9, 40, 57, 58, 74–​75, 76, 78, 81–​82, 89–​90, 100–​103, 113, 120, 160, 185, 205n14, 206n32, 220n27 pleasure, 5–​6, 62–​63, 65, 68, 70, 134, 167, 174, 176–​178, 182–​191, 193–​194, 217n19, 219n7, 219n11, 219n12, 220n20, 220n22, 220n25, 220n27 Plotinus, 54 Plutarch, 6–​7, 103. See also Ps.-​Plutarch pneuma. See spirit polemic anti-​Ismāʿīlī, 123, 135–​136, 147 anti-​religious, 3, 15, 20, 22, 122, 131 political leadership, signs of, 16–​18 Proclus, 35, 39, 41, 45, 105 prophecy, 3, 11, 15, 20, 120–​123, 125–​ 151, 214n31, 215n43, 216n54 providence, 3, 16, 21, 30, 221n32 Ps.-​Aristotle, 90, 203n42, 203n6 Ps.-​Plutarch, 7, 90–​91, 198n17, 202n36 Ptolemy, 131, 145 Pythagoras, 92

Index  243 Qurʾān, 31–​32, 121, 123–​124, 127, 130–​131, 135, 137–​139, 144–​149, 214n21, 215n49, 220n18 Quraysh, 125 al-​Qūshjī, 186–​187 Qusṭā b. Lūqā, 145, 207n47 Rashed, Marwan, 22, 122–​123, 128, 134, 146 al-​Rāzī, Abū Ḥātim, 2, 7, 15, 19–​20, 34, 51–​52, 62, 101, 103, 107, 110–​ 113, 118–​119, 122–​123, 126, 128–​148, 150, 200n65, 214n25 works On the Proofs of Prophecy (Fī aʿlām al-​nubuwwa), 20, 122, 126, 128, 130–​132, 134–​135, 137, 139–​ 140, 142, 144–​147, 150, 213n9, 214n24, 214n29, 215n38, 215n43 Book of Decoration (Kitāb al-​Zīna), 20 Book of Remedy (Kitāb al-​Iṣlāḥ), 200n65 al-​Rāzī, Fakhr al-​Dīn, 2, 22–​23, 26–​31, 34, 50, 52, 54, 61–​63, 65, 66, 70, 76, 89, 105, 115, 123, 146, 148–​150, 189, 198n19, 201n17, 201n18, 201n19, 206n21, 208n56, 210n14, 218n6 works Commentary on Avicenna’s Ishārāt. 220n21 Compendium (Muḥaṣṣal), 26, 27, 50, 54 Exalted Topics for Inquiry in Theology (al-​Maṭālib al-​ʿāliya min al-​ʿilm al-​ilāhī), 22, 27, 29, 32, 123, 148 al-​Rāzī, Abū Bakr b. Zakariyyāʾ as doctor, 3, 12, 13, 30, 69, 94–​95, 131, 161–​162, 170–​171 as freethinker, 3, 10, 121–​122, 128 life, 1–​2, 10, 12, 18 works

Aphorisms (Fuṣūl), 153 Book for al-​Manṣūr, 17–​18, 153, 158, 173, 216n14, 217n29 Book of Experiences (Kitāb al-​Tajārib), 216n7 Book of Testimonies (Kitāb al-​ Shawāhid), 92–​93, 95 Commentary on Plutarch’s Commentary on the Timaeus, 6 Comprehensive Book (al-​Ḥāwī), 18, 60, 95, 153–​155, 163, 170–​171, 216n8, 217n37 Doubts about Galen, 4, 6, 19, 36, 39–​40, 41, 42, 45, 49, 58–​59, 69–​70, 72, 78, 89–​91, 121, 153, 155–​157, 159, 160–​163, 165, 169, 173, 185, 188, 207n48, 220n29 Doubts about Proclus, 203n39 Great Book on Matter, 199n42 Introduction to Aristotle’s Physics, 85, 202n36 Book of Physical Opinions (Kitāb al-​ārāʾ al-​ṭabīʿiyya), 198n17 On Absolute and Particular Matter (Kitāb al-​Hayūlā al-​muṭlaqa wa-​juzʾiyya), 14, 205n15 Letter to One of His Disciples, 18, 162, 170, 172 Medical Introduction, 18, 52, 58, 61, 67, 69, 79, 91, 153, 155, 157–​ 158, 160–​161, 163–​164, 166, 169–​170,  209n78 On Classification and Tabulation of Diseases (Kitāb al-​Taqsīm wa-​l-​tashjīr), 216n11 On Demonstration,  13–​14 On Divine Science, 11, 63 On Expelling Heat, 156 On Metaphysics, 15, 29, 40–​47, 52, 85, 202n36, 207n47, 218n47 On Physical Opinions, 202n36 On Physics, 202n36 On Prophecy (Fī l-​nubuwwāt), 122

244  Index al-​Rāzī, Abū Bakr b. Zakariyyāʾ (cont.) On Properties, 209n76 On Smallpox and Measles, 157–​158, 164, 171 On the Creation of Wild Beasts and Vermin, 221n32 On the Ignorant Physicians 170 On the Necessity of the Mission by Way of Resolution (Fī wujūb al-​ duʿāʾ ʿalā tarīq al-​ḥazm), 122 On the Necessity of the Prophetic Mission, Against He Who Insults Prophecies (Fī wujūb daʿwar al-​nabī ʿalā man naqira bi-​l-​nubuwwāt), 122 On Theology,  21–​22 On Theology According to the Opinion of Plato, 21 On the Properties of Things (Khawāṣṣ al-​ashyāʾ), 165 On the Quiddity of Pleasure (Maqālat fī Māʾiyyat al-​ladhdha), 186 On the Secret of the Medical Art, 18 On the Signs of Fortune and Dominion,  15–​16 On the Tricks of Supposed Prophets (Fī ḥiyal al-​mutanabbīyīn), 122, 143 Philosophical Life, 11, 13–​15, 17, 22, 34, 41, 63–​66, 70–​71, 85, 122, 134, 139, 146, 174–​175, 177–​ 178, 182–​183, 189–​192, 194, 215n38, 219n11 Refutation of Religions (Naqd al-​adyān), 122 Secret of Secrets (Sirr al-​asrār), 91–​95, 208n64, 208n70 Spiritual Medicine, 6, 15, 20, 31, 34, 48–​49, 52, 53, 54, 56, 58–​61, 67–​ 70, 133, 138, 146–​147, 158, 160,

163, 173–​174, 176–​177, 180–​ 182, 184–​186, 189–​190, 194, 197n10, 214n29, 218n1, 219n17 Superstitions of the Prophets (Makhārīq al-​anbiyāʾ), 122 That Substances Are Not Bodies (Anna jawāhir lā ajsām), 207n40 That the Universe Has a Wise Creator, 199n42 Twelve Books, 91, 93–​94 What He Wishes to Reveal in Allegation about Shortcomings of the Saints, 11 Rayy, 1–​2, 163 reason. See intellect. receptacle, 113–​114, 118 recollection,  54–​55 reincarnation, 48, 63, 66 religious law, 122, 126, 135, 215n50 restoration, theory of, 184–​189, 191, 220n20, 220n27 resurrection, 63, 65 Rufus of Ephesus, 217n35 al-​Rummānī, 127 Ruska, Julius, 92–​93, 95 Saadia Gaon, 36 Sāmānids, 1, 17 ṣarfa, 127, 144 al-​Sarakhsī, 198n24 Savage-​Smith, Emilie, 154 Schwarb, Gregor, 73 sex, 18, 158, 175, 217n19 sharīʿa. See religious law. Sharīf, Miyān Muḥammad, 41 al-​Shīrāzī, Quṭb al-​Dīn, 8, 212n31 Shīʿism, 20, 124–​127, 135–​137, 143, 146, 215n42. See also Ismāʿīlism al-​Sijistānī, 138 Silk Road, 2 Simplicius, 84, 105, 208n57

Index  245 Ṣiwān al-​ḥikma, 186

Socrates, 7, 49, 57, 58, 63, 174–​176, 178, 180, 182, 193, 220n30 Sorabji, Richard, 31 soul eternal, 9, 29, 33, 50, 53, 55–​56, 61–​62, 70, 212n38 foolishness of, 49, 50, 53, 55, 66, 201n14 individual, 48, 56, 59, 60, 61–​62, 70, 212n38 liberation of, 15, 25, 34–​35, 55–​56, 61–​65, 176, 179–​180, 189, 194 tripartite, 35, 56–​58, 67, 70 world soul, 48 space, See also place Cartesian, 112 Spirit (pneuma, rūḥ), 69, 95–​97, 155, 158, 160–​161, 164, 168, 209n82, 209n87 Stephanus of Alexandria, 97, 209n87 Stoics, 10, 45, 69, 88, 117, 161 Stroumsa, Sarah, 122–​123, 136, 141 substance, 14, 34, 39, 40, 53–​58, 67, 77, 83, 98, 102–​103, 107, 108, 166, 209n86, 209n87, 210n18, 211n27 suffering, 5–​6, 9, 28, 30, 32–​35, 50, 54–​ 55, 59, 62, 65, 73, 132, 134, 150, 157, 159, 174, 176–​179, 182–​ 183, 185, 187–​190, 192–​194, 220n21, 220n29 Sunnism, 124–​125 taqlīd, 3–​4, 42, 130, 135–​137, 140, 143, 146–​147, 149–​150, 168, 214n31, 214n32 taʿṭīl, 137–​138 tawḥīd, 9, 28, 136

al-​Tawḥīdī, 133–​134 Themistius, 101–​103, 105 theodicy, 7, 9, 28, 32–​35, 54, 56, 73, 134, 148, 150, 192, 201n17, 205n11 theology. See kalām; mutakallimūn Theophrastus, 44 therapy, ethical, 5–​6, 190 thought, 57, 58, 67–​69, 70, 177 time absolute, 22–​23, 46, 72, 76, 114, 211n20, 212n29, 213n38 (see also duration) infinite,  45–​46 relative, 46–​47, 72, 76, 212n38 Timotheus of Gaza, 206n27 Torah, 130, 137 transmigration, 63–​66, 70, 204n16 Trinity, 139 al-​Ṭūsī, Naṣīr al-​Dīn, 186 ʿUmar, caliph, 124 ʿUthmān, caliph, 124

Vallat, Philipp, 148–​151 vision, theory of, 160–​161 void, 9, 21, 22, 25–​26, 45, 49, 62, 72, 76–​81, 83–​86, 99, 100, 104, 110, 112, 114–​120, 144, 154–​155, 162, 200n70, 206n21, 206n22, 206n35, 206n39, 207n45, 208n56, 212n37, 212n38 volition, 44, 52, 57, 58 Walker, Paul, 141 Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ, 142 Zoroastrianism, 33, 139 Zosimus, 92