Andalus and Sefarad: On Philosophy and Its History in Islamic Spain 9780691195452

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a n da lus a n d sefa r a d

Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World Edited by Michael Cook, William Chester Jordan, and Peter Schäfer A list of titles in this series appears at the back of the book.

Andalus and Sefarad On Phil osoph y a n d I ts History i n Isl a mic Spa i n

Sarah Stroumsa

pr i nc e­t on u n i v e r si t y pr e ss pr i nc e­t on & ox for d

Copyright © 2019 by Prince­ton University Press Published by Prince­ton University Press 41 William Street, Prince­ton, New Jersey 08540 6 Oxford Street, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20 1TR press​.­princeton​.­edu All Rights Reserved LCCN 2019935974 ISBN 9780691176437 British Library Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data is available Editorial: Fred Appel, Thalia Leaf, and Jenny Tan Production Editorial: Natalie Baan Jacket Design: Chris Ferrante Production: Erin Suydam Publicity: Nathalie Levine and Kathryn Stevens Copyeditor: Hank Southgate This book has been composed in Miller Printed on acid-­free paper. ∞ Printed in the United States of Amer­ic­ a 10 ​9 ​8 ​7 ​6 ​5 ​4 ​3 ​2 ​1

To Laura Stroumsa, née Saporta, and in memory of Jacques Stroumsa

con t e n ts



Preface ​· ​xi

Acknowl­edgments ​· ​xv

Abbreviations ​· ​xix

Transliteration and Dates ​· ​xxi

Introduction

1



Al-­Andalus: Territory, Chronology, and Identity

1



The Linguistic and Philosophical Koinē of the Islamicate World

4



Intellectual Contacts

7



Religious Communities

12



The Phi­los­o­phers’ Community

18



Philosophical Schools and Speculative Thought

19

­Toward an Integrative Intellectual History of al-­Andalus

22



25

The Politico-­Religious Map of al-­Andalus

chapter 1 Beginnings

27



28

Books and Libraries

Censorship

31



34

Scholars and Thinkers



Ibn Masarra and His Books

34



Searching for the True Knowledge of Divine Unity

41



Ibn Masarra’s Jewish Connections

48



The Persecution of the Masarrīs

57

[ vii ]

[ viii ] con ten ts

chapter 2

Theological and ­Legal Schools

Muʿtazila: The Footprints of a Phantom

61 61



Muʿtazila 61



Muʿtazila in al-­Andalus

63

Literalism and Scripturalism

73



Karaites

73



Ẓāhirīs 77

chapter 3

Intellectual Elites

81



Golden Ages

81

Courtiers

82

Poets

85



Phi­los­o­phers

87



The Philosophical Curriculum

90



The Solitude of the Engaged Phi­los­o­pher

94



Philosophical Friendships

96

chapter 4

Neoplatonist Inroads

102



The Two-­Pronged Philosophical Trajectory in al-­Andalus

102



Pseudo-­Empedoclean Neoplatonism

115



Hybrid Phi­los­o­phers

120

chapter 5

Aristotelian Neo-­Orthodoxy and Andalusian Revolts

124



Aristotelian Shift

124



Almohads and Almohad Education

128



The Almohads and Philosophy

134



The Phi­los­op ­ hers and the Almohads

141



The Almohad Impact on Philosophy

146

con ten ts [ ix ]



Princi­ples and Fundamentals

147



Andalusian Revolts

151



The Andalusian Aristotelian School

155

Conclusion

162



Moving Out

162



The Common Ground

167

References ​· ​171 Primary Sources ​· ​171 Secondary Sources ​· ​176 Index ​· ​213

pr eface

a monogr a ph is a narrative that connects myriad dots of disjointed data. The pre­sent monograph seeks to tell the story of speculative thought as it developed in the Iberian peninsula between the fourth/tenth and the sixth/twelfth ­century. Like all tales, this one can be told in more than one way. Let us begin at the beginning. The terms Andalus and Sefarad in the book’s title appear to indicate, respectively, the Muslim and Jewish cultures of the medieval Iberian peninsula. Yet medieval Jews, like their Muslim peers, often referred to the Iberian territory dominated by Islam in which they lived as “al-­Andalus.” ­Here is a first signal, then, of the book’s approach as well as of its main argument: as both Jewish and Muslim philosophy in al-­Andalus are integral parts of a single story, their history should be told as such. In this spirit, I resisted the temptation to structure the book around pairs of separately described Jewish and Muslim thinkers, presented as Plutarchian parallel lives of sorts—­although d ­ oing so would have made the book easier to write, and prob­ably simpler to read. Instead, the reader ­will find a more intricate inquiry, cross-­sections that discuss both Jewish and Muslim phi­los­o­phers, allowing their thinking to unfold in a unitary narrative. I have made a special effort to incorporate in each of the following chapters topics that are generally examined separately in the scholarly lit­ er­a­ture. On some level, therefore, the book claims to offer a corrective picture, more comprehensive and integrative than that which is commonly painted. At the same time, this work is not meant to be a complete history of philosophy and theology in al-­Andalus. I thus offer this preface as an apologia of what this book is not. This is not a comprehensive and systematic history of philosophy in al-­Andalus: it does not list all the thinkers and their works, it does not analyze all their characteristic ideas, and it leaves aside many subjects that are not only relevant, but sometimes tightly connected to the development of philosophy. Mysticism (but not mystical philosophy) remained, by and large, outside the book’s frame; so did scientific thought (except where it clarifies the development of philosophy) and ­legal thought, both Muslim and Jewish (except to the extent that it touches on theology and philosophy). In this book, the word “philosophy” refers broadly to systematic speculative thought. U ­ nder this heading, the following chapters w ­ ill discuss [ xi ]

[ xii ] Pr eface

Aristotelian and Neoplatonist thinkers as well as theologians, ­adepts of rational thought, and builders of mystical philosophical systems. The book mines two main kinds of source material: the medieval texts themselves, and modern scholarship on them. The topics discussed herein have by no means been overlooked in the scholarly lit­er­a­ture. The current work stands on the shoulders of ­these scholars; even when my own views differ, at times considerably, from t­ hose proposed by other scholars, my debt to them is enormous. While I try to acknowledge their work, at least in the notes, I have deeply engaged only with t­ hose authors whose work bears profoundly on the work at hand. Occasionally, older scholarship may turn out to be more relevant, and be cited more often, than the newest additions to the scholarly bookshelf. E ­ arlier modern scholars of medieval thought in al-­Andalus, pioneers in the field, had very ­little original material to work with, compared to what is available now. One often observes with awe and admiration the depth of their understanding, although they frequently had to resort to speculation, glossing over lacunae in their information. This being said, some of their arguments are now obviously obsolete. In specific cases, where previously unknown material has come to light, it is fairly easy to revise the picture. Much harder, however, is rectifying patterns and attitudes that w ­ ere set by t­ hese early scholars and have become entrenched track-­lines on which modern scholarship continues to roll, such as the division into philosophical schools, the so­cio­log­ic­ al concept of “symbiosis” as applicable to philosophy, and so on. It is sometimes pos­si­ble to identify how the then-­prevailing Zeitgeist contributed to shaping the initial mindset of t­ hese early scholars. For example, Spanish scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, whose works remain the cornerstone of the study of al-­Andalus, ­were more often than not Christian Spanish nationalists—­a fact that was reflected in their approach. In some, for example, one recognizes the belief in an “Iberian genius” that managed to engender a period of efflorescence even u ­ nder Islam (which they regarded as a false religion) and u ­ nder the Arabs or the Berbers (on both of whom many of them looked down).1 Paradoxically, it may have been ­these prejudices that fostered the emergence of positive or even laudatory concepts to describe the Muslim period, like

1. See Trend, “Spain and Portugal,” 1–5; Monroe, Islam and the Arabs in Spanish Scholarship, esp. 84–85, 246–51; and see chapter 4, pages 117–18; Catlos, “Christian-­Muslim-­ Jewish Relations,” 1–3; Marín, “Revisiting Islam and the Arabs in Spanish Scholarship.” On the inclusion of Muslims and the exclusion of Jews from this “Spanish genius” by some, see Gabriel Martinez-­Gros’s preface to Aillet, Les Mozarabes, ix; Aillet, ibid., 10–13.

Pr eface [ xiii ]

convivencia or “the golden age.” Notwithstanding the gratitude we owe ­these g ­ reat scholars, in the following pages I w ­ ill question the relevance of some of their patterns of thought. As w ­ ill become clear shortly, the book primarily aims to integrate Jewish thought into the broader narrative, as this is the side that is regularly set apart from the main history of Andalusian speculative thought, and whose role in shaping it is markedly misunderstood. Scholars of medieval Jewish philosophy usually acknowledge that it developed ­under the massive influence of Islamic thought, whereas the relevance of Jewish thought to the history of Muslim philosophy is too often hardly recognized by historians of Islamic thought. Correcting this oversight is one of the major goals of this book, and the imbalanced scholarly picture is prob­ably reflected in the distribution of my effort. I reiterate, then, that the pre­sent work is in no way designed as a comprehensive intellectual history of al-­Andalus, such as I myself would be waiting to read. Rather, it has a more modest—­though, in my view, crucial—­goal: it strives to suggest a new way to tell the old story of Muslim and Jewish philosophy in al-­Andalus.

ack now l ­e dgm e n ts

a lmost t wo de­c a des in the making, this book began its life humbly, as an inchoate thought. During ­these years, ­every class I taught and ­every pre­sen­ta­tion I made w ­ ere opportunities to develop my ideas, and I am indebted to more ­people than I can possibly mention for helping me to do so. Acknowledging some of the assistance I received during this time has the added advantage of recapturing t­ hose years, if only for a moment. ­Until the year 2000, I was working mostly on the Islamic East. It was my ­daughter Rachel who first suggested that I turn my gaze to the Iberian peninsula, and my d ­ aughter Daphna who held my hand during my first excursions in Spanish territory. For their filial inspiration, I am im­mensely grateful. A Starr visiting professorship at the Center for Jewish Studies at Harvard University, followed by a term spent at the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, in Madrid, gave me the leisure, library access, and scholarly companionship necessary to turn westward. The scholars at the CSIC provided invaluable guidance. I am especially beholden to Maribel Fierro and Mercedes García-­Arenal, founts of knowledge in every­thing Andalusian. Through our conversations, in which they generously shared their erudition, the daunting new endeavor became an exciting adventure. While active teaching is enormously enriching, it leaves l­ittle time for concentrated research; several sabbaticals and visiting positions made it pos­si­ble for me to immerse myself in this proj­ect and advance in it. In 2002–3, I spent a year at the Israel Institute for Advanced Studies in Jerusalem, as part of a group studying Judaism and Sufism. I wish to thank Sara Sviri for hours spent together in the com­pany of Ibn Masarra, and David Wasserstein, who generously shared his abundant knowledge of al-­ Andalus. A grant of the Israel Science Foundation, accorded to Sara Sviri and myself in 2005–8, supported our study of Ibn Masarra. A fellowship, in 2006–7, at the Institute for Advanced Judaic Studies in Philadelphia (the pre­sent Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania) enabled me to take stock of this proj­ect and rethink its format. Throughout ­these and other, shorter, wanderings, the Hebrew University remained my home base. Constant interactions with my colleagues at the Department of Jewish Thought and the Department of Arabic [ xv ]

[ xvi ] ack now l­e dgmen ts

Language and Lit­er­a­ture nourished my ideas, challenged my assumptions, and rectified my errors; I am deeply grateful to each and ­every one of them. Several years of administrative ser­vice, during which my attention was focused on con­temporary issues, slowed this proj­ect considerably. I am thankful to Sabine Schmidtke, whose support greatly facilitated my return to the ­Middle Ages. I wish to thank the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, whose generous Research Award enabled me to strengthen my cooperation with German colleagues and tap into new resources. A fellowship at the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin in 2014–15, buttressed by a sojourn ­there as a spouse in 2017, allowed me to delve into this proj­ect intensively. My warm appreciation goes to the WIKO’s library team, who made the books I requested magically materialize on my desk. A fall term at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor in 2015, as the Louis and Helen Padnos Visiting Professor in Judaic Studies, and another fall term in the following year at the University of Chicago, as Joyce Z. Greenberg Visiting Professor of Judaic Studies, permitted me to discuss this proj­ect with many colleagues and benefit from their advice. Special thanks are due to Harry Eli Kashdan (Michigan) and to Yonatan Tzvi Shemesh (Chicago), my dedicated research assistants, who carved out time from their hectic schedules as gradu­ate students to help me introduce some order into my notes as well as into my thinking. Several articles written during t­ hese years provided building blocks for this book. In par­tic­ul­ ar, the introduction develops ideas first published in “Thinkers of ‘This Peninsula’: T ­ oward an Integrative Approach to the Study of Philosophy in al-­Andalus,” in Beyond Religious Borders: Interaction and Intellectual Exchange in the Medieval Islamic World, edited by David M. Freidenreich and Miriam Goldstein, 44–53, 176–81 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012). Parts of chapter 1 are built on “Ibn Masarra’s Third Book,” in The Oxford Handbook of Islamic Philosophy, edited by Khaled el-­Rouayheb and Sabine Schmidtke, 83–100 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017); and chapter 2 incorporates reworked parts of “The Muʿtazila in al-­Andalus: The Footprints of a Phantom,” Journal of Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 2 (2014): 80–100. I wish to thank the respective publishers of t­ hese articles—­University of Pennsylvania Press, Oxford University Press, and E. J. Brill—­for permission to use them. The references to t­ hese articles in the footnotes show the distance I have come since their first publication. I wish to acknowledge all the

ack now l­e dgmen ts [ xvii ]

colleagues who read t­ hese articles and commented on them, both as drafts and ­after their appearance. To Godefroid de Callataÿ, who kindly read a draft of the fourth chapter and made impor­tant remarks, I would like to express par­tic­u­lar gratitude. Fred Appel, executive editor of religion and anthropology at Prince­ ton University Press, followed the gestation of this book for more than a de­cade; it was he who suggested, in 2006, that I accord the proj­ect the time that it deserved, and then he waited patiently for its ripening. That the book came to fruition is due, in no small mea­sure, to him. The draft of this book was much improved by the perceptive comments of two anonymous readers; I am indebted to them for their astute observations. Sara Tropper’s cheerful editorial style made it a plea­sure to stand corrected. I also wish to thank Hank Southgate for his meticulous copyediting. Of the countless conversations with Guy that marked my steps in this proj­ect, I wish to recall a distant stroll in Finisterre, where the Iberian peninsula tips into the Atlantic. His enthusiasm for my hesitant thought launched me on this voyage, and he accompanied it as he has always accompanied me, through thick and thin. I am fortunate, indeed, to have at my side his highly honed comparative instinct, his erudition, and his wisdom. But most of all, I am fortunate to have him beside me. This book is dedicated to my mother-­in-­law, Laura Stroumsa née Saporta, and to the memory of my father-­in-­law, Jacques Stroumsa. As they lovingly introduced me to the tastes, melodies, and proverbs of their Sephardic heritage, they made its legacy my own.

a bbr e v i at ions

Biblioteca de al-­Andalus = Biblioteca de al-­Andalus. Edited by Jorge Lirola Delgado and José Miguel Puerta Vílches. 10 vols. Almería: Fundación Ibn Tufayl de Estudios Árabes, 2004–17. Dalāla = Mūsā ben Maymūm, Dalālat al-­ḥāʾirīn. Edited by S. Munk and I. Yoel. Jerusalem: Janovitch, 1931. IAU = Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa. ʿUyūn al-­anbāʾ f ī ṭabaqāt al-­aṭibbāʾ. Edited by Nizār Riḍā. Beirut: Maktabat al-­ḥayāt, n.d. Ibn Ḥazm of Cordoba = Ibn Ḥazm of Cordoba: The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker. Edited by C. Adang, M. Fierro, and S. Schmidtke. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Kuzari = Judah Halevi, Kitāb al-­radd wa-’l-­dalīl f ī ’l-­dīn al-­dhalīl (Al-­kitāb al-­khazarī). Edited by David H. Baneth. Prepared for publication by Haggai Ben-­Shammai. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1977; Abū al-­Ḥasan Yahūdā bn. Ṣamuʾīl al-­Lāwī, al-­Kitāb al-­ Khazarī: Kitāb al-­radd waʾl-­dalīl f īʾl-­dīn al-­dhalīl, transliterated and edited by Nabīh Bashīr. Freiberg a. N.: Kamel, 2012. References to the Kuzari indicate both editions. Maimonides, Guide = Moses Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed. References to the Guide indicate part and chapter, with a following reference, respectively, to Munk-­Joel’s edition of the Judaeo-­Arabic text of Dalālat al-­ḥāʾirīn (page and line) and to Pines’s En­glish translation. For example, Guide, 3.27 (Dalāla, 371:17; Pines, 510), indicates The Guide of the Perplexed, part 3, chapter 27 (page 371, line 17 in Munk-­Joel’s edition; page 510 in Pines’s translation). OHIP = The Oxford Handbook of Islamic Philosophy. Edited by Khaled El-­Rouayheb and Sabine Schmidtke. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Pines = Moses Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed. Translated with an introduction and notes by Shlomo Pines. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963. TG = Josef van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra: Eine Geschichte des religiösen Denkens im frühen Islam. 6 vols. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1991–97.

[ xix ]

t r a nsl i t er at ion a n d dat es

biblica l hebrew na mes are generally rendered in their En­glish form (e.g., Samuel rather than Shmu’el). Maimonides, Averroes, and Avicenna are usually referred to in this book in the Latin form of their names; all other thinkers are referred to in their Arabic or Hebrew names. Hebrew words within a Judaeo-­Arabic quotation are set in bold. Dates are given according to the Gregorian calendar. When the dates concern Muslims or events that specifically relate to Muslim history, the Hijrī date is indicated first. Except when noted other­wise, translations in this book are my own.

[ xxi ]

A n da lus a n d Sefa r a d

Introduction

the story told in the pre­sent book, which begins in earnest only in the fourth/tenth ­century, tells the tale of speculative thought in the Iberian peninsula ­under Islamic rule. It would be impossible to give an accurate account of our topic, however, if we w ­ ere to treat al-­Andalus (or for that m ­ atter, any other region) as hanging in thin air, and its culture as a creation ex nihilo. Before moving to the story itself, then, we ­shall first set the scene with some background.

Al-­Andalus: Territory, Chronology, and Identity Within the Islamic world, “al-­Andalus” (Islamic Spain) constituted a distinct cultural unit with its own unique characteristics. The borders of this territory changed over time, following the advance of the Christian conquests (the “Reconquista” in Christian parlance).1 ­Toward the end of the second/eighth ­century, al-­Andalus covered most of the peninsula (­today’s Spain as well as Portugal), while in the eighth/fifteenth c­ entury, the shrunken Emirate of Granada alone, at the southernmost tip of the peninsula, remained in Muslim hands. Our period of interest extends mainly from the fourth/tenth to the sixth/twelfth ­century, when Jews living ­under Islam in the Iberian peninsula played a significant cultural role, and when philosophy flourished in al-­Andalus.2 1. On some religious and l­egal implications of t­ hese unstable borders, see Fierro and Molina, “Some Notes on dār al-­ḥarb in Early al-­Andalus,” esp. 205–6. 2. Some Jewish communities existed in al-­Andalus also ­after the Almohad persecution, up u ­ ntil the fall of Granada, especially ­after 1391, following the persecution of Jews in Christian Spain. But t­ hese communities did not attain the cultural strength of the past. See Del Valle and Stemberger, Saadia Ibn Danán, 17–27.

[ 1 ]

[ 2 ] In troduction

At times, al-­Andalus was po­liti­cally an extension of Maghreban territory. This was clearly the case in the sixth/twelfth c­ entury, u ­ nder Almoravid and Almohad rule. But even in periods when the Maghreb and al-­Andalus constituted distinct po­liti­cal entities, Andalusian intellectual history remained tightly tied to the Maghreb and its culture. The borders of al-­Andalus as a cultural and intellectual unit ­were thus dependent on its fluctuating territorial borders, although they ­were not always identical with them. The philosophy and theology that w ­ ere produced in this cultural unit developed as a continuation of speculative thought in the Islamic East and remained in constant dialogue with it. Books and ideas ­were imported from the East, studied, and assimilated.3 Yet the philosophical and theological works of Andalusian authors are not servile replicas of Maghreban or Eastern sources.4 They have a distinctive character that, while showing their dif­fer­ent sources, displays their originality and their Andalusian provenance.5 The Muslim writers themselves w ­ ere quite conscious of the special quality of their region. The Cordoban Ibn Ḥazm (d. 456/1064), for example, attempted to spell out “the merits of al-­Andalus,” while Ibn Rushd (Averroes to the Latin scholastics, d. 594/1198) included in his commentary on Plato’s Republic several observations concerning the nature of po­liti­cal regimes in what he calls “our precinct.” 6 In his commentary on Aristotle’s Meteorology, Averroes also discussed the specific traits of the inhabitants of “this peninsula [hādhihi al-­jazīra].”7 3. See Forcada, “Books from Abroad”; and see further chapter 1. 4. Modern scholarship often played down the specific, in­de­pen­dent character of Andalusian thought. See, for instance, Abellán (Historia crítica del pensamiento español, 181), who admits the existence of autonomous ele­ments but puts more emphasis on Eastern influences, and generally regards Andalusian philosophy as “but a continuation of the topics and prob­lems which occupied Islamic thought as a w ­ hole.” Similarly, Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 14: “The history of philosophical-­theological thought in Muslim Spain is a faithful copy of oriental Islamic culture.” For Reilly (The Medieval Spains, 69), “the high culture of Muslim Andalus during the eighth and ninth centuries was largely derivative.” Nonetheless, see, for example, Abbès, “The Andalusian Philosophical Milieu,” 764–77. Andalusian philosophy and theology, like the rest of Andalusian culture, is, however, more than a stop along the way, “the receiver of the intellectual legacy of the Islamic East and the propagator of a refined civilization to the Christian West.” Cf. Di Giovanni, “Motifs of Andalusian Philosophy,” 209. 5. See also Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus, 4–5. 6. Ibn Ḥazm, Risāla f ī faḍl al-­andalus; Averroes’s Commentary on Plato’s “Republic,” 97. The Arabic original of this commentary is not extant, and the medieval Hebrew translation reads meḥozenu. Aḥmad Shaḥlān, who reconstructed the Arabic from the Hebrew, suggests: ṣaqʿinā; see al-­Ḍarūrī f ī’l-­siyāsa, 195. 7. See Ibn Rushd, Talkhīṣ al-­āthār al-­ʿulwiyya, 103–4. On the background to “the

In troduction [ 3 ]

Like their Muslim counter­parts, Andalusian Jewish philosophical writings exhibit close connections with trends of thought in the Maghreb. Moreover, notwithstanding their strong dependence on the literary output of the Jewish centers in the East, they too developed their own characteristic traits. Jewish thinkers saw themselves as “the diaspora of Sefarad,” and they cultivated their own local patriotism. Thus Moses Ibn Ezra (d. ­after 1138) extolled the literary and linguistic purity of “the Jerusalemites who w ­ ere exiled to Sefarad” (Obad. 1:20) above all other Jewish communities, and he insisted that “­these exiled Jerusalemites, who ­were undoubtedly at the origin of our own exiled community, w ­ ere more knowledgeable in the correct use of language.”8 This strong sense of Andalusian identity was also shared by Maimonides (d. 1204), who, although exiled from al-­ Andalus as a young adolescent, continued to call himself “ha-­sefaradi.”9 In the study of Muslim theology, where regional differences often constitute the framework for historical studies, the particularity of Andalusian intellectual life is assumed as a m ­ atter of course.10 Students of Jewish philosophy, for their part, usually prefer a classification that links Jewish medieval thinkers with the relevant schools of Islamic thought (kalām, falsafa, or Sufism) rather than to geo­graph­i­cal provenance.11 The assumption under­lying this rather reasonable approach is that the development of Jewish philosophy was, by and large, an integral part of a common Islamic culture. The prob­lem is that the logical consequence of this perspective, which f­ avors, for example, assigning Judah Halevi (d. 1141) to the Neoplatonic school, is to minimize the impact of the immediate intellectual

Andalusian sense of identity” that “went further than self-­praise and actually expressed itself in the creation of systems of ideas that ­were distinctly Andalusian and consciously directed against intellecual authorities in the Eastern part of Islam,” see Sabra, “The Andalusian Revolt,” 143. 8. “Wa-­lā shakka anna ahl Yerushalem alladhīna jāliyatunā naḥnu minhum kānū aʿlam bi-­faṣīḥ al-­lugha” (Ibn ʿEzra, Muḥāḍara, 1:59–60). The tradition according to which the Jewish community of the peninsula stemmed from the First T ­ emple exiles is fairly widespread among Jewish authors; see Del Valle and Stemberger, Saadia Ibn Danán, 25 and note 43. 9. See Blau, “ ‘At Our Place in al-­Andalus,’ ” 293–94. 10. See, for example, the structure of van Ess, TG, and esp. 4:259–76, which follows the theological developments region by region, devoting a separate section to the Maghreb, and within it to al-­Andalus. A structure that follows regional development is also pre­ sent, to some extent, in Nasr and Leaman, History of Islamic Philosophy, part 1, section 3, devoted to Islamic phi­los­o­phers in the Western lands of Islam. 11. See, for instance, Guttmann, Philosophies of Judaism; Sirat, A History of Jewish Philosophy.

[ 4 ] In troduction

environment on a given thinker.12 Only if one claimed that Jews in al-­ Andalus lived a segregated intellectual life—­a claim that no one has thus far made—­would such an approach be justifiable. The strongly felt Andalusian identity of both Jewish and Muslim Andalusian intellectuals, and the close proximity in which ­these figures lived and worked, clearly calls for an integrated inquiry. Accordingly, this book perceives the vari­ous products of philosophy and theology in al-­Andalus as components of a common intellectual history and as stages in a continuous trajectory. This region itself, however, was part of the greater Islamicate world. Before beginning the story of al-­Andalus, then, some remarks on the broader context are in order.

The Linguistic and Philosophical Koinē of the Islamicate World From the second/eighth c­ entury, Islam dominated for centuries a vast territory, stretching from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic and from the Caspian Sea in the north to Yemen in the south. Notwithstanding differences between regimes and variants of religious denominations, the presence of Islam was the major cultural ­factor uniting ­these territories, to the extent that they can justly be called “the world of Islam.” Striving to do justice to the polyvalent nature of this world, Marshall Hodgson (d. 1968) coined the term “Islamicate,” which refers “not directly to the religion, Islam, itself, but to the social and cultural complex historically associated with Islam and the Muslims.”13 This term allows us to distinguish Islam as the dominant religion of a cultural world from the civilization identified with it, a civilization that encompassed multiple religious communities and was s­ haped by all of them. The lingua franca of the Islamicate world was Arabic. Religious and ethnic minorities living in this world retained their own legacy and often their own cultural language—­Persian, Syriac, Coptic, Greek, or Hebrew—­ but Arabic came to be their primary language: the language in which they spoke and corresponded with members of other communities as well as with each other, and in which they discussed even their own religion. The linguistic and politico-­religious unity of the world of Islam formed a unique, common cultural platform for thinkers of dif­fer­ent religious and 12. See Guttmann, Philosophies of Judaism, 136–51. As a m ­ atter of fact, all the Jewish thinkers listed by Guttmann as Neoplatonists belong to the Western Islamic world, but Guttmann emphasizes the school tradition, rather than the impact of the proximate environment. On the Jewish Andalusian Neoplatonists, see chapter 4, pages 111–13. 13. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, 1:59.

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ethnic backgrounds. A comparison with the role of Latin in the Eu­ro­pean High M ­ iddle Ages may help us grasp this singularity. Latin, as the literary language of the elite, cultivated in monasteries and closely associated with Chris­tian­ity, served as the scholarly vernacular of Christian intellectuals across Eu­rope. At the same time, it functioned as a cultural barrier for the ­simple folk as well as for the Jewish minority, including its elite.14 By contrast, Arabic was used by the elite and the multitudes, by Muslims and non-­Muslims alike. Arabic was not only an international communication language, as En­glish is ­today; it came to be the ­mother tongue of all participants in significant parts of this vast area.15 Christians and Jews sometimes wrote Arabic in their own script: Christian Arabic in Syriac characters (known as Karshuni) or Judaeo-­Arabic in Hebrew characters.16 The very existence of t­ hese hybrids, however, demonstrates the pervasive, all-­encompassing nature of the Arabic language in this period. The significance of this linguistic commonality and the extent to which it facilitated cultural and intellectual exchange would be hard to overstate. The intellectual elites of all t­ hese religious communities received a similar formative initiation to nonreligious domains: philosophy and science. They read the same books, which ­were ­either translated into Arabic from Sanskrit via Persian, or from Greek, sometimes via Syriac, or composed by ­earlier Arabophone thinkers; and quite often, they read one another.17 The cultural significance of the spread of Arabic was observed by the fourteenth-­century Ibn Taymiyya, who wrote, Jews and Christians living in the central Arab lands speak Arabic just as well as the majority of Muslims do; in fact, many of them speak it 14. See Hyman, “Medieval Jewish Philosophy as Philosophy,” 245–46. 15. The capital importance of Arabic as a linguistic basis of the intellectual network is noted also by al-­Mūsawī (The Medieval Islamic Republic of Letters, 1–2, 67). His study, dedicated mostly to a ­later period than the one discussed in this book, does not, however, treat its impact on intercommunal exchanges. The parallel to modern En­glish is implied in Goitein’s comparison of the “competitive, mobile, freely moving world” reflected in the documents of the Cairo Genizah to the “vigorous free-­enterprise society of the United States”; see Mediterranean Society, 2:ix. On the Cairo Genizah, see Goitein, ibid., 1:1–28. 16. On the phenomenon of multiglossia in this period, see Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic; idem, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-­Arabic; and see also the articles in Izre’el and Drory, Language and Culture in the Near East. 17. As noted by Berger (“Judaism and General Culture,” 63), Jews and Muslims faced the challenge of philosophical speculation at the same time, and they “confronted the legacy of the past in a fashion that joined Muslims and Jews in common philosophic quest.” Berger thus rejects the common perception of the transmission pro­cess as a narrow monorail, from Christians to Muslims and only then to Jews; see Stroumsa, introduction to Dāwud al-­Muqammaṣ, Twenty Chapters, xlix–­l.

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even better than many Muslims. . . . ​Even the ancient books—­those of the P ­ eople of the Book as well as ­those of Persians, Indians, Greeks, Egyptians and ­others—­were translated into Arabic. For most ­people, it is easier to access the knowledge of books composed in Arabic and [to understand] Arabic speech than to access the knowledge of books composed in other languages, for, although some ­people know Hebrew, Syriac, Latin and Coptic, more ­people know Arabic than ­those knowing any of ­these languages. 18

Since thinkers belonging to dif­fer­ent religious communities also wrote in Arabic on issues pertaining to their respective religious traditions, ­there was easy access to the religious texts of the other communities. Consequently, even when t­ hese authors dealt with theological and religious ­matters, their technical and professional language—­including approach, assumptions, ideas, and terminology—is remarkably similar, regardless of their specific religious affiliation. One finds a common technical language in the realms of philosophy and science, where many topics w ­ ere not thought to require a particularistic religious statement. More striking since less expected is the common technical language that appears in theological and l­egal texts. It is not unusual to come across page upon page of theological Arabic texts that bear no identifying mark of the religious affiliation of their author. When such pages occur only as disconnected fragments, with no title (as is often the case in the Cairo Genizah), it is difficult indeed to identify their author as a Jew, a Christian, or a Muslim. Furthermore, texts that do bear signs of their author’s religious identity are often remarkably similar to texts written by authors of another religion, where both authors employ the same building blocks to erect their dif­fer­ent religious edifices.19 ­These unifying characteristics spread across all the territories that came u ­ nder Muslim dominion, beginning in the Fertile Crescent (where they made their first appearance) and advancing with the Muslim conquests. As they developed, they spurred vibrant cultural exchange in the Islamic East as well as in its far West. For intellectuals in this society, cultural assimilation was particularly pronounced. We may even speak of a cultural koinē or common language where texts, ideas, and concerns w ­ ere fully shared and discussed (using 18. Ibn Taymiyya, Al-­Jawāb al-­ṣaḥīḥ, 2:57–58. I am indebted to Ahmed El Shamsy for this reference. 19. A good example of such commonality can be seen in the Muʿtazilite texts; see Adang, Schmidtke, and Sklare, A Common Rationality.

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the linguistic koinē, Arabic) by phi­los­o­phers and scientists hailing from dif­fer­ent religious communities.

Intellectual Contacts Within such a high culture, it makes ­little sense to study one segment of this society—­say, Jewish philosophers—­and neglect its counter­parts. It is not only lack of material, however, that would prompt one to avoid such wanton wastefulness. More definitively, the tight interconnection of this elite society pushes us to seek a reliable repre­sen­ta­tion by drawing an integrative picture of the three relevant communities. In other words, a three-­ dimensional repre­sen­ta­tion requires a multifocal approach.20 In princi­ple, few students of Islamicate medieval intellectual history would contest this claim. Such an understanding has gained momentum in the past few years and is reflected in the research of a growing number of scholars. And yet, as mentioned above, scholars are still inclined to focus on one of the three religious communities and relegate the other two to the margins of their discussion. Furthermore, even when the pluralistic nature of Andalusian culture is recognized, one encounters a propensity to spotlight the big po­liti­cal entities, namely, Chris­tian­ity and Islam, and leave the Jews as a footnote. Ranghild Zorgati, for example, who studies issues of identity and conversion in medieval Iberia, centers on Christian and Muslim ­legal sources “since they represent the cultures that ­were in power and, therefore, could define the framework that regulated the relationships between the religious communities in the Iberian penisula.”21 This statement, offered as a justification for the fact that, in her book, “[t]he voice of the Jewish community ­will . . . ​only be indirectly heard,” ignores not only the l­imited power of Christians u ­ nder Muslim rule, but also the Jewish community’s agency in regulating the relationship of its members with other communities. The notion that Iberian history was s­ haped at least largely—­and possibly entirely—by the Christian and Muslim cultures (thus identifying culture with po­liti­cal power) was suggested by Thomas Glick and Oriol Pi-­Sunyer, for whom “the central phenomenon of medieval Spain—­the formative period of its national culture—is the meeting and bilateral adjustment of two distinct cultures, Christian and Muslim, with a third, 20. See Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, xiii–­xiv; eadem, “Comparison as Multi­ focal Approach.” 21. Zorgati, Pluralism in the ­Middle Ages, 22.

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semi-­autonomous entity, the Jews, playing some role in the events.”22 Mercedes García-­Arenal, for her part, remarks that, while t­ here w ­ ere indeed three religions in the Iberian peninsula, t­ here ­were only two cultures, the Christian and the Muslim, with the Jews attaching themselves to the one or the other, according to the territory in which they lived.23 García-­Arenal is, of course, correct insofar as in this period t­ here was no in­de­pen­dent Jewish po­liti­cal entity and territorial civilization. But as the cultural history of the Iberian peninsula shows, Jewish culture was not always coextensive with the territory in which the Jews carry­ing it lived.24 Thus, the par­ameters of the discussion are often set less by the requirements of the topic (i.e., culture and its carriers) than by the conventions of academic disciplines. Let us consider the case of Jewish philosophy. The archaic style of the main medieval philosophical works, which w ­ ere translated into Hebrew already in the ­Middle Ages, encourages con­temporary readers to treat medieval Hebrew as “a source language” (rather than as a translation, which is at least once removed from the original), and to play down the fact that they ­were originally composed in Arabic. Furthermore, a widespread scholarly approach assumes that Jewish phi­los­o­phers of all generations relate first and foremost to ­earlier Jewish tradition, and that the contemporaneous non-­Jewish intellectual environment was of secondary importance.25 Following this methodological assumption, even scholars who are familiar with the overwhelming Arabic impact on Jewish philosophy tend to treat Jewish philosophy as growing on the background of Arabic Islamic philosophy, rather than as an integral part thereof.26 A similar in-­drawing tendency can be seen in the study of medieval Christian thought, in the world of Islam and beyond it.27 But such a sepa22. Glick and Pi-­Sunyer, “Acculturation as an Explanatory Concept,” 138. 23. García-­Arenal, “Rapports entre les groupes,” 92: “En effet, on est en présence de trois religions, mais seulement de deux cultures: la chrétiene et la musulmane; les juifs se rattachent à l’une ou à l’autre, en fonction des territoires où ils vivent.” 24. See conclusion, page 166. 25. This position was phrased most forcefully by Eliezer Schweid, Feeling and Speculation. While Schweid of course recognizes the impact of Muslim philosophy on medieval Jewish thought, he treats this impact as a marginal issue. As pointed out by Shlomo Pines, this approach “is decidely erroneous as regards the period in which Jewish philosophical works ­were composed chiefly in Arabic” (“Scholasticism a­ fter Thomas Aquinas,” 1). Nevertheless, cultural, linguistic, and ideological ­factors contribute to the continuing currency of this approach. 26. The readers of Micah Goodman’s popu­lar Hebrew study The Secrets of the “Guide,” for example, could easily remain ignorant of the fact that Maimonides wrote in Arabic, or that his intellectual interests went beyond the Jewish world. 27. See, for example, other­wise excellent books such as Thomas Burman’s Religious

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ratist, inward-­looking methodology, detectable in the study of both Jewish and Christian intellectual history, is still more con­spic­u­ous in the study of Muslim intellectual history, where discussions of Jews and Christians are ancillary at best, too often granted the status of an elaborate footnote. Even when religious minorities’ contributions are accorded chapter-­long inquiry, they remain secondary to the main story, whose flow is hardly interrupted.28 Generally speaking, such asymmetrical treatment stems less from bias than from the erroneous methodological stance that the overwhelming presence of the Muslim majority in this period made influence unidirectional, that is, passing only from the ruling Muslim majority to the minorities.29 While from a distance this argument appears almost unassailable, closer inspection reveals it to be far from so. Indeed, unlike Jewish and Christian thinkers, who not infrequently quote Muslims by name, it is the rare Muslim phi­los­op ­ her who attributes a view to a figure from a dif­fer­ ent religious community.30 It o ­ ught to be borne in mind, however, that the medieval world in general and the Islamicate world in par­tic­u­lar ­were not “footnote socie­ties.” Authors did not feel the need to disclose their sources, Polemic, or Ann Christys’s Christians in al-­Andalus. An extreme example, on a polemical rather than scholarly register, is Sylvain Gouguenheim’s Aristote au Mont-­Saint-­Michel: Les racines grecques de l’Eu­rope chrétienne, which sets out to disprove any significant Muslim contribution to Eu­ro­pean philosophy. The many fallacies in Gouguenheim’s book received a forceful scholarly response in the collective volume entitled Les Grecs, les Arabes et nous. In the pre­sent context, suffice it to mention the article by Jean-­Christophe Attias, who notes (“Judaïsme: Le tiers exclu,” 213) that Gouguenheim manages to keep s­ ilent about Judaism and Jews, as well as to minimize the role of Spain in the history of philosophy in Eu­rope. See also Dye, “Les Grecs, les Arabes et les ‘racines’ de l’Eu­rope,” 819–20. 28. See, for example, Cruz Hernándes, Historia del pensamiento, volume 2, chapters 3 and 6. Nasr and Leaman (History of Islamic Philosophy) dedicate a separate section to “The Jewish Philosophical Tradition in the Islamic Cultural World” (part 1, section 6, pages 673–783). But the synthetic analy­sis in the section dedicated to “Philosophy and Its Parts” (part 2, section 7, pages 783–1002) is based only on the writings of Muslim thinkers, implying that what Jewish and Christian thinkers in this period had to say on metaphysics, logic, mysticism, or ethics is irrelevant to the overall analy­sis. 29. Ignác Goldziher (Buch vom Wesen der Seele, 7*–8*) argued that “it cannot be assumed that a Muslim author . . . ​would have been interested in this treatise, which repeatedly turns to Bible exegesis.” Elisha Russ-­Fishbane, for his part, regards the silence of the Muslim sources regarding Jewish thought as evidence of the lack of reciprocity, where “only one of the two communities actively sought out, and creatively adapted itself to, the spiritual traditions and rites of the other” (Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists, 35). For an example to the contrary, see chapter 1, pages 53–55. 30. The Eastern Christian phi­los­op ­ hers, who played an essential role in the Abbasid translation movement, are exceptions to this rule, as they are cited relatively often by con­ temporary Muslim thinkers.

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and when they did, they did so for specific reasons: to display their own broad culture, to bolster the authority of their position, or (perhaps most commonly) to identify their target for polemical attack.31 In the context of such a norm, it would be mistaken to conclude that failure to mention any par­tic­u­lar writer indicated unfamiliarity with that thinker. The works of Muslim writers occasionally reveal acquaintance with ­those of Jewish phi­los­op ­ hers, even when they do not quote their source.32 But in a society where life was governed by religion and religious conventions, and where preoccupation with philosophy was often viewed as suspect—­a society, that is, in which phi­los­o­phers had to watch their e­ very step—­a Muslim phi­los­op ­ her would have had no incentive to cite what he read in, or learned from, a Jewish source, and many incentives to avoid d ­ oing so.33 Maimonides, for example, tells us in his Guide of the Perplexed that he read texts ­under the guidance of a disciple of one of the con­temporary masters of philosophy, Ibn Bājja (d. 533/1138), and that he had met the son of the astronomer Ibn al-­Aflaḥ al-­Ishbīlī (d. ca. mid-­sixth/twelfth cent.). Maimonides mentions ­these Muslim thinkers to pre­sent his own credentials, and it would not be surprising if they themselves did not mention him in their writings. But it is self-­evident that if Maimonides met them, they also met him; and when they read texts, they read and discussed them together.34 This is not to say that the relations in ­these meetings ­were necessarily equal, or to deny the directionality of the influence exerted by the majority culture on members of the minority. It does, however, show us that the available explicit data cannot be trusted to reveal a full picture of the reciprocal exchanges between phi­los­op ­ hers. Furthermore, the evidence that does exist for such exchanges 31. See Toorawa, Ibn Abī Tayfūr and Arabic Writerly Culture, 26–29; Stroumsa, “Between ‘Canon’ and Library.” 32. Alexander Altmann and Samuel M. Stern (Isaac Israeli, 8), for example, considered it plausible that the correspondence of certain passages in Ghāyat al-­ḥakīm to Isaac Israeli’s work discloses direct indebtedness to Israeli (rather than a common sourse). Al-­ Baṭalyawsī may also have drawn from Israeli, although he too fails to mention him; see Eliyahu, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī,” 1:74. Vahid Brown (“Andalusī Mysticism,” 81) goes so far as to speak of “Andalusī Judeo-­Islamic philosophy.” See also Stroumsa, “Between ‘Canon’ and Library,” esp. 44–45. 33. The hostility t­ oward philosophy, and the techniques a­ dopted by the phi­los­o­phers in order to cope with it, ­were famously discussed by Leo Strauss; see, for instance, his Persecution and the Art of Writing. See also Steven Harvey, “The Place of the Phi­los­o­pher,” 221; and see chapter 3, pages 95–96. 34. See Maimonides, Guide, 2.9 (Dalāla, 187:10; Pines, 268); and see Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 11. The inherently reciprocal nature of the contacts is noted also by Glick and Pi-­Sunyer (“Acculturation as an Explanatory Concept,” 140), for whom “acculturation is . . . ​essentially a bilateral pro­cess.”

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is often muted. Thus, a working assumption that a priori denies the reciprocity diminishes the likelihood of recognizing the occasional piece of evidence for what it is. Indeed, in dif­fer­ent contexts it has been argued that “the eyes d ­ on’t see what the mind d ­ oesn’t know.”35 In our attempts to capture interactions that s­ haped the medieval philosophical culture, we would do well to make wider ­mental room for the possibility of unstated reciprocal connections. Ṣāʿid Ibn Ṣāʿid al-­Andalusī (d. 462/1070) is explicit about such connections, and he thus serves as a precious source for the study of the Andalusian multicommunal philosophical scene. Reporting, for instance, about the Jew Isaac b. Qisṭār, who served al-­Muwaffaq Mujāhid al-­ʿĀmirī (d. 436/1044) as well as his son Iqbāl al-­Dawla ʿAlī (r. 468/1075–76), Ibn Ṣāʿid says, “I spent many hours in his com­pany [jālastuhu kathīran].”36 The mixed milieu described by Ibn Ṣāʿid al-­Andalusī was shared by other Muslims as well as by Jews, a fact to bear in mind despite the guarded silence of most Muslim writers. As sharply put by Allwyn Harrison, conjectural conclusions are endemic to Andalusian historiography “for want of hard or persuasive evidence.”37 For the aforementioned reasons, the hard evidence for the existence of mutual contacts, though extant, is indeed slim. Furthermore, ­there is no question that the overall Muslim impact was the decisive, dominant, and ever-­growing ­factor for both Jews and Christians, at all levels of social and cultural activity. In the realms of philosophy and science, however, Muslim preeminence left space for significant exchange with non-­Muslims. What I w ­ ill try to show in the following pages is the extent and depth of this exchange, and the fact that it involved all phi­los­o­phers, regardless of their religious affiliation. What we call Islamicate philosophy was created and developed by Muslims, Jews, and Christians. The flow of ideas between ­these communities was never unilateral or linear, but rather dialectical or interactive. It created what I have proposed to call “a whirl­pool effect,” where, when an idea falls, like a drop of colored liquid, into the turbulence, it eventually colors the w ­ hole body of w ­ ater, changing its own color in the pro­cess.38 To fully understand the development of philosophy among Muslims, therefore, 35. For this saying, attributed to D. H. Lawrence, I am indebted to Hanna-­Attisha, What the Eyes ­Don’t See, 22. 36. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 204. On Ibn Ṣāʿid, see also Llavero-­Ruiz, “El cadi Ṣāʿid de Toledo.” 37. Harrison, “­Behind the Curve,” 40. 38. See Stroumsa, “Whirl­pool Effects.”

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one must also study its development among Jews and Christians (and, of course, the same is also true for the other edges of the triangle). Furthermore, to the extent that Muslim, Jewish, and Christian medieval philosophies ­were forged in the same historical context, they must be studied together, like the interlaced warp and weft of a single, multicolored fabric, woven on a single loom.39 This holds true for the Islamic East as for the Iberian peninsula. Nonetheless, the peninsular (i.e., semi-­insular) settings of the Iberian peninsula produced a fertile microclimate with its own core characteristics.40

Religious Communities The relations between religious communities in the Islamicate world are often portrayed in irenic terms. Shlomo Dov Goitein (d. 1985) introduced the term “symbiosis” to describe the way religious minorities lived ­under Islam, participating in the economic, social, and cultural life of the Muslim majority, yet also maintaining, along with their religious beliefs and practices, their own culture and community structure.41 Regarding al-­Andalus in par­tic­ul­ar, scholars speak of convivencia, or coexistence, of the dif­fer­ent communities. The term, coined in 1926 by Ramón Menéndez Pidal to characterize the linguistic formation of Mozarabic Spain, was then used by Américo Castro in the m ­ iddle of the twentieth c­ entury “to explicate the unique nature of medieval Spain’s 39. The concept of “cross-­pollination” is in princi­ple intended to capture this mutual exchange, where “phi­los­o­phers loyal to one tradition discern the issues that unite them with phi­los­o­phers of another time, place or confession, inherit their problematics and creatively adapt their responses”; see Lenn Goodman, Jewish and Islamic Philosophy, viii. But as a closer reading of the quotation cited above and of the book it introduces show, the concept has been used in ways that largely ignore the relevance of ­actual historical contexts. See also James Montgomery, “Islamic Crosspollinations.” 40. See, for example, Wasserstein (The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 236), who notes that “the isolation of the peninsula had encouraged the retention t­ here, up u ­ ntil the fifth/eleventh ­century, of religious norms and practices peculiar to the peninsula.” On the scientific isolation of the Andalusians, which they themselves might have cultivated, see also Balty-­Guesdon, “Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 342. Di Giovanni (“Motifs of Andalusian Philosophy,” esp. 227) attempts to identify recurring motifs in Andalusian philosophy, motifs that “can help to understand the Andalusian tradition as a continuum rather than a disconnected series of figures and idea.” For Di Giovanni (ibid., 232), the continuum “exists more in the questions asked than in the solutions offered.” 41. On symbiosis, see Goitein, Jews and Arabs, 155. For criticisms of this term, see Wasserstrom, Between Muslim and Jew, 3–12 and 206–37; Russ-­Fishbane, Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists, 37 (who introduces the term “ecumenical synergy”); Hughes, Shared Identities, 27–35; Stroumsa, “The Literary Genizot.”

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multi-­ethnic, multi-­religious society.”42 Since then, this term has acquired excessively idyllic overtones, denoting harmonious coexistence in which las tres culturas (namely, Islam, Chris­tian­ity, and Judaism) supposedly enjoyed a common golden age ­under the aegis of Islam.43 A much more apt repre­sen­ta­tion of the religious situation in al-­Andalus was offered by Thomas Burman, who speaks of the “pluralistic circumstances” that prevailed ­there.44 Although Islamic Iberia was, as a rule, more tolerant t­ oward its minorities than medieval Christian Eu­rope, or, more precisely, than medieval Christian Spain, its pre­sen­ta­tion as a model of tolerance is highly anachronistic. Even if we put aside the questionable cliché that describes the ­Middle Ages as a Dark Age, some of our most cherished princi­ples ­were certainly foreign to this era. The world of medieval Islam (like the rest of the premodern world) was neither egalitarian nor demo­cratic, and it was definitely not tolerant. Furthermore, to the extent that the convivencia notion reflects the ­actual historical situation, it should be emphasized that al-­Andalus is not an exceptional case of a multireligious society in an other­wise benighted medieval Oriental civilization. Rather, al-­Andalus was only one of the many instances of the multicultural society of medieval Islam, in the East as well as in the West.45 This being said, it is also true that, b ­ ecause of the peninsula’s well-­defined geo­graph­i­cal contours, its contiguity to Christian Eu­rope, its tight connections to North Africa as well as to the Islamic East, and its high level of culture, al-­Andalus provides a condensed and thus a particularly salient example of the development and functioning of the intercommunal cultural koinē of the medieval Islamicate world. Although the Jews and Christians of al-­Andalus shared a status as “subordinate religions,” ­these two communities differed drastically in their social fabric and consequently also in their religious be­hav­ior. The Jews 42. See Novikoff, “Between Tolerance and Intolerance in Medieval Spain,” 18–20. 43. As examples of the many discussions of convivencia, see Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 225; Marín and Pérez, “L’Espagne des trois religions”; Fanjul García, La quimera de al-­Andalus, esp. 21–53 (“el mito de las tres culturas”); García-­Arenal, “Rapports entre les groupes,” 91; Novikoff, “Between Tolerance and Intolerance in Medieval Spain”; Akasoy, “Convivencia and Its Discontents,” esp. 489–90, 495–97; Szpiech, “The Convivencia Wars,” esp. 135–41; Jaspert, “Mendicants, Jews and Muslims at Court,” 125; Nirenberg, Communities of Vio­lence, 8–10; García-­Sanjuán, “La distorsión de al-­Andalus”; Walter, Der Verschwundene Islam?, 204; Hughes, Shared Identities, 29–30. 44. Burman, Religious Polemic, 2. 45. See Stroumsa, Convivencia in the Medieval Islamic East; Catlos, “Christian-­ Muslim-­Jewish Relations,” 9. Among the several pos­si­ble explanations for Spain’s special place in modern historiography, the fact that Spain is a Eu­ro­pean country is a prominent one; see preface.

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­ ere mostly immigrants or the descendants of immigrants who had come w from the Islamic East and North Africa and settled in al-­Andalus, usually in the cities, a­ fter the Muslim conquest.46 The number of Jews who made up t­ hese urban communities could not have been high, but they seem to have been eco­nom­ically and culturally well integrated.47 The Christians, by contrast, constituted at the beginning of this period the vast majority of the population, and their social makeup did not change much when their numbers began to shrink through conversion and migration: they w ­ ere mainly indigenous, and most of them lived in rural communities.48 One might have expected the large, ancient, and well-­established local Christian community to be more resistant to conversionary pressures than the small, newly established Jewish community. Furthermore, one might have expected the presence of the bordering Christian kingdoms in the north of the peninsula to serve as a source of religious strength that could help keep t­ hose Christians living u ­ nder Muslim rule (known as Mozarabs) from converting to Islam. In fact, on both counts, the opposite occurred. The existence of the Iberian Christian kingdoms, and the ongoing state of war between them and the Muslims, exposed the Mozarabs to 46. The urban character of the Jewish population was not uniform over time, and at least a­ fter the thirteenth c­ entury, and u ­ nder Christian rule, Jews (who w ­ ere still principally city dwellers) nevertheless owned land; see Ray, The Sephardic Frontier, 36–42. 47. The relatively high level of Jewish acculturation and “po­liti­cal complacency” compared to other ethnic and religious groups in the Andalusian society was noted also by Brann, “Textualizing Ambivalence,” 107; idem, Power in the Portrayal, 1. Demographic estimates regarding this period are highly conjectural. This caveat applies, of course, to both the population at large (and also, for example, to the estimate of the peninsula’s population ­toward the end of the Visigothic period as “between seven and nine million”; see Harrison, “­Behind the Curve,” 39 and the sources quoted in note 21 t­ here) and the Jewish community. Goitein (“Jewish Society and Institutions u ­ nder Islam,” 173) estimates that Jews “did not amount to more than one ­percent of the total population—­with the impor­tant qualification that in the cities and towns . . . ​they formed a far higher percentage of the inhabitants.” Ashtor (“The Number of Jews,” esp. 56), estimates the Jews in the “golden age” in the peninsula to be a ­little more than half a ­percent of the general population, with much more significant numbers in the major urban center: 10 ­percent in Toledo in the eleventh c­ entury, 14 ­percent in Huesca, 9 ­percent in Tudela, 7.4 ­percent in Almeria, and up to 20 ­percent in Granada. But, as noted repeatedly by Wasserstein (and contrary to Ashtor and Torres Balbás), the calculations on which t­ hese estimates are based are highly speculative, and prob­ably exaggerated. See, for instance, Wasserstein, “Jewish Élites in al-­Andalus,” esp. 107–9; idem, “Islamisation and the Conversion of the Jews.” Regarding the vari­ous Jewish communities in the cities of al-­Andalus, see Pérès, La poésie andalouse, 264–68. 48. See Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 224–46; and see introduction, pages 15–17. On the religious and intellectual profile of another predominantly rural Christian society, see Tannous, The Making of the Medieval M ­ iddle East, esp. 14–45.

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the charge of being a fifth column. Their typical profile as rural communities, often with a poor level of religious education, may also have been a source of vulnerability.49 Mikel de Epalza has thus suggested that the Christian rural population, isolated from the guidance of the urban clergy, converted more easily to Islam.50 The opposite argument is put forward by David Wasserstein, who cautiously says that “it seems not unlikely that retention of Chris­tian­ity may have been stronger in the rural areas and in the more isolated parts of the peninsula,” and that “much of the literate class of Christians in al-­Andalus went over to Islam.”51 But ­whether more in the cities or more in the countryside, the overall picture remains that conversion was a widespread phenomenon among the Christians, whereas among the Jews it seems to have remained restricted to individual cases. Just as the two communities differed in terms of social fabric and patterns of conversion, they also differed with re­spect to their level of acculturation.52 Jews living in al-­Andalus, as elsewhere, a­ dopted Arabic as their language and developed their own, Jewish version of Arabic culture. This applied to all social levels of the Jewish community, with the community leaders, who often carried not only po­liti­cal but also religious authority, taking the lead in this pro­cess. Jewish intellectuals w ­ ere active participants in the court culture.53 A creative Andalusian Judaeo-­Arabic culture flourished, and even Hebrew linguistics and Hebrew poetry in al-­Andalus ­were ­shaped in the mold of Arabic linguistics and followed Arabic poetical models.54 The Christians of al-­Andalus, by contrast, played only a marginal 49. The continuous impact of the profile of Visigoth Spain on the Christian ability to adapt to the cultural shock of the Muslim conquest is also noted by Tolan, Saracens, 85–87; see also Fernández Félix and Fierro, “Cristianos y conversos.” 50. De Epalza, “Trois siècles d’histoire mozarabe,” 29; see also idem, “Mozarabs.” Tolan (Saracens, 96) also points to “conversion by slippage,” a gradual disintegration of Christian communities as a passive reaction to the prevailing circumstances. Scholarly positions regarding the pace and historical context of the conversion of Christians to Islam in the Iberian peninsula are succinctly summarized in Burns, Muslims, Christians, and Jews, 4–5; and see Aillet, Les Mozarabes, 43–93. 51. Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 229–30 and 237. The predominance of provincial communities in preserving religious tradition is attested also in the Genizah documents, according to the analy­sis of which, as noted by Goitein (Mediterranean Society, 1:15), “Hebrew lingered on in the smaller towns of Egypt longer than in the larger centers.” 52. “Acculturation” refers ­here primarily to the literary and verbal expression of culture, ­those associated with the use of the Arabic language; see introduction, note 58. 53. See chapter 3. 54. For Goitein (Jews and Arabs, 155), “The most perfect expression of Jewish-­Arab symbiosis is not found in the Arabic lit­er­a­ture of the Jews, but in the Hebrew poetry created in Muslim countries, particularly in Spain” (italics in the original). See chapter 3.

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role in the intellectual, cultural, and po­liti­cal life in Arabic (with the exception of medicine).55 In the Islamic East, the Christian heritage fostered Muslim interest in philosophy, and the Christians played a pivotal role as translators and as facilitators of the transmission of philosophical and scientific traditions to the emerging Muslim culture.56 Nothing like this decisive Christian intellectual presence was witnessed in the same period in al-­Andalus.57 The adoption of Arabic high literary culture among Andalusian Christians seems to have been a more protracted and tortuous pro­ cess.58 When it fi­nally appeared to take root in the more urban segments of the Christian community in the first half of the ninth c­ entury, the community’s religious leaders reacted with alarm. The Church’s re­sis­tance to Arabization, and its attempts to reaffirm a genuinely Christian Latin

55. This relative marginality is evident, notwithstanding the continued existence of some Christian centers of learning in al-­Andalus; cf. Forcada, “Books from Abroad,” 6–62. Wasserstein (The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 244–45) argues that Christians scarcely participated in Islamic po­liti­cal life, and suggested that they lacked the necessary skills to do so: “The majority of t­ hose who did acquire them seem to have ended up as converts to Islam,” and the o ­ thers prob­ably entered the Church. See also Pérès (La poésie andalouse, 264), who points out that the Jews “apprécièrent mieux que les chrétiens les avantages d’être soumis à de nouveaux conquérants,” and that, although many Jews had certainly converted to Islam, their advantageous place in the Muslim courts must have slowed down the conversions. See also Stroumsa, “Between Acculturation and Conversion.” 56. Dimitri Gutas has contended that the Christian role in the translation movement was less dominant than hitherto believed, or at least not altogether unique; see Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture. Notwithstanding Gutas’s astute observations, the role played by the Christians remains of primary importance; see Stroumsa, “Philosophy as Wisdom.” See also Treiger, “Palestinian Origenism.” 57. On the intellectual climate among Christians in the ninth ­century, see Delgado León, Álvaro de Córdoba, 23–27; Fernández Félix and Fierro, “Cristianos y conversos.” A translation movement that does appear in Spain in the twelfth ­century leads in the opposite direction, transmitting the Muslim philosophical and scientific heritage (often via Jews and Jewish converts, who translated the Arabic to Castilian) to the Latin-­ speaking Christians; see Abellán, Historia crítica, 198, 210–18; and see conclusion, pages 162–67. 58. See Kassis, “The Arabicization and Islamization of the Christians.” On the continuous use of Latin and Romance languages by the Christians of al-­Andalus, see, for example, Sánchez-­Albornoz, “Espagne préislamique,” 301–2; Monferrer-­Sala, “Les chrétiens d’al-­ Andalus,” 369; idem, “Somewhere in the ‘History of Spain,’ ” esp. 48–49; Corriente, Romania Arabica, 9–17. Wasserstein (The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 238) also notes the eventual Arabization of the literate classes of the Christians. One should note that profound acculturation of Iberian Christians ­under Islam did find its expression in the material culture, agricultural and ­water system, l­egal system, and the vocabulary pertaining to ­these aspects. See, for example, Glick, Islamic and Christian Spain, 51, 277–99; Glick and Pi-­Sunyer, “Acculturation as an Explanatory Concept”; Novikoff, “Between Tolerance and Intolerance in Medieval Spain,” 29.

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are obvious in the writings of clergymen like Paulus Alvarus, Eulogius, and Samson.59 When Arabic did become the language of Christian intellectuals, it was mostly used in domains that are more clearly connected to religious identity. Nevertheless, t­ hese Christian works, too, are integrated into the interconfessional cultural milieu. Moses Ibn Ezra can thus refer his readers to the poetic Arabic rendering of Psalms by Ḥafṣ the Goth (rajazihi f īʾl-­zabūr). In the linguistic context in which this translation interests Ibn Ezra, he can overlook its polemical overtones and feels no need to mention the author’s religious affiliation.60 An anecdote told by Ibn Juljul (d. 383/994) is highly illuminating in this context. Ibn Juljul mentions a gift that the caliph ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān al-­Nāṣir received in 337/948 from the Byzantine emperor, and which included a sumptuously illuminated Greek manuscript of Dioscorides’s Materia Medica, as well as a Latin manuscript of Orosius’s History. In the accompanying letter, the emperor encouraged the caliph to seek a translator for the former text, expressing his belief that it should not be difficult to find a Latin speaker in al-­Andalus to translate Orosius’s work. The emperor’s reckoning turned out to be correct. According to Ibn Juljul, in Cordoba at the time, among the Christians of al-­Andalus, ­there was nobody who could read ancient Greek. Dioscorides’s Greek book thus remained, un-­translated, in al-­Nāṣir’s library [khazāna]. It remained in al-­Andalus, while the text circulating was Stephen’s translation, imported from Baghdad.61

The absence of a local Christian who was proficient in Greek brought the caliph to ask for a competent teacher of Greek and Latin to be sent from Byzantium, someone who could train a group of slaves (ʿabīd) as 59. The anxiety caused by the accelerated pace of Arabization is clearly expressed by Alvarus; see, for example, Simonet, Historia de los Mozárabes, 2:369–71; Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, 152; Tolan, Saracens, 86, 95–96; Delgado León, Álvaro de Córdoba, 29–34, esp. 33; and see Stroumsa, “Single-­Source Rec­ords,” esp. 228. 60. See Ibn ʿEzra, Muḥāḍara, ed. Abumalhan Mas, 1:47. Ḥafṣ is also prob­ably the one to whose work Ibn Gabirol repeatedly refers as Kitāb al-­Qūṭī; see Ibn Gabirol, Ikhlāṣ al-­ akhlāq, 22–23, 28–29, 36, 40, 42. For Marie-Thérèse Urvoy (Le Psautier mozarabe, iv), it is a paradox that Ḥafṣ’s text, which “echoes the virulent Visigothic anti-­semitism,” would be quoted by Spanish Jews. It is also for this reason that Steinschneider (Arabische Literatur der Juden, 111, §66) and Halkin (in his edition of Muḥāḍara, 42) doubted the Christian identity of Ḥafṣ. On Ḥafṣ, see also Dunlop, “Ḥafṣ b. Albar”; idem, “Sobre Ḥafṣ ibn Albar”; Aillet, Les Mozarabes, 178–80. 61. IAU, 494; see further chapter 1, page 30.

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translators.62 The most prominent figure in this group and the closest to the caliph, says Ibn Juljul, was the Jew Ḥasdāy. In addition to him, the majority if not all of them, to judge by their names, w ­ ere Muslims.63

The Phi­los­o­phers’ Community Phi­los­op ­ hers and scientists in the Islamicate world ­were part of an intellectual network that by its very nature crossed community lines. The level of integration of Jewish and Christian phi­los­o­phers in the general Islam­ icate culture often surpassed what is usually understood by the term “symbiosis.” 64 The phi­los­o­phers, regardless of their religion, often held similar positions vis-­à-­vis their respective ancient traditions, their understanding of the philosophical quest, and their way of negotiating their place as intellectuals in society at large. The relationship between Jewish (and Christian) phi­los­o­phers and their Muslim philosophical milieu was not only symbiotic; it represented, rather, what I call, for lack of a better term, a case of intellectual integration. The marginality of the Christians on the Arabic cultural scene in al-­ Andalus is particularly striking in the realm of philosophy. Dominique Urvoy has attempted to track a transmission of pre-­Islamic Spanish philosophical works to Arabic, but the meager and piecemeal evidence found for this phenomenon seems, rather, to accentuate its marginality: Isidore of Seville (d. 636) remains a lone example, with ­little follow-up in al-­Andalus a­ fter the Muslim conquest.65 Urvoy therefore also notes the “faiblesse relative de la vie intellectuelle mozarabe” as compared to that of the Jews.66 By contrast, Jewish and Muslim thought flourished, and the 62. The term ʿabīd was sometimes used (perhaps derisively) concerning persons occupying rather high administrative functions; see Stroumsa, “Single-­Source Rec­ords,” 222. 63. See IAU, 494–95. From Ibn Juljul’s testimony, it is evident that the work of translating this text, and perhaps the functioning of this group, continued over several years, perhaps for several de­cades. The monk Nicholas, entrusted with the translation work, arrived in Andalus only in 340/951. Ibn Juljul’s own commentary on Dioscorides was composed in 372/982, during the reign of Hishām b. al-­Ḥakam, and he testifies that he had met this entire group together, during the rule of al-­Ḥakam al-­Mustanṣir (who mounted the throne in 351/962). See also Munk, Mélanges, 480–81 and note 2; Sáenz-­Badillos, Literatura Hebrea, 22; Fierro, Abderraman, 236; Balty-­Guesdon, “Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 335–36. 64. See introduction, note 41. 65. See also chapter 1, page 27. 66. See Dominique Urvoy, Pensers d’al-­Andalus, 29, 33. See also Reilly, The Contest of Christian and Muslim Spain, 17–18. For Reilly (The Medieval Spains, 124–25), “The participation of the Christian community in this intellectual ferment was to take an

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literary output of al-­Andalus includes some of the highlights of Jewish and Muslim speculative thought in all its diversity: Aristotelian and Neoplatonist philosophy, rational theology, and mysticism. The role played by Jews in this par­tic­u­lar field in al-­Andalus is utterly disproportionate to the size or strength of the Jewish community.67 As the following pages ­will seek to show, speculative thought in al-­ Andalus was ­shaped by both Muslims and Jews. In the field that concerns us ­here, the above-­mentioned slogan of las tres culturas is therefore misleading not only ­because of its association with the mythical depiction of convivencia, but also b ­ ecause the numbers are wrong. The intellectual history of the Iberian peninsula does not follow a tripartite structure, and the interacting religious cultures are rarely 3, but rather usually 2 + 1.68 In al-­Andalus from the fourth/tenth to the sixth/twelfth centuries, while Jews w ­ ere active in almost all aspects of the intellectual and cultural life, the local Christians played a rather marginal intellectual role. The roles would be reversed when philosophy began to blossom in Christian Spain (­after the conquest of Toledo in 1085), and Muslims living ­under Christian rule seem to have moved to the margins of intellectual activity t­ here. It is mostly Jews who transmitted this common Arabic philosophical heritage to the Christians in the north, ­after its waning in al-­Andalus.69

Philosophical Schools and Speculative Thought Already in medieval texts, the Arabic term faylasūf (pl. falāsifa) appears in more than one sense. It is often used broadly, to describe a person pursuing theoretical wisdom, or “as an epithet for deep thinkers.” 70 It also denotes more specifically the followers of the classical philosophical

unpre­ce­dented form. That is, its locus was to be the new Christian kingdom of the north rather than the Mozarab community.” More simply put: when living in al-­Andalus, the Christians did not participate in the intellectual ferment. The difference in the status of Jews and Christians is apparent also in Bosch Vilá, La Sevilla Islámica, 348–54. Renan, for his part (Averroès et l’Averroïsme, 36, note 1), blurs the difference in character between the two dhimmī communities, stating that “almost all the physicians and phi­los­op ­ hers in Spain ­were of Jewish or Christian origin.” But he also goes so far as to argue (ibid., 145) that “la philosophie arabe n’a réellement été prise bien au sérieux que par les Juifs.” See conclusion. 67. See introduction, note 47; and chapter 4. 68. This equation is actually also misleading, as the Jewish and Muslim communities ­were not homogenous religious entities; see further chapter 2. 69. See conclusion. 70. Goldziher, “Faylasūf,” 872.

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tradition, which was translated from Greek into Arabic. The translated material included a core component of Peripatetic texts, but classical Arabic philosophy was imprinted from its inception by Neoplatonic material, too. The first Arabic phi­los­o­pher, al-­Kindī (d. ca. 256/870), known as “the phi­los­o­pher of the Arabs [faylasūf al-­ʿarab],” indeed combined in his work both Aristotelian and Plotinian ele­ments.71 Neoplatonism became, in Cristina d’Ancona’s formulation, “a key to understanding falsafa.”72 The term falsafa was also used to designate the ­later, predominantly Christian, school of philosophy that included Abū Bishr Mattā (d. 940) and his students Yaḥyā Ibn ʿAdī (d. 974) as well as al-­Fārābī (d. 339/951), and which focused more strictly on the study of the Aristotelian corpus. Even in al-­Fārābī’s work, however, the presence of non-­Aristotelian components (Platonic as well as emanationist) is notable.73 A similar, narrow use of the term, along with its ambiguities, also appears in Judaeo-­Arabic texts: Judah Halevi (d. 1141), for example, makes “Greek wisdom [ḥokhmat Yavan]” a main target for his criticism in both his poetry and in his Kuzari, and the protagonist of this wisdom, designated in the Kuzari as a faylasūf, pre­sents the characteristic admixture of Peripatetic and Neoplatonic doctrines.74 In modern scholarship on Islamic and Jewish medieval thought, the first, broader meaning is hardly ever used, and the word “phi­los­o­pher” often designates students of the classical tradition. Furthermore—­and despite the common recognition of the multiple sources of medieval falsafa—­the term came to be closely identified with the Aristotelian tradition of Arabic philosophy, starting with the Christian Aristotelian phi­los­ o­phers of Baghdad and continuing with Avicenna (d. 428/1037). In this narrow usage, the term “philosophy” (falsafa) distinguishes the “Aristotelian” school of thought from other philosophical traditions, such as rational theology (kalām) or mystical philosophy.75

71. See Jolivet, “Al-­Kindi et Aristote”; Adamson, “Al-­Kindī and the Reception of Arabic Philosophy”; Arnaldez, “Falsafa”; Watt, “Why Did Ḥunayn,” 371; idem, “The Syriac Translations,” 475. 72. D’Ancona, “Greek into Arabic,” 24. 73. See Galston, Politics and Excellence, 9–12, 17; and see further chapter 4. 74. Kuzari 1:1–3, ed. Baneth/Ben-­Shammai, 3–6; ed. Bashīr, 153–59. 75. See, for example, Endress, “Philosophie,” 25–33; Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition, 286–96. Inverted commas are added to “Aristotelians,” for example, by Peter Adamson and Richard Taylor, in their introduction to The Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy, as well as by d’Ancona, “ ‘Aristū ʿinda l-­ʿArab,’ ” 23. On the problematic usage of “philosophy,” see also Vahid Brown, “Andalusī Mysticism,” 73–74.

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When one discusses philosophy in al-­Andalus, the names that spring to mind make up the trio of Ibn Bājja, Ibn Ṭufayl (d. 581/1185–86), and Averroes: all three Muslims, living in the sixth/twelfth ­century, and grouped together as “the Spanish falāsifa.” A fourth, frequently added name is that of the Jewish Maimonides, also living in the twelfth ­century. The tendency to associate t­ hese figures with each other may create the impression that, as a group, the Spanish falāsifa belong to what came to be known as “the Spanish Aristotelian tradition”—­although it is well known that Ibn Ṭufayl, who was inspired by Avicenna, retains clear Neoplatonic characteristics, with pronounced mystical traits.76 Furthermore, the identification of falsafa or philosophy as Aristotelian philosophy can result in the pre­sen­ ta­tion of Ibn Bājja as the first Muslim phi­los­o­pher of al-­Andalus, or in a statement such as “Philosophy in Al-­Andalus developed l­ater among Muslims than among Jews,” ignoring both Ibn Masarra (d. 319/931) and al-­Baṭalyawsī (d. 523/1129).77 But philosophy in al-­Andalus did not begin in the twelfth c­ entury, nor did it begin with the Aristotelians, but rather with mystical Neoplatonism. As mentioned above, modern scholarship on Jewish philosophy often classifies Jewish medieval thinkers according to the relevant schools of Islamic thought. In the case of Jewish Andalusian thinkers, however, this classification sometimes seems to represent a veritable straightjacket, forcing them into molds that do not quite fit.78 The modern categorization of Islamic thought into schools of thought, with the concomitant tendency to reserve the term “philosophy” for the so-­ called Aristotelian tradition, is indeed disadvantageous when drawing the intellectual, philosophical map of al-­Andalus. Mystics, theologians, as well as phi­los­op ­ hers of all schools, can be brought into the discussion of speculative thought, as well as scientists—­astronomers and physicians—­since the phi­los­o­phers ­were often also engaged in the pursuit of ­these sciences.79

76. See further chapter 5. 77. See Puig Montada, “Ibn Bājja.” 78. That the modern division of Jewish medieval thinkers into schools should not be taken to suggest doctrinal uniformity is noted by Hyman, “Medieval Jewish Philosophy as Philosophy,” 251. On the sometimes artificial distinction between Muslim philosophy and kalām, see Wisnovski, “­Towards a Natural-­History Model of Philosophical Change,” 145. In the case of Jewish thinkers, the artificiality of the distinction is even more evident, notwithstanding Maimonides’s attempts to distance himself from the Jewish mutakallimūn. 79. Sciences ­here include ­those tightly connected to philosophical speculation, which are sometimes called “philosophical sciences” (“sciences philosophiques,” e.g., Balty-­ Guesdon, “Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 335).

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As noted in the preface, I do not presume to cover in this book all thinkers in al-­Andalus. Most of the thinkers discussed in the following pages wrote, in one way or another, about metaphysics—­a clear indication that they aspired to reach the higher levels of philosophical thought.80 Mainly, however, I homed in on ­those thinkers who allow us to see most clearly the interest of integrative intellectual history, and on issues that reflect this interest most sharply.

­Toward an Integrative Intellectual History of al-­Andalus The development of speculative thought among Muslims in al-­Andalus is often described in contradictory terms. On the one hand, scholars as well as the broader public associate the Iberian peninsula with the acme of Islamic philosophy. On the other hand, medieval and modern scholars alike often regard the development of philosophy in this region as somewhat of an anomaly.81 Among the former, Ibn Ḥazm and Ibn Ṭumlūs (d. 620/1223) speak apologetically regarding the scarcity of philosophical interest and of philosophical and theological compositions in al-­Andalus, while al-­Maqqarī (d. 1041/1631) reports par­tic­ul­ar animosity ­toward the study of natu­ral philosophy and astronomy.82 The coexistence of ­these apparently unfavorable conditions and the seemingly sudden philosophical explosion calls for an explanation. Such an explanation, however, is 80. See Balty-­Guesdon (“Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 339–41), who points to the Andalusian preference for the theoretical over the practical sciences, and practical sciences are integerated within this worldview. Lorberbaum (Dazzled by Beauty, 18) views what is called in Arabic al-­ʿilm al-­ilāhī as theology, and identifies it as “theoretical systems in the center of which is the understanding of God, His relationship to the World, His prophetic communication with ­humans and His giving of the law to ­humans as guidance.” 81. Among modern scholars see, for instance, al-­Fayyūmī, Taʾrīkh al-­falsafa al-­ islāmiyya, 6. 82. See Ibn Ḥazm, Risāla f ī faḍl al-­andalus, 186–87; Ibn Ṭumlūs, Madkhal, 9–12. On Ibn Ṭumlūs’s depiction of the attitude to philosophy, see Elamrani-­Jamal, “Éléments nouveaux,” 465; Ibn Aḥmad, Ibn Ṭumlūs, 212–16 and 341. Ibn Ṭumlūs’s own silence regarding his extensive use of the works of his teacher Averroes seems to support his testimony concerning the atmosphere in al-­Andalus; see Aouad, Le “Livre de la Rhétorique,” ii–­x. Al-­Maqqarī (Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 1:221) says that t­ hese branches of science “are of g ­ reat interest to the elite, but no work on ­these topics can be undertaken openly out of fear of the common folks.” H ­ ere as elsewhere in his report on the development of the sciences in al-­Andalus, al-­Maqqarī clearly relies heavi­ly on Ibn Ṣāʿid, although his report tends to be less critical and more laudatory. See also Al-­Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 3:11, quoted in Conrad, The World of Ibn Ṭufayl, 11: “In Spain philosophy is an abhorred field of inquiry that cannot be pursued openly by its adherents, who, for the same reason, must keep their works hidden.”

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not to be found in most studies on the topic, and the few scholars who address this prob­lem tend to refine the terms of the question rather than to address it satisfactorily. Jewish philosophy in al-­Andalus is depicted in a simpler and more consistent way. The efflorescence of Jewish philosophy is seen as part and parcel of the so-­called golden age of Jewish culture in Islamic Spain.83 Like Jewish culture in al-­Andalus in general, philosophy is painted in rosy—or should we say, golden—­colors. The appearance of luminaries like Judah Halevi and Moses Maimonides is presented as the natu­ral outcome of a robust Jewish community whose cultural activity reflected its interest in philosophy as well as the influence of the surrounding Muslim society. The circumstances in which speculative thought developed among Muslims and Jews are generally studied along communal lines, with separate monographs dedicated to the history of Muslim and Jewish philosophy—­despite the dutiful nods that acknowledge the existence and relevance of the other community. Students of Judeo-­Arabic philosophy are, of course, well aware of its strong ties to its Muslim counterpart. Halevi has been shown to rely on the work of al-­Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) as well as on Ṣūf ī, Ismāʿīlī, and Shīʿī texts,84 while the eleventh-­century Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda has been shown to be indebted to al-­Muḥāsibī (d. 243/857).85 Maimonides’s philosophy, which has received continuous and comprehensive examination, has been shown to draw upon the work of al-­Fārābī, Avicenna, and Andalusian authors like Ibn Ṭufayl and Ibn Bājja.86 Students of Muslim philosophy, for their part, are less forcefully confronted with the connection of their texts to Jewish philosophy. Several con­temporary scholars have offered a coherent synthesis that includes the Jewish and Christian philosophical output in their mapping of Andalusian philosophy and science, or called for such a synthesis.87 And yet, many of ­these studies still pre­sent the connection e­ ither as background to the 83. See chapter 3. 84. See Baneth, “Judah Halevi and al-­Ghazali”; Pines, “Shīʿite Terms”; Krinis, God’s Chosen ­People; Lobel, Between Mysticism and Philosophy. 85. See Goldreich, “On Pos­si­ble Arabic Sources.” 86. See, for example, Pines, “Translator’s Introduction”; Steven Harvey, “Medieval Sources of Maimonides’ Guide”; Ivry, “The Guide and Maimonides’ Philosophical Sources.” 87. Cruz Hernándes, Historia del pensamiento, esp. volume 2, El pensamiento de al-­ Andalus (siglos IX–­XIV); Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia; or Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur; Dominique Urvoy, quoted in introduction, note 91; Di Giovanni, “Motifs of Andalusian Philosophy”; and see introduction, note 88. Sviri (“Spiritual Trends,” 78) argues that “research into any one of t­ hese two systems can be fruitful for a deeper understanding of historical and phenomenological aspects of the other,” but clearly sees them as two separate, though often interinfluenced, systems.

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discussion of their main focus of interest (in the case of Jewish philosophy) or as mere chapters in it (in the case of Muslim philosophy).88 A comparison with the modern study of the Christians of al-­Andalus brings into even sharper focus the oddity of the compartmentalized approach to the study of Andalusian intellectual history. The history of al-­Andalus from the second/eighth to the ninth/fifteenth centuries can be described as a chronology of its continuous war with Christian Spain. Without question, an uninterrupted Christian presence within the borders of al-­Andalus combined with pressure from the Christian kingdoms made the Christians a rather impor­tant ­factor in Andalusian history. But the direct impact of this ­factor on the intellectual life of al-­Andalus was, as noted above, remarkably small. Ann Christys can thus correctly say that the Christians appear only as a footnote in the history of al-­Andalus. She attributes their marginality to the fact that the Christians did not write—­ which is to say, that they wrote ­little.89 Plausibly, then, the usual separate treatment of the Christian community in the historiography of al-­Andalus, and the ancillary place it is granted in the history of Andalusian thought, might be thought to reflect objective so­cio­log­i­cal characteristics of that community. This account, however, does not hold in the case of the Andalusian Jewish community. In al-­Andalus, the Jews crafted a vigorous philosophical lit­er­a­ture, often written in Arabic or Judeo-­Arabic (rather than in Hebrew).90 And yet they, too, remain marginal in the modern historiography of Islamic philosophy in al-­Andalus, or ­else are discussed in separate studies. Hence, the traditional disjointed historiography of Andalusian philosophy tells us at least as much about the preconceptions of historians of this lit­er­a­ture as about the historical developments themselves. 88. A welcome exception to this approach is Adamson, Philosophy in the Islamic World; see esp. part 2. Still more common, however, is the listing of Jewish alongside Muslim and Christian authors, but with no attempt to bring t­ hose lists together—­let alone examine the pos­si­ble influence of minority thinkers on the development of Andalusian philosophy. See, for example, González Palencia’s introduction to Abū l-­Ṣalt’s Kitab taqwīm al-­dhihn, Rectification de la mente, 9–10. The scholarly tendency to relegate minorities to a footnote is not unique to students of Islamic history; on a parallel approach by scholars of Western philosophy (regarding both Jewish and Muslim philosophy) see, Hyman, “Medieval Jewish Philosophy as Philosophy,” 245. 89. Christys, Christians in al-­Andalus, 23. 90. According to Reilly (The Contest of Christian and Muslim Spain, 14–15), the Jewish community was “the most literate community of the peninsula,” a fact that may have contributed to the disproportionate repre­sen­ta­tion of Jews in written sources. On the respective characteristic traits of the Christian and Jewish communities, see introduction, pages 13–18.

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The Politico-­Religious Map of al-­Andalus The religious profile of Muslim al-­Andalus is commonly painted as conservative, dominated by staunch Mālikī ʿulamāʾ.91 This seemingly uniform, ste­reo­typical profile must be made more nuanced: other ­legal schools (in par­tic­u­lar, the Ẓāhirī school) ­were also introduced into al-­Andalus and made their intellectual impression upon it, continuously challenging the Mālikīs.92 The Andalusian Mālikī school of law itself evolved over time.93 Nonconformist, even revolutionary forms of Sunnī Islam appeared in al-­Andalus, at times gaining a ruling position (as in the case of the Almohads).94 Nevertheless, the conservative ste­reo­typical profile is not altogether incorrect, insofar as Sunnī Islam in general, and Mālikī traditionalism in par­tic­u­lar, remained the determining ­factors in Muslim Iberia, religiously as well as po­liti­cally.95 Despite repeated attempts to do so, Shīʿī Islam did not manage to establish itself po­liti­cally in the Iberian peninsula, a fact that makes al-­Andalus stand out especially in the fourth/ tenth ­century, when vari­ous forms of Shīʿism spread across the Muslim world.96 But the expansion of Shīʿī, Ismāʿīlī Islam in North Africa, perceived as a po­liti­cal, religious, and intellectual threat to the Sunnī rulers in al-­ Andalus, became a constitutive ­factor for religious and intellectual developments in the peninsula. Fāṭimid theology, presented as a comprehensive worldview and inspired by Neoplatonism, was spread by missionaries who crossed the straits of Gibraltar to reach al-­Andalus.97 It was also energetically disseminated through the application of a systematic knowledge 91. On the Mālikī hegemony in al-­Andalus, as well as on its nuances, see, for example, Fierro, “La política religiosa,” 137ff. Dominique Urvoy (“The ʿUlamāʾ of al-­Andalus,” 849) cites Lévy-­Provençal’s view that “deliberate conservatism, even archaizing,” was a characteristic quality of Andalusian Islam, and suggests that it springs from the fact that “the Christians and Jews of Spain . . . ​caused traditional f­ actors to predominate within Islam itself on their conversion.” 92. See Fierro, “La política religiosa”; and see the articles assembled in Ibn Ḥazm of Cordoba. On Ẓāhirism in al-­Andalus, see further chapter 2. 93. See, for example, Fierro, “Proto-­Malikis.” 94. On the Almohads, see chapter 5. 95. See, for example, Guichard (Les musulmans de Valence, 1:130), who, relying on Ibn Ṭumlūs, mentions “l’obscurantisme malékite dominant en Andalousie avant l’époque almohade.” 96. As noted by Tibi, ­there is no ground to the suggestion that the Zīrids of Granada ­were Shīʿites; see The Tibyān, 215, note 171. On the Fāṭimids’ attempts to get a foothold in the peninsula, see also Fierro, “La política religiosa,” 129–33. 97. See, for example, Walker, “Fatimid Institutions of Learning”; Madelung and Walker, The Advent of the Fatimids, 33; Fierro, “La política religiosa,” 132–33.

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policy, such as the establishment of libraries and teaching institutions, catering to dif­fer­ent levels of the population. The challenge that this intellectual policy posed for al-­Andalus’s po­liti­cal rulers colored their attitude to the study of philosophy and the sciences. As our story unfolds, we s­ hall see that the vicissitudes of philosophy and the sciences in al-­Andalus can be seen as outcomes of this challenge in the formative period of philosophical thought in al-­Andalus.

ch a p t er  1

Beginnings

Prior to the Umayyad conquest, al-­Andalus was void of science [khāliya min al-­ʿilm], and none of its inhabitants has gained a reputation among us ­because of his interest in it. One could only find, in vari­ous places, ancient talismans, the consensus about which was that they w ­ ere made by the Roman kings, since al-­Andalus was attached to their empire. [Al-­Andalus] remained thus, devoid of philosophy [ʿāṭila min al-­ḥikma], until the Muslim conquest, in Ramaḍān 92H [/June 911]. It also continued in this fashion [thereafter], its inhabitants showing no interest for the sciences [al-­ʿulūm], except for religious science and linguistics.1

the author of this report, the eleventh-­century Ibn Ṣāʿid al-­Andalusī, was himself a student of the sciences, particularly of astronomy. As a scientist, he also maintained a keen interest in philosophy and in its history. His dismissive description of a total philosophical void in Visigoth Spain and in the early Islamic period may appear harsh, but it shows that in the perception of a fifth/eleventh-­century Andalusian intellectual, the philosophy and science in this early period was distinctly uninspired. Furthermore, despite the sporadic discovery of additional information, modern scholarship has not significantly modified the picture he sketches.2 The pre­sent chapter is dedicated to the fourth/tenth c­ entury, a time that witnessed a sea change in the attitude to philosophy and science. This was the formative period of Andalusian philosophy, the intellectual and po­liti­cal events of which determined the course of philosophy in the following two centuries. Setting the stage for the rest of the book, this 1. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 155. 2. See also introduction, page 18.

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chapter ­will pre­sent the earliest manifestations of systematic philosophy in al-­Andalus, as well as their religious and po­liti­cal context.

Books and Libraries The second half of the tenth c­ entury was a watershed in Andalusian intellectual history. The story of this turning point is twofold. Although the first part, relating to the introduction of sciences to al-­Andalus, has been told many times, it deserves to be retold, and, following the method proposed by Pierre Guichard, to be complemented by some “less direct and immediately exploitable sources.”3 Let us begin with Ibn Ṣāʿid, the main source for the story: ­A fter the beginning of the fourth c­ entury, the emir al-­Ḥ akam (365/961–350/976), . . . ​son of ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān al-­Nāṣir li-­Dīn Allāh (r. 300/912–350/961)—­and this was still in the days of his ­father’s reign—­was moved to attend to the sciences and to ­favor scientists. He brought [istajlaba]4 from Baghdād, Egypt, and other places in the East the main outstanding compositions and wonderful tracts, in the old sciences as well as in the modern ones. He gathered, in what remained of his ­father’s reign and then during his own, books in quantity that equaled what the Abbasid kings gathered over a long time.5

According to Ibn Ṣāʿid, it was mainly al-­Ḥakam II who introduced to the Iberian peninsula philosophical, theological, exegetical, and scientific lore, and established an enormous library.6 Ibn Ṣāʿid also tells us of a parallel 3. Guichard used Christian literary as well as archaeological sources to study the social, administrative, military, and demographic history of al-­Andalus. Noting the many lacunae in the Arab sources, he advocates “la nécessité ou la légitimité d’une utilisation—la plus prudente pos­si­ble—de sources moins directes et immédiatement exploitables que les sources arabes, à défaut ou en complément de celles-ci.” See Guichard, Les musulmans de Valence, 1:11. 4. The root j.l.b. is also used repeatedly to describe al-­Ḥakam’s proj­ect of amassing books by Ibn al-­Imām (see IAU, 515; al-­Maʿṣūmī, “Ibn al-­Imām,” 103), as well as by al-­ Maqqarī (Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 1:250), and Moses Ibn Ezra (chapter 1, note 9). 5. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 162–63 (compare the translation of this text by Salem and Kumar, Science in the Medieval World, 191). Highlighting the competition with the Abbasids, Al-­Shimālī (Dirāsāt, 595) describes al-­Ḥakam II as “Maʾmūn al-­andalus.” 6. See Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 194; idem, “The Muslims and the Golden Age of the Jews.” On this library, see also Lévi-­Provençal, “Un manuscrit de la bibliothèque du calife al-­Ḥakam II”; Hirschler, The Written Word, 127–28; Endress, “Neue Leser für alte Bücher,” 195–97; idem, “Die wissenschaftliche Literatur,” 400–506. On the introduction of the “sciences of the ancients” to al-­Andalus, see also Forcada, “Astronomy, Astrology, and the Sciences of the Ancients.”

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move, in which al-­Ḥakam’s Jewish vizier, Ḥasdāy ibn Shaprūṭ, imported religious books for the use of the Jewish community:7 Ḥasdāy ibn Isḥāq, the minister of ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān al-­Nāṣir li-­Dīn Allāh . . . ​was the first to open for the Andalusian Jews the gates of religious law, computation and the like. Prior to his days, they w ­ ere obliged to turn to the Jews of Baghdād in m ­ atters concerning their religious law, their computation and fixing the dates of their holy days. . . . ​ But when Ḥasdāy attached himself to al-­Ḥakam, . . . ​he used his good offices to bring [li-­istijlāb] what­ever he wanted of the writings of the Jews in the Orient. The Jews of al-­Andalus thus came to know that regarding which they w ­ ere ignorant before.8

Ibn Sāʿid clearly views Ḥasdāy’s initiative to import books (istijlāb) as connected to that of his master, a fact that has been noted by several scholars.9 The connection is not l­imited to the purpose of the two initiatives (that is, to achieve cultural in­de­pen­dence from the East), but also has implications regarding the lot of the books at the receiving end. It requires ­little imagination to appreciate that the same ships that brought the books ordered by the caliph also carried ­those ordered by his vizier, and that when the ships arrived at the docks, for example in Seville, their literary cargo was not divided strictly according to religious affiliation.10 Although 7. On Ḥasdāy’s position and rank at court, see chapter 3, page 83. 8. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­Umam, 203–4 (cf. the translation in Wasserstein, “The Muslims and the Golden Age of the Jews,” 189–92; Finkel, “An Eleventh-­Century Source”). The same information, with very similar formulations, appears in Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa’s entry on Ḥasdāy ibn Isḥāq; see IAU, 498. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa (IAU, 493–95) also mentions Ḥasdāy in his entry on Ibn Juljul, on whose information he (and perhaps also Ibn Ṣāʿid) may have depended. See also Munk, Mélanges, 480–81 and note 2; Fierro, Abderramán, 235. One may then won­ der w ­ hether Ibn Juljul served also as Ibn Daud’s source (see below, pages 30–31). 9. See, for example, Wasserstein (“The Muslims and the Golden Age of the Jews,” 194), who establishes the connection between Ibn Ṣāʿid’s stories about the importation of books and the fact that Ḥasdāy “in thus cutting the umbilical cord with Iraq, was acting in concert with his employer, the caliph of Cordoba.” Wasserstein estimates that “the Jewish revolution of fourth/tenth c­ entury Spain is a sub-­set of the overall Iberian separatist revolution of that period.” See also Wasserstein, “The Library of al-­Ḥakam II,” 103; G. Cohen, “The Story of the Four Captives,” 115–16; Mann, Texts and Studies, 1:111–12; Vahid Brown, “Andalusī Mysticism,” 71–72; and cf. Ben-­Sasson, “Al-­Andalus,” 131. Similar information, in similar vocabulary, is given by Ibn ʿEzra (Muḥāḍara, 1:62–63), who writes, “ka-­annahu istahlaba [read: itstajlaba] ʿuyūn al-­ʿulūm min al-­sharq wa-­fuṣūṣ al-­maʿārif min kull ufq saḥīq, fa-­qāmat bihi dhawāt al-­ʿilm ʿalā sāqin, wa-­ghaniya al-­nās ʿan al-­shām wa’l-­ʿirāq.” Ibn ʿEzra, who also stresses the acquired new in­de­pen­dence from the East, does not associate Ḥasdāy’s activity with that of his master. 10. All the more so if Christine Mazzoli-­Guintard (Vivre à Cordoue, 76–77, 85–87) is correct in her estimation that in the Andalusian cities t­ here w ­ ere no quarters specifically

[ 30 ] ch a pter 1

Ḥasdāy had ordered Jewish religious books, books ordered by al-­Ḥakam could just as well reach the hands (and then the libraries) of Ḥasdāy and his coreligionists (as well as t­ hose of Christians).11 Ḥasdāy himself was no stranger to the sciences; when, as mentioned above, the caliph received, as a gift from Byzantium, an illuminated Greek manuscript of Dioscorides’s Materia Medica, Ḥasdāy was a member of the team that was called upon to translate it into Arabic. In this group, says Ibn Juljul, Ḥasdāy was “the most thorough in his research and the most dedicated to the proj­ect in terms of his closeness to the caliph.”12 It was prob­ably also Ḥasdāy’s known interest in science that prompted Dūnash ben Tamīm, Isaac Israeli’s disciple, to pre­sent him with the gift of a book on astronomy.13 One can assume that he perused or purchased more books than he ordered, and he must not have been the sole Jew to have done so. Ibn Ṣāʿid’s information is corroborated by a Jewish source, the twelfth-­ century Abraham Ibn Daud (d. ca. 1180). In his Hebrew Book of Tradition, Ibn Daud recounts the story of four Oriental Talmudic scholars who ­were captured by pirates in the ser­vice of ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III. Ransomed by four dif­fer­ent Jewish communities, so the story goes, ­these captives laid the ground for in­de­pen­dent Jewish scholarship in the West. In the case of al-­Andalus, the ransomed captive was Rabbi Hanoch. Ibn Daud recounts the swift spread of the rumors regarding Rabbi Hanoch’s erudition, and adds, [At this point] the commander [of the pirates] wished to retract his sale. However, the king [i.e., the caliph, presumably ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān

assigned to the minorities. In this, however, she contradicts the opinion of, for example, Torres Balbás, Ciudades hispanomusulmanas, 1:210, for whom the Jews, even more than the Christians, lived in segregated quarters. Goitein (A Mediterranean Society, 2:289–93), assumes the existence of a concentration of Jews in certain quarters that w ­ ere not formally designated as specifically Jewish. 11. The idea that, while building religious libraries, Jews also filled their libraries with Arabic (scil., non-­Jewish) books is suggested already by Ribera y Tarragó (“Bibliófilos,” 202), who refers to Munk, Mélanges, 480. Ribera y Tarragó mentions the library of Yehoseph Ha-­Nagid; see Ibn al-­Khaṭīb, Iḥāṭa, 1:131. A beautiful library is also said to have been collected by Samuel ha-­Nagid. Ibn Ḥayyān (quoted by Ibn al-­Khaṭīb, Iḥāṭa, 1:438–39) does not specify the content of the library, but the entry hails his knowledge not only of Jewish law, but also of Arabic language and poetry, “the sciences of the ancients,” and in par­tic­u­lar mathe­matics, astronomy, and logic. 12. “Kāna abḥathahum wa-­aḥraṣahum ʿalā dhālika min jihat al-­taqarrub ilā al-­malik” (IAU, 494); and see introduction, pages 17–18 and notes 62–63. 13. See also Ben-­Sasson, The Emergence, 251; Samuel Stern, “A Treatise on the Armillary Sphere,” 374.

Begin nings [ 31 ]

III] would not permit him to do so, for he was delighted by the fact that the Jews of his domain no longer had need for the p ­ eople of Babylonia. 14

Ibn Daud’s account tells us that the importation of books was often accompanied by traveling scholars, and he testifies to the dramatic effect that the migration, w ­ hether voluntary or forced, had on the life of the Jewish communities. While Ibn Daud does not link this account to Ḥasdāy ibn Shaprūṭ, Ḥasdāy’s involvement with pirates may be attested in yet another source, this one Christian. Liudprand of Cremona recounts that in 969 Otto I had sent John of Gorze (d. 974) carry­ing letters to ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III. The background for this mission was a dispute between the two rulers over the attacks on Otto’s land by the pirates of Fraxinetum (La Garde-­Freinet in the Gulf of St. Tropez). The letters that John of Gorze was charged to pre­sent w ­ ere offensive to Islam, and the mission went sour and dragged on for years. Several local mediators w ­ ere involved in this affair, among them a Jew named Hasdeu, who may well have been none other than Ḥasdāy ibn Shaprūṭ.15

Censorship The well-­known story of al-­Ḥakam’s library has a second part that, although as famous as the first, is usually told only in a curtailed way. This part concerns al-­Manṣūr’s censorship, a key source for which is the continuation of the account of Ibn Ṣāʿid, who says, [Al-­Ḥakam] died in 366 [/976]. His son Hishām became king ­after him. He was then a boy . . . ​and his chamberlain Abū ʿĀmir [r. 366/976– 392/1002] took control of managing his kingdom. As soon as [Abū ʿĀmir] took control, he turned to the trea­suries of [Hishām’s] f­ ather al-­ Ḥakam, in which the above-­mentioned books w ­ ere kept, and he took 14. Ibn Daud, The Book of Tradition, 66/48. Ibn Daud’s account is then repeated and elaborated by Ibn Danan; see Del Valle and Stemberger, Saadia Ibn Danán, 60–62. 15. See Christys, Christians in al-­Andalus, 109–17; Tolan, Saracens, 97. On Ḥasdāy’s diplomatic missions, see also Mann, Texts and Studies, 1:3–6; Baer, History, 1:29; Sáenz-­ Badillos, Literatura Hebrea, 22; Fierro, Abderramán, 236. Reilly (Medieval Spains, 72) mentions Ḥasdāy’s missions to Ordoño III of Asturias, to the Emperor Otto I of Germany, and to the Byzantine Emperor. On the role of Jews in medieval international diplomacy, see Jaspert and Kolditz, “Christlich-­muslimische Aussenbeziehungen im Mittelmeerraum,” 39. The head of the del­e­ga­tion to Otto I was another Jew, Ibrāhim ibn Yaʿqūb al-­Isrā’ilī al-­Ṭurṭūshī, whose original work was prob­ably a report drafted for the caliph following his visit to Germany. On him, see Ashtor, “Ibrāhim ibn Yaʿqūb”; Lewicki, “Die Vorstellungen arabischer Schriftsteller”; Miquel, “L’Eu­rope occidentale”; idem, “Ibrāhīm b. Yaʿḳūb.”

[ 32 ] ch a pter 1

out, in the presence of his close entourage of religious scholars, the vari­ ous kinds of compositions that w ­ ere found in them. He commanded [his servants] to put aside the books of the sciences of the ancients, which ­were composed in logic, astronomy ­etc. . . . ​and he ordered that ­these books be burned and destroyed. Some ­were burnt, ­others ­were thrown into the palace’s wells and covered with rocks and dirt, or ­were disfigured in all kinds of manners. . . . ​The ­people who had been moved to [search for] science ­were thus silenced, their souls ­were suppressed and they took to conceal what­ever they possessed of t­ hese sciences.16

Ibn Ṣāʿid’s depiction of “the iron curtain” that descended on libraries and their users is prob­ably much exaggerated. The final dispersion of al-­ Ḥakam’s library took place only a generation ­later, and if we rely on Ibn Ṣāʿid’s information regarding the time it took to empty the library then (six months!), we must assume that much of the library remained intact during the first Manṣūrian purge.17 Other libraries also continued to function.18 Nevertheless, the story vividly recounts the enduring memory of intellectual persecution and of narrowing intellectual horizons during this period. We do not have a list of the books that ­were chosen for destruction; we only know that books of philosophy and science ­were among the main victims.19 The censorship of books was accompanied by the persecution 16. Ibn Ṣā‘id, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 163–64. See also Wasserstein, “The Library of al-­ Ḥakam II,” notes 28 and 103. The listing of vari­ous forms of destruction of books shows that their burning was not regarded at the time as more broadly significant than the destruction itself; cf. Safran, “The Politics of Book Burning.” On the Muslim scholars’ discussion of dif­ fer­ent modes of discarding unwanted books, see Canard, “Quelques ‘à coté,’ ” 118. 17. See Ibn Ṣā‘id, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 164; Wasserstein, “The Library of al-­Ḥakam II,” 103 and note 39. 18. For example, the library of Abū Jaʿfar ibn ʿAbbās, the vizier of Zuhayr, the Slav ruler of Almeria (d. 429/1038), which is said to have contained 400,000 volumes; see Wasserstein, “The Library of al-­Ḥakam II,” 99; Ribera y Tarragó, “Bibliófilos,” 206–10. On the difference between the central library, that of the ruler, and locally endowed libraries, and on the literary topos of the decline of libraries due to warfare, plunder, and misappropriation of manuscripts, see also Hirschler, The Written Word, 129–34. As Hirschler points out, during religious conflicts libraries could indeed vanish. But Ibn Ṣāʿid’s account of al-­Manṣūr’s censorship falls within what Roger Collins depicts as “a framework of interpretation that sees the history of Spain as a ­whole being best represented by a pattern of long periods of isolationism and exclusivity on the part of the peninsula in relation to the outside world, punctuated by a succession of shorter, rather hectic, phases of catching up, in the course of which Spain becomes almost uncritically receptive of outside influences.” See Collins, The Arab Conquest of Spain, 11. 19. The absence of such a detailed list does not, however, mean that “[al-­Manṣūr] took books and authors not much in circulation” (Safran, “The Politics of Book Burning,” 6). See also de Libera, La philosophie médiévale, 143.

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of their readers, which constrained students of philosophy and science to hide their interest, and limit their overt activity to the permitted fields of mathe­matics and medicine.20 Ibn Ṣāʿid mentions specifically the case of Abū ʿUthmān Saʿīd b. Fatḥūn b. Makram, known as “the Saragossan ass” (al-­ḥimār al-­Saraqusṭī), who was incarcerated during Ibn ʿĀmir’s persecution, and suffered greatly “for a well-­known reason.”21 Upon release from jail, Saʿīd b. Fatḥūn left al-­Andalus and settled in Sicily, where he remained ­until his death.22 According to Ibn Ṣāʿid, the censorship lasted ­until the civil war, at which point the rulers of Cordoba became too preoccupied with their rivals to continue the persecution. Unlike the first part of the story, Ibn Ṣāʿid’s account of censorship does not have a Jewish facet, nor is it attested in any Jewish text. Indeed, t­ here is no hint that al-­Manṣūr’s suppression targeted the intellectual activity of Jews.23 In fact, the eleventh c­ entury saw a flourishing of Jewish philosophical writings. Jews could thus serve as the custodians of philosophy when its study by Muslims was deemed heretical.24 They (and their private libraries) ­were pivotal to the preservation, transmission, and cultivation of philosophy and sciences in al-­Andalus.25 Among Muslims, philosophical activity was kept alive on a minor scale during the following c­ entury in the courts of the so-­called party kings (mulūk al-­ṭāʾifa). As argued by Martínez Lorca, the continuation of this activity, recorded by Ibn Ṣāʿid, prepared the ground for the seemingly 20. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 164. 21. Such an oblique reference is not common in the context of condemning philosophical preoccupations. Resembling the pudeur reserved for sexual misconduct, it may indicate some other reason for the persecution. On his sobriquet and persecution, see Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors,” 104–5; and see chapter 4, notes 10–11. 22. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 168. 23. It is in­ter­est­ing to note, by comparison, the attempt of Christian monarchs in thirteenth-­century Spain to supervise and control what Jews read. In 1255, a royal patent of rights forbade the Jews to read or to own books that contravened Jewish law; see Ilan, “The Jewish Community in Toledo,” 81–82. The patent was prob­ably motivated by the wish to prevent uncensored material (including translations of philosophy and science) from trickling to the Christians (rather than by an interest in defending Jewish orthodoxy, as suggested by Ilan). 24. This is already noted by al-­Shimālī, Dirāsāt, 608: “wa-­kānat liʾl-­yahūd f ī al-­andalus yad ʿalā al-­nahḍa al-­fikriyya bi-­munāqashātihim wa-­taʿlīlātihim al-­dīniyya, wa-­kāna lahum faḍl ʿalā al-­turāth al-­f ikrī al-­ʿarabī fa-­ḥafiẓūhu yauma iḍṭahada al-­falāsifa wa-­ubīdat āthāruhum” (The Jews in al-­Andalus contributed, by their religious debates and reasonings, to the intellectual re­nais­sance; they had an advantage in the Arabic intellectual legacy, and so they preserved it when the phi­los­o­phers ­were dispersed and their legacy destroyed). I am indebted to Khālid Abū Rās for referring me to this passage. 25. The observation that the Jews ­were “useful intermediaries” in the cultural pro­cess is already made by Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-­Kings, 192.

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sudden appearance of philosophy in the twelfth ­century. At the same time, as Ibn Ṣāʿid’s report also reveals, Jewish scholars seem to have served as an impor­tant link in the line of transmission of philosophy and science to their Muslim neighbors.26 The exceedingly uneven application of state censorship to ­these two communities had im­mense implications for the history of philosophy in al-­Andalus. Before discussing this, however, we ­shall turn to the other component of the story: not the books, but their readers.

Scholars and Thinkers Ibn Masarra and His Books We know l­ittle about the early infiltration of philosophy, and of speculative thought in general, into al-­Andalus. Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Najīḥ Ibn Masarra (269/883–319/931) is commonly considered to have been the first in­de­pen­dent Andalusī Muslim thinker of local extraction. ­There is much speculation concerning Ibn Masarra’s philosophical affinity. He has been variously described as a Muʿtazilī theologian, a mystic, a Neoplatonist follower of the Bāṭiniyya, a follower of the so-­called Pseudo-­ Empedocles, and a combination of all of t­ hese. Most of t­ hese suggestions, however, w ­ ere first made before one could examine his writings, and they lacked an appraisal of his probable intellectual environment. Born in Cordoba, Ibn Masarra was educated by his own f­ather, ʿAbd Allāh, as well as by Muḥammad Ibn Waḍḍāḥ (d. 287/900) and al-­Khushanī (whose date of death is recorded as 371/981 or 361/971).27 Like his f­ ather before him, he traveled to the East before returning to al-­Andalus. T ­ hese journeys, like ­those of many ­others, ­were likely to have been intellectually and religiously motivated; ­there is no reason to think that at that point he was actively persecuted.28 He studied Mālikī law, and some of our sources add to his name the epithet “the jurist” (al-­faqīh). He spent some time in Kairouan and in Mecca.29 In Mecca he may have been associated with the 26. Martínez Lorca, introduction to Ensayos, 42–52. See also Blachère (in his introduction to his translation of Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaḳât al-­umam, 20), for whom “­until the eleventh ­century, philosophy was not cultivated seriously in al-­Andalus, except by Jews.” On the continued philosophical activity in the ṭāʾifa period, see also Marín, “Teología y filosofía,” 530. 27. Ibn al-­Faraḍī, Taʾrīkh, 2:4; al-­Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh, 590; Addas, “Andalusī Mysticism,” 913–14; Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 51. 28. Only one “­later (and dubious source)” reports that he fled al-­Andalus; see Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 14; and cf. Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus, 3. 29. Khushanī, Ṭabaqāt, 159–60.

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circle of Abū Saʿīd b. al-­Aʿrābī, an erstwhile disciple of the Baghdādī mystic al-­Junayd, and perhaps with the circle of Aḥmad b. Sālim al-­Tustarī, the so-­ called Sālimiyya.30 That the only Ṣūf ī author quoted by name in his Book of Letters is Sahl al-­Tustarī further points to Ibn Masarra’s association with ­these circles. Although the Epistle on Letters attributed to Sahl from which he quotes was shown to be a pseudepigraph, it does indicate Ibn Masarra’s participation in the emerging Andalusī Tustarian tradition.31 He returned to al-­Andalus during the reign of ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III, and withdrew, together with some disciples, to the Cordoban Sierra (hence his appellation al-­ jabalī), where he remained u ­ ntil his death.32 Ibn Masarra’s writings w ­ ere considered lost u ­ ntil 1972, when Muḥammad Kamāl Ibrāhīm Jaʿfar discovered two of his works in manuscript no. 3168 of the Chester Beatty Collection.33 ­These treatises, which ­were subsequently published and analyzed by Jaʿfar and then by ­others, laid to rest much of the scholarly speculation regarding the nature of Ibn Masarra’s thought. Ibn Masarra, they decisively demonstrate, was neither a Muʿtazilite nor an Aristotelian phi­los­o­pher, but rather a Neoplatonic one.34 Ibn Masarra was apparently a gifted speaker, albeit not a fiery orator. Our sources describe him as a highly effective conversationalist, one who had “a way with words” (ṭarīqa f īʾl-­balāgha) and whose charismatic 30. Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 14–15; Marín, “Abū Saʿīd Ibn al-­Aʿrābī”; Ebstein and Sviri, “The So-­Called Risālat al-­ḥurūf,” 219–20. 31. See Ebstein and Sviri, “The So-­Called Risālat al-­ḥurūf.” 32. For Ibn Masarra’s biography, see Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra; Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 8–19; Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 39–92; Arnaldez, “Ibn Masarra” (who weaves the scant information in our sources into a smooth, but not necessarily accurate, narrative); Ramón Guerrero and Garrido Clemente, “Ibn Masarra,” 144–46. I wish to thank James Morris and Vahid Brown for generously allowing me to use their unpublished work, which remains indispensable for the study of Ibn Masarra. 33. See Arberry, The Chester Beatty Library, 1:68–69. The manuscript is a compendium of mystical and magical works, copied in Egypt in the late thirteenth ­century. I wish to express my thanks to the Chester Beatty Library in Dublin for the permission to use the manuscript and to David Wasserstein for his help in procuring this permission. 34. For scholarly evaluations of Ibn Masarra’s thought, see Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra; Morris, “Ibn Masarra”; Cruz Hernándes, Historia del pensamiento, 344–52; Tornero, “Noticia”; Addas, “Andalusī Mysticism,” 913–19; Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra”; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 210 and 214. On Ibn Masarra’s Neoplatonism, and in par­tic­u­lar on his so-­called Pseudo-­Empedoclean teachings, see further chapter 4, pages 103–17; on his bāṭinism, and in par­tic­u­lar his close affinity to the thought of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-­Ṣafāʾ, see Tornero, “Noticia,” 63; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 210; de Callataÿ, “Philosophy and Bāṭinism in al-­Andalus”; idem, “Who ­Were the Readers,” 288.

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personality made a power­ful impression and attracted disciples.35 Al-­ Khushanī (d. 371/981), who was pre­sent during the meeting in Kairouan between the young Ibn Masarra and the famous Mālikī jurist Abū Jaʿfar Aḥmad b. Naṣr, provides a firsthand account of the former’s oral skills. It seems that Ibn Masarra kept quiet for a long time, but when addressed by the host, responded “in an elaborate yet pleasing way” (kalām maṣnūʿ, illā annahu ḥasan f ī’l-­kalām jayyid), saying, “I came to you, aspiring to acquire from your light and to rely on your knowledge” (muqtabisan min nūrika wa-­mustamiddan bi-­ʿilmika) and similar t­ hings that amounted to a small khuṭba.36 Even his opponents conceded that he knew how to use “mellifluous speech” (kalām ʿadhb), though they stress the fact that he used this talent to lead p ­ eople astray, and that “using his silver tongue, he purposefully chose opaque expressions that would hide his meaning.” 37 While Ibn Masarra’s rhetorical talents extended to the written sphere, he was not a prolific writer. Although his con­temporary al-­Khushanī says that he composed “many books,” we learn from an anecdote recounted by Ibn al-­Abbār that he took his time revising drafts and was loath to part with a text before he felt it was ready.38 His two extant works corroborate the impression emerging from this anecdote: they are remarkably well thought out, tightly constructed, and short.39 Notwithstanding this restrained approach to writing, our sources attribute to Ibn Masarra several books—­although the precise number remains unknown. Miguel Asín Palacios, who was aware of only two titles of Ibn Masarra’s works, assumed that he had composed more.40 Let us briefly review what we know about his writings: The Chester Beatty manuscript contains two treatises explic­itly attributed to Ibn Masarra: 1. A short treatise, entitled the Epistle of Contemplation (Risālat al-­ Iʿtibār).41 This work sets forth the m ­ ental practice by which a per35. Al-­Ḥumaydī, Jadwā, 58; also Ibn ʿIdhārī, Bayān, 195. 36. Khushanī, Ṭabaqāt, 159–60; also Ibn ʿIdhārī, Bayān, 195; and see Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” note c on page 14 and pages xvi, xxxi. 37. Wa-­kāna lahu lisān yaṣilu bihi ilā taʾlīf al-­kalām wa-­tamwīh al-­alfaẓ wa-­ikhfāʾ al-­ maʿānī; Ibn al-­Faraḍī, Taʾrīkh, 2:41, who is then quoted by Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh, 590. See also Ibn Ḥayyān, (Muqtabis, 5:33), who says that he had a “sweet, eloquent tongue” (lisān ʿadhb dhaliq), which he used to twist the meaning of what was said. 38. Ibn al-­Abbār, Takmila, 1:233–34. 39. Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 213. 40. Asín Palacios, Obras Escogidas, 1:50–51. 41. On this treatise and its style, see Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 208, 212–14, 226.

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son observes the universe and contemplates, in ascending order, its dif­fer­ent levels of existence, thus proceeding to the uppermost levels of knowledge.42 Although one can sometimes detect echoes of Muʿtazilī theology, its overall Neoplatonic character is unmistakable.43 The available biographical and historical sources do not list this title among Ibn Masarra’s works. Relying on Muslim historiographers, Jaʿfar assumed that Ibn Masarra had written only two books.44 He therefore suggested identifying the discovered Epistle with a Kitāb al-­tabṣira that Ibn al-­Abbār attributes to Ibn Masarra.45 The identification of ­these two titles, though generally accepted by scholars,46 seems unfounded. Ibn al-­Abbār mentions the Kitāb al-­tabṣira in the context of a story about Ibn Masarra’s devotee Ḥayy b. ʿAbd al-­Mālik. This resident of Cordoba used to pay extended visits to Ibn Masarra in his secluded place of worship in the Sierra ( f ī mutaʿabbadihi bi’l-­jabal). Ibn Masarra, we are told, would review his own books for an entire year before revealing them. But a­ fter Ibn Masarra had completed his Kitāb al-­tabṣira, Ḥayy cunningly managed to get hold of the manuscript and copy it. To add insult to injury, his copy was not a faithful rendering of the original. Following this incident, Ibn Masarra de­cided not to reveal his Kitāb al-­tabṣira to anyone.47 If so, this would mean that the Kitāb al-­tabṣira was never published by its author. The story (although told by the rather hostile Ibn al-­Abbār) sounds credible. It 42. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī; idem, Min al-­turāth al-­falsaf ī; Garrido Clemente, “Edición crítica de la Risālat al-­Iʿtibār”; eadem, “Traducción anotada de la Risālat al-­Iʿtibār”; Kenny, “Ibn-­Masarra”; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy.” The Qurʾānic iʿtibār (Q. 59:2) in the sense of drawing a lesson (ʿibra) from evidence is closely linked to the notion of deducing from the manifest physical world what is hidden from the eyes (al-­istidlāl bi/min al-­shāhid ʿalā/ilā al-­ghāʾib), and is commonly used by early theologians, with no mystical overtones. The translation of ʿibra as “ ‘crossover’ into the unseen [ghayb],” when used in the context of Ibn Masarra’s teachings, blurs its conventional significance as well as the communicative value of this familiar technical term, which allowed Ibn Masarra’s iʿtibār to be ­adopted by l­ater thinkers of dif­fer­ent training; cf. Böwering and Casewit, A Qurʾān Commentary, 37; Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus, 3, 6, 24, 36. 43. Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy.” 44. Jaʿfar, Min al-­turāth al-­falsaf ī, 300. 45. Jaʿfar, Min al-­turāth al-­falsaf ī, 300–306. 46. Including myself; see Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 203, note 7. 47. Ibn al-­Abbār, Takmila, 1:233–34.

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does not seem likely that the work that reached us as Ibn Masarra’s Risālat al-­iʿtibār would be a draft of Kitāb al-­tabṣira that Ḥayy b. ʿAbd al-­Mālik published, in his master’s name, despite the latter’s known censorship. It is, of course, pos­si­ble that Ibn Masarra ­later integrated the ideas expressed in the Kitāb al-­tabṣira into another book. But the Risālat al-­iʿtibār seems to be a relatively early work of Ibn Masarra, and thus not the most likely depository for recycled material from the Kitāb al-­tabṣira. 2. The Book of Letters: Ibn Masarra’s approach (ṭarīqa) to the secrets of the letters is mentioned by Ibn al-­ʿArabī (d. 638/1240) as a model for his own discourse on the subject. Ibn al-­ʿArabī is careful to state his objection to a preoccupation with the properties of letters, a preoccupation that he also seems to associate with Ibn Masarra.48 Ibn Masarra’s recourse to letter speculation (taṣrīf Ibn Masarra al-­ jabalī f ī’l-­ḥurūf ) is also criticized by Ibn Sabʿīn (d. 668/1269).49 Ibn al-­ʿArabī does not specify the source of his information regarding Ibn Masarra’s approach to the secrets of letters and to their properties, nor does he associate this information with any par­tic­ u­lar work penned by Ibn Masarra. Nevertheless, we can reasonably suggest that he was referring to the longer of the two texts discovered and published by Jaʿfar. In the Chester Beatty manuscript, this work is entitled The Book of the Properties of Letters, Their True Nature and Their Origin (Kitāb khawāṣṣ al-­ḥurūf wa-­ḥaqāʾiqihā wa-­u ṣūlihā). As its name indicates, the book is dedicated to letter speculation, where the letters of the Arabic alphabet are presented as divine hypostases and as the manifestations of the divine attributes. As they overflow, they create the universe and control its destiny to eternity. The Book of Letters seems to pre­sent a more mature mystical-­philosophical discourse than the Epistle of Contemplation, with clearer echoes of Late Antique Neoplatonism, a difference that suggests that the Book of Letters was composed ­later.50 Ibn Masarra’s Book of Letters is also explic­itly mentioned by Ibn al-­ʿArabī, who says that in this book, Ibn Masarra drew attention (nabbaha) to the meaning of the Kaʿba (al-­bayt) and the black stone, which serves as an interpreter (tarjumān) between us

48. Ibn al-­ʿArabī, Kitāb al-­Mīm, 7. 49. Ibn Sabʿīn, Al-­Risāla al-­faqīriyya, 14. See also idem, al-­Fatḥ al-­mushtarak, 253, where Ibn Masarra’s approach is categorized as “doubtful” (mashkūk minhā). 50. Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 236, 239.

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and the dif­fer­ent ranks of divine revelation.51 Such a view does not appear in Ibn Masarra’s Book of Letters as we have it, and ­there is no obvious statement in this book that can be regarded as a tanbīh to this meaning. 3. Apart from ­these two books, the only excerpt we have in hand that is explic­itly associated with a named book of Ibn Masarra’s are a few lines from his Kitāb tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn, quoted by Ibn al-­ Marʾa (d. 611/1214) in his Sharḥ al-­irshād, and published by Louis Massignon.52 4. The Book of Explanation (Kitāb al-­tabyīn) is mentioned by Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-­Qurṭubī (d. 671/1272), who cites a prophetic tradition mentioned in it, which supports the possibility of intercession (shafāʿa) of the inhabitants of Paradise on behalf of the inhabitants of Hell.53 Transmitted on the authority of ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Masarra (Muḥammad’s ­father) and of Ibn Waḍḍāḥ, the use of this ḥadīth by Ibn Masarra weakens the validity of the charge directed against him and against his disciples that they denied intercession. Al-­Ḥulal al-­mawshiyya, which mentions another ḥadīth transmitted by Ibn Masarra, says that it appeared in “a compilation authored by Ibn Masarra” (mujallad min taʾlīf Ibn Masarra). This ḥadīth, about an agreement that the Prophet had made with the Jews, can be added to other pieces of information that point to a fascination on Ibn Masarra’s part with t­ hings Jewish, as well as a preoccupation with eschatology.54 Such eschatological interests, as well as his belief in intercession, are further reflected in another tradition attributed to Ibn Masarra, a ḥadīth on the intercession of ascetics (zāhidīn) on behalf of sinners—­supposedly something that he had found in the Psalter (al-­Zabūr).55 As noted above, Ibn Masarra was educated by traditional scholars such as Ibn Waḍḍāḥ and al-­Khushanī, and was associated with 51. Ibn al-­ʿArabī, Futūḥāt, 2:646; Massignon, Recueil, 31. 52. Massignon, Recueil, 70. The identification of this book with al-­Muntaqā min kalām ahl al-­Tuqā (suggested by Bardakçi) seems unwarranted; see Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra’s Third Book.” 53. Al-­Qurṭubī, Tadhkira, 306–7 (this reference corrects Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra’s Third Book,” 100); Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 42–43, 85–86. 54. Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra”; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 212, 228, 231, 244. 55. Al-­Thaʿālibī, ʿUlūm, 2:35; Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 24; Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 44–45.

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the circles of Mālikī jurists and ḥadīth scholars. Not surprisingly, his own extant works include some prophetic traditions, although he dispenses with the isnād,56 and it is quite pos­si­ble that in his nonextant works prophetic traditions played a more prominent role. The Kitāb al-­tabyīn may have been identical with the mujallad mentioned by al-­Ḥulal, or it may have been another book dedicated to prophetic traditions, or a speculative book in which a ḥadīth is quoted. 5. The al-­Muntaqā min kalām ahl al-­tuqā (A se­lection from the sayings of the pious ones) is not mentioned as a work of Ibn Masarra’s by any of our sources. The title page of the supposedly unique manuscript attributes it to a certain Aḥmad Ibn Masarra b. ʿAbd Allāh al-­Qurṭubī. According to the editor of the text, Mehmet Neçmettin Bardakçi, a comparison of this text with Ibn Masarra’s Epistle of Contemplation shows that it is indeed Ibn Masarra’s.57 However, Garrido-­Clemente (who refers to this work by the title that appears in its introduction, al-­Gharīb al-­muntaqā min kalām al-­tuqā [A se­lection of extraordinary sayings from the sayings of the pious ones]), doubts Ibn Masarra’s authorship and, relying on other Andalusī sources, suggests attributing the authorship of this work to Abū ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Khamīs al-­Jābūrī.58 Another manuscript of the text published by Bardakçi, bearing the same title, is preserved in Madrid. It is presented as extracts from al-­ Ghazālī’s Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-­dīn, compiled by “al-­shaykh al-­faqīh Abū al-­Ḥasan ʿAlī b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Malik al-­Maʿmarī al-­Ubādhī.”59 Involved in the compilation, too, was a certain Aḥmad b. ʿAlī ­Shallūn. Be that as it may, the somewhat verbose style of this text (reflected in its length) seems quite dif­fer­e nt from that of the two texts published by Jaʿfar. Apart from the book titles, some of the sources attribute to Ibn Masarra sayings that are not associated with a specific book. Al-­Ḥumaydī 56. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 313; cf. Fierro, “Opposition to Sufism,” 179. 57. Bardakçi, “Ebu Abdullah Muhammed Ibn Meserre,” 41–42, 132–35; idem, İbn Meserre, 53. I am grateful to Kadir Gombeyaz for his assistance in gaining access to Bardakçi’s doctoral thesis and for his help in clarifying this point. 58. Ramón Guerrero and Garrido Clemente, “Ibn Masarra,” 150. 59. See van Koningsveld, “Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Medieval Christian Spain,” 818; idem, “Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Christian Spain,” 96. The manuscript, Madrid, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, no. 001227530, is no. 33 in van Koningsveld’s list.

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(d. 488/1095), for example, mentions “compositions on meanings” (tawalīf f ī’l-­maʿānī). ­These may have been in­de­pen­dent treatises dedicated to the interpretation (“meaning”) of Qurʾānic verses, or they may be identical to one of Ibn Masarra’s known books mentioned above. In addition to writing on speculative thought, Ibn Masarra is said to have composed some poetry. Al-­Ḥumaydī rec­ords a poem for a rainy day, in which Ibn Masarra had invited the Mālikī scholar Abū Bakr al-­Luʾluʾī to join him in a place “which like a concealed secret, is indicated only by hint.”60 But according to al-­Ḥumaydī, this poem was recited to al-­Luʾluʾī, not written in a book. Ibn al-­Faraḍī cites a few lines from a poem in which Ibn Masarra lamented the death of his b ­ rother Ibrāhīm in Alexandria.61 This poem is also cited by Ibn Ḥayyān, along with another poem by Ibn Masarra.62 Lines from other poems are quoted by al-­Kattānī.63 Nevertheless, t­ here is no indication that Ibn Masarra was specifically known as a poet or that his poems ­were collected. All in all, we thus know of five (or six) book titles by Ibn Masarra. But ­there may have been more; alternatively, it is pos­si­ble that two or more of the titles refer to the same book.

Searching for the True Knowledge of Divine Unity Ibn al-­Marʾa b. Dahhāq al-­Mālaqī (d. 611/1214), a Ṣūf ī author associated with the “School of Murcia,” quotes Ibn Masarra’s Tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn in his commentary on al-­Juwaynī’s Kitāb al-­irshād ilā qawāṭiʿ al-­adilla f ī uṣūl al-­iʿtiqād.64 Ibn al-­Marʾa’s Sharḥ al-­irshād is still unedited, but, almost a ­century ago, Massignon published the passage relevant to Ibn

60. Makān kaʾl-­ḍamīr al-­maknī. The invitation could be a poetic reference to Ibn Masarra’s home, or it could allude to his distant mountain abode. Morris (“Ibn Masarra,” vi) assumes that Ibn Masarra was then still living in Cordoba, but ­there is no indication of that in the text, and al-­Ḥumaydī cites this poem ­after saying that some of Cordoba’s inhabitants had (already?) been led astray by him (ʾftutina). This poem is then quoted also by Ibn Khāqān (Maṭmaḥ al-­anfus, 58) and al-­Ḍabbī (Bughya, 78). Ironically, al-­Luʾluʾī was the teacher of the Qāḍī Muḥammad b. Yabqa b. Zarb, who was l­ater responsible (in 350/961) for the burning of Ibn Masarra’s books (Fierro, “Plants,” 131). 61. Ibn al-­Faraḍī, Taʾrīkh al-­ʿulamāʾ, 1:23; Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabis, 5:34. Ibn al-­Faraḍī’s oblique remark that Ibrāhīm “was not like his b ­ rother” does not tell us much about e­ ither ­brother, but it does seem to signal the author’s animosity t­ oward Ibn Masarra. 62. Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabis, 5:32, 34. 63. Al-­Kattānī, Tashbīhāt, 222, 271. 64. Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 74.

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Masarra from the Cairo manuscript.65 This quotation is frustratingly short, but if we collate it with other, in themselves equally meager items of evidence, it may allow us to add some missing pieces to the still largely incomplete puzzle of Ibn Masarra’s thought. The book’s title, God’s Unity as Upheld by ­Those Who Know with Certainty (Tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn), tallies with what we know from other sources regarding Ibn Masarra’s thought. The preoccupation with the meaning of tawḥīd is of course inherent to Muslim thought. Divine attributes seem to have taken a prominent place in Ibn Masarra’s unitarian thought, as they did in the thought of the followers of the Muʿtazila, “the proponents of Divine Justice and Unity” (ahl al-­ʿadl wa-’l-­tawḥīd). This alone, however, is insufficient ground to warrant attributing the origins of Ibn Masarra’s thought to early Muʿtazilī discussions.66 His philosophical and theological interest in the meaning of tawḥīd is developed in very dif­fer­ent directions. Closely related to the issue of divine unity is the epistemological quest for unequivocal knowledge (yaqīn). Both the Risālat al-­iʿtibār and the Kitāb al-­ḥurūf pre­sent ways to achieve this knowledge, the first through the correct contemplative practice, the object of which is the physical world, and the second through deciphering the ontological significance of the Arabic letters. At the beginning of the Epistle of Contemplation, Ibn Masarra states, [God] sent the prophets, God’s prayers and blessings upon them, to proclaim to p ­ eople and to clarify for them the esoteric t­ hings, and to attest to ­these t­ hings by manifest signs. This is in order that they may attain certitude [yaqīn], for which they ­will be recompensed and brought to account, and on which they w ­ ill be questioned.67

Success or failure in the quest for certitude, perceived as essential for ­human salvation, thus has grave soteriological consequences. Such success is depicted as the attainment of h ­ uman perfection, when, at the end of the contemplative pro­cess, “certitude is revealed, and the hearts attain

65. Massignon, Recueil, 70. Massignon identifies the excerpt as derived from “ms. Caire, fin du t. IV, ‘bāb al-­malāʾika.’ ” This refers in all likelihood to MS Cairo, Dār al-­Kutub al-­Miṣriyya, tawḥīd no. 6, copied in 739/1338–39. I am indebted to Jan Thiele for this information. 66. Cf. Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 23; Arnaldez, “Ibn Masarra,” 868; Ramón Guerrero and Garrido Clemente, “Ibn Masarra,” 150. 67. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 350; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 217.

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the realities of faith.”68 During a ­human life, the pursuit of certitude is an interminable pro­cess: The more the contemplator observes, the more he sees, and the more he sees, the stronger he becomes in conviction [taṣdīq], divine aid [tawf īq], certitude [yaqīn] and beholding [istibṣār].69

The end result of this pro­cess is the attainment of the “knowledge of the science of the Book,” and with it, the desired rank of the mūqinūn: No mortal can attain knowledge of the science of the Book ­unless he brings together what is recounted with contemplation, and verifies that which he hears by that which he beholds. May God include us and you among t­ hose who have certitude, t­ hose who seek to behold [min al-­ mūqinīn al-­mustabṣirīn].70

Although the concept of yaqīn is more prominent in the Epistle of Contemplation, which is wholly dedicated to the quest for knowing and understanding, its significance is also salient in the Book of Letters. Ibn Masarra opens this work with a description of the three complexes (jumal), which together make up the entire, all-­encompassing science contained in God’s revealed book. He characterizes each of ­these three complexes by its typical instruments and practices, which are its epistemological tools, as well as by its ultimate epistemological outcome. The first and highest complex, the science of Lordship (ʿilm al-­rubūbiyya), is characterized by “its indications [dalāʾil] and attestations [shawāhid],” as well as by its outcome, which is unequivocal, certain knowledge (yaqīn).71 The title Tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn thus suggests that, unlike the two other extant books, which dealt with the pro­cess of attaining the knowledge of truth, e­ ither through contemplation of the world or by uncovering the revelation crafted in letters, this third book tackled truth itself, in its purest form. The analy­sis of this bold title indicates that the book was concerned with the core of Ibn Masarra’s mystical philosophy, namely, his perception of the divine as it becomes known to the happy few who know with certitude. 68. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 351; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 218. 69. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 359; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 225. 70. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 351; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 219. 71. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 312.

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In this sense, the mūqinūn are evidently an elite group. Both Ibn Masarra and the Masarrīs ­were accused of denying prophetic intercession, and of claiming the possibility of attaining prophecy. As we have seen, though, the prophetic tradition that he is said to have transmitted suggests, quite to the contrary, that intercession played some role in his thought. Nevertheless, ­these accusations may mirror ­either the Masarrīs’ aspiration for direct contact with divine truth (an aspiration that is clearly discernible in the thought of Ibn Masarra himself ), or the way that this aspiration was interpreted by ­others. In addition to the name of the book, Ibn al-­Marʾa’s reference to Ibn Masarra also pre­sents its content (or at least, one of the ideas it contained). The text reads as follows: Ibn Masarra said in his book Tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn that the attributes of God, the Blessed, are infinite in number. According to him, 72 God’s

knowledge is living,73 knowing, power­ful, hearing, seeing, and speaking. In the same way, His power is described as living, knowing, power­ ful, willing, and having a hearing with which it hears. The same applies to all His attributes. He said: “This is the way to proclaim God’s unity.” 74 He thus depicted the attributes as gods. This is also what he said regarding the attributes of the attributes,75 ad infinitum. He thus made God into an infinite number of gods—­may we find refuge in God.76

It is not clear what part, if any, of this text is an exact quotation of Ibn Masarra’s own words and how much of it is a paraphrase. Ibn al-­Marʾa clearly rejects Ibn Masarra’s position, and it is also evident that his pre­ sen­ta­tion distorts Ibn Masarra’s ideas. In his caricaturistic reading, Ibn Masarra’s theory of attributes makes him a polytheist, whereas for Ibn Masarra himself, the theory of attributes was part of his attempt to preserve God’s unity to the utmost. Ibn al-­Marʾa’s pre­sen­ta­tion also implies 72. Vahid Brown (“Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 74) reads ʿ indihi and translates “with re­spect to Him.” 73. Vahid Brown (“Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 74) translates “a Living One,” ­etc. 74. “Hākadhā huwa ’l-­tawḥīd.” I understand tawḥīd ­here as a ­human action. Cf. Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 74: “this is divine unity.” 75. Vahid Brown (“Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 74) apparently regards the “attribute of attributes” as a redundancy due to a copyist’s error, and corrects it in his translation. 76. “Qāla Ibn Masarra f ī kitābihi Tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn bi-­anna ṣifāt Allāh subḥānahu lā nihāya li-­ʿadadihā, fa-­ʿilmu ʾllāh ʿindahu ḥayy, ʿālim, qādir, sāmiʿ, baṣīr, mutakallim, wa-­kadhālika qudratuhu mawṣūfa bi-­annahā ḥayya, ʿālima, qādira, murīda, la-­hā samʿ tasmaʿu bi-hi, wa-­kadhālika al-­qawl bi-­jamīʿ ṣifātihi. Wa-­qāla: ‘hākadha huwa al-­tawḥīd.’ Wa-­qad ṣayyara al-­ṣifāt āliha. Wa-­kadhālika qawluhu f ī ṣifāt al-­ṣifāt, ilā ghayr nihāya, fa-­ jaʿala al-­ilāh āliha lā nihāya lahā, waʾl-­ʿiyādh bi-­ʾllāh.” See Massignon, Recueil, 70.

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that Ibn Masarra accepted the validity of an ­actual infinite series, as well as the possibility of an attribute being also the attribute of another attribute. Both claims would have been considered serious breaches of commonly held scientific axioms: a­ ctual infinite series w ­ ere rejected by practically every­one, and the mutakallimūn’s atomism precluded the possibility of one accident residing in another. If we disregard Ibn al-­Marʾa’s hostile interpretation, however, the text at hand does accord with what other sources tell us about Ibn Masarra’s position regarding the attributes. Although only a few lines long, it expresses the signification of proclaiming God’s unity, and we may add: proclaiming God’s unity as do ­those who know with certitude. Correct understanding of the divine attributes lies at the heart of this true tawḥīd. The statement quoted by Ibn al-­Marʾa illustrates precisely that, for Ibn Masarra, the divine attributes are not accidents. In the terminology of the general debate over the attributes, however, we can assume that Ibn Masarra would prob­ably say that the attributes are also not entities (maʿānī), and they have no separate, in­de­pen­dent ontological value. Although h ­ uman beings use the same terminology—­knowing, power­ful, willing, and so on—to describe h ­ uman attributes, the interchangeability of the divine attributes and the way they flow into one another in Ibn al-­Marʾa’s pre­sen­ta­tion distinguish them from the ontological distinctiveness, the plurality, and the corporeality of ­human attributes. Scriptural language dictates the use of t­hese attributes, but in Ibn Masarra’s thought, the Qurʾānic terminology—­the divine attributes and God’s ninety-­nine beautiful names—­becomes steps on the ladder leading to the knowledge of the one God, a ladder that presumably, once this knowledge is attained, loses its relevance. We find the imagery of the ladder of ascension in both of Ibn Masarra’s extant works. In the Epistle of Contemplation, Ibn Masarra pre­sents the world, with all its creatures and signs, as a ladder on which ­those who contemplate ascend to the ­great signs of God on high.77 In the Book of Letters, he cites the prophetic tradition, which says, “On the day of resurrection the reciter of the Qurʾān ­will be told: ‘Recite and ascend, for you are at the last step,’ ” and adds, “The number of the levels of Paradise is equal to the number of the verses in the Qurʾān, which is equal to the number of the names.”78 In this context, it is in­ter­est­ing to note the saying attributed by Ibn al-­Farāḍī to the Sālimiyya, 77. Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 218, 230; and see Altmann, “The Ladder of Ascension”; de Callataÿ, “Who ­Were the Readers,” 288. 78. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 313.

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with whose circle Ibn Masarra may have associated during his Meccan sojourn: “Through a single attribute God comprehends that which He comprehends through all His attributes.”79 Ibn Masarra’s position on the attributes as presented h ­ ere is strikingly similar to the one ascribed by Ibn Ṣāʿid al-­Andalusī to the Greek phi­los­ o­pher Empedocles. Ibn Ṣāʿid interrupts his discussion of Empedocles in order to remark that “Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Masarra al-­jabalī al-­bāṭinī of Cordoba was a fervent follower of [Empedocles’s] philosophy, steadily striving to study it.” He then says, Empedocles was the first whose approach combined the meanings of God’s attributes [maʿānī ṣifāt Allāh], saying that they all come down to one t­ hing, and that, although He is described by [the terms] “knowledge,” “benevolence,” and “power,” He does not possess distinct entities [maʿānin]80 which are characterized specifically by t­ hese diverse names. Rather, He is the truly One, who has no plurality in any way whatsoever, as opposed to other beings. For [all] the “ones” in this world are subject to plurality, e­ ither in their parts or in their entities, or in that they have parallels. But the essence of the Creator is above all this.

Ibn Ṣāʿid concludes this passage by stating that, regarding the divine attrib­ utes, this was also the approach of Abū ’l-­Hudhayl al-­ʿAllāf al-­Baṣrī.81 This last text, which seems to link Ibn Masarra with both Empedocles and Abū ’l-­Hudhayl, is largely responsible for the emergence of two enduring theories in the history of modern scholarship of Andalusian philosophy: that of the so-­called Pseudo-­Empedocles (associated by Asín Palacios with the “school of Ibn Masarra”), and that of the Andalusī Muʿtazilī school. But a careful reading of Ibn Ṣāʿid’s statements shows that they represent only his ­free associations on the topic of attributes, reflecting what we may call his “stream of consciousness.” As ­will be clarified in the following chapters, both ­these theories are equally unfounded—­and yet, phantom-­like, quite per­sis­tent.82 In the pre­sent context, Ibn Ṣāʿid’s

79. Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 42 and note 93; Böwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence, 94. 80. The use of the word “entities” (maʿānin) to denote the ontological real­ity of the attributes is well attested. Nevertheless, and despite Ibn Masarra’s apparently well-­known interest in this topic, it does not seem likely that in al-­Ḥumaydī’s above-­mentioned reference to Ibn Masarra’s “compositions on the maʿānī” he intended compositions devoted specifically to this subject. 81. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt, 73; repeated in IAU, 37. 82. See van Ess, TG, 4:272–74; Tornero, “Nota”; De Smet, Empedocles Arabus;

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information is impor­tant only insofar as he, too, sees Ibn Masarra’s approach to the attributes as reflecting a strict theology of unity.83 In the same vein, Ibn Ḥazm of Cordoba reports that Ibn Masarra used to say that God’s knowledge and His power are both temporal, created attributes (ṣifatāni muḥdathatāni makhlūqatāni), and that God has two (kinds of ) knowledge, both of them temporal: the first is God’s knowledge of universals (kulliyyāt; or, in another version, His knowledge of the Book), which is the knowledge of that which is hidden (ʿilm al-­ghayb), and His knowledge of the particulars and of that which is seen (ʿilm al-­ shahāda). For Ibn Ḥazm, this distinction proved Ibn Masarra’s agreement with the Muʿtazila regarding ­free ­will (qadar), since it permitted him to preserve God’s omniscience while allowing for the ­human exercise of ­free ­will.84 The use of the Qurʾānic vocabulary in Ibn Ḥazm’s report indeed fits Ibn Masarra’s thought as we know it from his Book of Letters, where Ibn Masarra says, Therefore, He, greater than any speaker, said: “He knows the hidden and the manifest” (Q. 13:9). For all ­things are two ­things: external and inner. He possesses the knowledge, which encompasses the inner and the external. The [knowledge] encompassing the inner is unique to Him. It is His preserved tablet and His concealed name, that is, Lām. And the [knowledge] encompassing the external, namely the body of the ­whole, is the greater soul. This is the dominion [mulk], and it is what He . . . ​referred to by Mīm.85

Further on, Ibn Masarra returns to ­these two kinds of knowledge and says, From the first attribute, which pertains to the letter Ṣād, God is named maker [ṣāniʿ] and creator, a form-­giver [muṣawwir]; by it He made all. . . . ​Explaining the first attribute, God said: “He is God, ­there is no God but He, the knower of the hidden and the manifest, He is the merciful, the compassionate.”86

And yet again he informs us, concerning the combination of “the hidden and manifest knowledge”:

Stroumsa, “Review”; Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra”; idem, “Andalusī Mysticism,” 78 and note 28; Stroumsa, “The Muʿtazila in al-­Andalus.” 83. See Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 37. 84. See Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 5:65–66. 85. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 326. 86. Q. 59:22; Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 329.

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The knowledge of the hidden is the primordial one, and the knowledge of the manifest is the lower knowledge, which encompasses the completed existents, ­those existents that left the domain of the pos­si­ble and appeared, becoming manifest to sight. Therefore, God said: “He knows the hidden and the manifest.”87

Ibn Ḥazm’s report thus seems to rely on close familiarity with Ibn Masarra’s sayings. In Ibn Masarra’s thought, the distinction between two kinds of divine knowledge served to explain God’s involvement in the world—­both its creation and the knowledge of the existent beings—­while preserving His detachment from the changing and multiple beings. By presenting the two facets of the attribute of knowing, Ibn Masarra manages to maintain the complete unity of God, the Creator. Ibn Ḥazm clearly misinterprets Ibn Masarra’s ideas when he attributes to him the saying that “God’s knowledge is other than God.”88 And yet, b ­ ehind Ibn Ḥazm’s misrepre­sen­ta­tion we can recognize, again, on the one hand, the notoriety of Ibn Masarra’s preoccupation with divine attributes, and, on the other, his attempt to reach beyond the attributes to the completely transcendental One. Ibn Masarra’s preoccupation with divine attributes may have been nurtured by kalām discussions, and Ibn Ṣāʿid is prob­ably right in presenting his ideas as closer to the formulations ­adopted by the Muʿtazila than to traditionalist positions. Nevertheless, rather than being driven by Muʿtazilī concerns, Ibn Masarra was motivated by his reading of the Qurʾānic text in the context of a mystical emanation theology. In this context, the association of Ibn Masarra with Abū ’l-­Hudhayl al-­ʿAllāf says more about Ibn Ṣāʿid’s knowledge of the Muʿtazila than about Ibn Masarra’s association with them.

Ibn Masarra’s Jewish Connections In line with his Neoplatonic, mystical thought, Ibn Masarra’s discussion of the divine attributes also shows a figurative, mythical side. The divine Throne (ʿarsh), which appears several times in his extant writings, is con­ spic­u­ous in his thought. In the Epistle of Contemplation, the Throne is the first created being, and it encompasses all ­things. It is identified with the universal intellect (ʿaql), and within it God “inscribed all His decrees and rulings and that

87. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 339. 88. See Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 2:128–29.

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upon which His w ­ ill is borne.”89 In the Book of Letters, the Throne is identified with the Tablet (al-­lawḥ) and with the letter lām. Ibn Masarra also mentions briefly the four angels who carry the Throne, but he does not describe them in detail.90 One encounters a more elaborate description of ­these four angels in Ibn al-­ʿArabī’s Meccan Revelations, where Ibn al-­ʿArabī states that, according to what was transmitted from (ruwīnā ʿan) Ibn Masarra, the Throne, which is carried by the angels, is kingship or sovereignty (mulk). It is delimited by body, spirit, sustenance, and rank (wa-­huwa maḥṣūr f ī jism wa-­rūḥ wa-­ghidhāʾ wa-­martaba). Ādam and Isrāf īl are in charge of the forms (li’l-­ṣuwar); Jībrīl and Muḥammad in charge of the spirits; Mīkāʾīl and Ibrāhīm in charge of livelihoods (arzāq) and sustenance (ghidhāʾ); and Mālik and Riḍwān are in charge of the promise and threat. At the end of the same chapter, Ibn al-­ʿArabī mentions Ibn Masarra again in connection with the dif­fer­ent forms of the Throne’s four carriers: like a man, a lion, an ea­gle, and a bull.91 The dependence of this description on the book of Ezekiel and on Jewish speculations on the divine Chariot is obvious.92 The question remains: Who introduced this description, Ibn al-­ʿArabī himself, or Ibn Masarra? The image of the Throne b ­ earers does not appear in the two texts published by Jaʿfar, and Ibn al-­ʿArabī does not divulge where he found this information.93 The attribution to Ibn Masarra of a statement according to which the archangel Mīkāʾīl and the prophet Ibrāhīm are in charge of livelihoods is repeated elsewhere by Ibn al-­ʿArabī.94 It therefore seems plausible that Ibn al-­ʿArabī indeed took the chariot image from Ibn Masarra. What we hear about Ibn Masarra’s disciple Ismāʿīl al-­Ruʿaynī strengthens this idea. One of al-­Ruʿaynī’s “seven t­ heses” (aqwāl sabʿa) was “that the Throne governs the world.”95 Ibn Ḥazm relates this information on 89. See Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 224, 237. On the interpretation of the divine throne, the divine footstool, and other Qurʾānic ele­ments in the Epistles of the Pure Brethren, see Ebstein, “Was Ibn Qasī a Sufi?,” 210. 90. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 332, 333, 334, 336, and 340. 91. Ibn al-­ʿArabī, Futūḥāt, 348, 355; Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra,” 103–4. 92. See Ezek. 1; Scholem, Major Trends, 46–48; Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 77 and note 13 (referring to Munk, Mélanges, 492). 93. Cf. Tornero (“Noticia,” 60), who understood Ibn al-­ʿArabī as referring to the Book of Letters; and see Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra,” 103. 94. Ibn al-­ʿArabī, Fuṣūṣ, 69; Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 23–24. 95. “Inna ’l-­ʿarsh huwa ’lladhī yudabbiru ’l-­ālam”; see Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 4:199–200; Asín Palacios (The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 106–17) counts, in fact, eight ­theses.

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the authority of al-­Ruʿaynī’s grand­son, but adds that al-­Ruʿaynī’s own son denied his nephew’s information.96 For al-­Ruʿaynī, this “thesis” seems to have followed necessarily from God’s absolute transcendence, for “God is above having any act attributed to him.”97 Following Ibn Ḥazm, Morris regards as doubtful the attribution of this notion to Ibn Masarra.98 But Ibn Masarra’s own texts suggest that ­there was a strong basis for associating him with ­these sayings, by al-­Ruʿaynī as well as by Ibn al-­ʿArabī. They may have found t­ hese sayings in Ibn Masarra’s oral teaching, as Morris suggests, or in yet another of his unknown texts.99 Ibn al-­ʿArabī’s words, ruwīnā ʿan, could point to oral transmission. Alternatively, it might indicate that the description of the divine Chariot, in ­whole or in part, may have appeared in one of Ibn Masarra’s collections (tawālīf ) containing prophetic traditions. Since, however, this description relates to God’s governance of the world and touches on the more esoteric aspects of tawḥīd, it is also quite pos­si­ble (and perhaps more likely) that the description of the Throne was also part of the Tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn. The traditions regarding Ibn Masarra’s image of the throne, although transmitted by ­others, already signal that Ibn Masarra had some connection to Jewish mysticism, and perhaps to Merkabah mysticism. Ibn Masarra’s own writings further corroborate this impression. The Book of Properties of Letters belongs, as noted above, to the genre of letter speculation. It is, however, introduced by the author as a study of God’s “beautiful name” and His attributes. The two axes, of attributes and letters, are maintained throughout the book. At times, Ibn Masarra discusses the cosmogonic power of letters. On other occasions, he identifies the letters with God’s names, that is to say, His attributes. Like some other writers, such as his near-­contemporary Abū Ḥātim al-­Rāzī in his Kitāb al-­Zīna, Ibn Masarra sometimes identifies letters as tools or instruments that God used in the pro­cess of creating the world. Mostly, though, for Ibn Masarra the letters are closely connected with God the Creator Himself and identified with His attributes. Opening the treatise with the traditional formula (“in the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful”), Ibn Masarra says 96. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 4:138, and 5:65–67; al-­ʿAsqalānī, Lisān al-­mīzān, 1:466. 97. “Inna ’llāh ajall min an yūṣafa bi-an yafʿala shayʾan qaṭṭ” (Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, ibid.). Also relevant ­here is the place of the Throne in the thought of Dhū ’l-­Nūn al-­Ikhmīmī (d. 330/941); on this, and on its pos­si­ble influence on Ibn Masarra, see Makki, Ensayo, 155–62. On Ibn Masarra’s pos­si­ble connection to the thought of Dhū ’l-­Nūn as well al-­Nahrajūrī’s, see Ibn al-­Faraḍī, Taʾrīkh, 323–24. 98. Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 31–32. 99. Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 26, note 37.

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that the four words of the basmala constitute “the first rank of knowledge, the highest and most noble one.” Elaborating on this point, he states that the formula includes “the hidden name [al-­ism al-­muḍmar] by which God is truly known.” As the context makes clear, this hidden name is not Allāh (as suggested by Jaʿfar) but rather the very word “name” (ism). In Sunnī Islam, “­there has never been observed a taboo respecting the name of God,” that is to say, no reticence to pronounce it.100 The idea of an ineffable, preeminent name is quite common in Shiʿite texts.101 To the best of my knowledge, however, in none of t­ hese sources is the word “name” identified as the ineffable name. One is reminded ­here of the Jewish custom to substitute the name of God (and not only the Tetragrammaton) with the word “the Name” (ha-­shem).102 The treatise itself does not deal with all the letters of the Arabic alphabet, but is rather dedicated to the fourteen fawātiḥ, the mysterious letters that appear at the beginning of twenty-­nine Qurʾānic sūras. ­These letters, says Ibn Masarra, constitute the innermost meaning (bāṭin) of revelation. ­After a short discourse on alif, the first letter of the alphabet, Ibn Masarra discusses the letters in clusters, usually the same clusters that appear in the Qurʾān. The first cluster, however, is dedicated to five letters: hāʾ, hamza, alif, waw, and yāʾ. Not only is this not a Qurʾānic cluster, but waw does not belong to the fawātiḥ at all, and the other four are grouped in the Qurʾān with other letters rather than with each other. Three of the letters are matres lectionis, but the fourth (hāʾ) is not considered to belong in this category in Arabic. Indeed, Ibn Masarra himself says that the number of matres lectionis is three.103 In some Ṣūf ī works, hāʾ is discussed in the context of respiration techniques and of the letters’ origin in vari­ous parts of the vocal tracts (makhārij).104 Such considerations, however, are treated separately by Ibn Masarra, and the letter hāʾ does not appear t­ here. This cluster thus remains unexplained if we consider it in the Qurʾānic, Muslim, and Arabic contexts. In the Jewish and Hebrew context, however, an 100. See Denny, “Names and Naming,” 10:302. 101. See Vajda, “Les lettres et les sons,” 124; Gimaret, Noms divins, 88. 102. See the entry “God, Names of,” in Werblowsky and Wigoder, The Oxford Dictionary of the Jewish Religion, 278. On the impact of supposedly Jewish traditions (isrāʾiliyyāt) on the preoccupation with God’s ineffable name, see Gimaret, Noms divins, 86. 103. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 320. The cluster of alif-­waw-­yāʾ appears also in Dūnash ben Tamīm’s commentary on Sefer Yetzira; see Vajda, Le commentaire sur le livre de la création, 225–26 (text) and 80–81 (translation); see also Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra,” 106, note 60. 104. See, for example Massignon, Passion d’al-­Hallāj, 1:10; Vajda, Le commentaire sur le livre de la création, 84–89.

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explanation for this combination readily suggests itself: it reflects the Tetragrammaton (yod he vav he) and its verbal expression as it appears in Ex. 3:14 (ehye; aleph he yod he). Still another curious ele­ment in the epistle is Ibn Masarra’s discussion of the letter alif, about which he says that it is “itself of three ranks: rational, animal and vegetative soul.” The three-­tiered division seems to be connected to the graphic form of the alif “itself ” (rather than to the hamza and its three pos­si­ble forms of support [kursī]), but in Arabic, as Ibn Masarra notes, the letter alif is “upright” and is written in a single stroke. The attribution of three ranks to this letter seems to suit the Hebrew aleph, which is written in three strokes, and which is indeed given comparable analy­sis in Jewish texts. Such oddities indicate that Ibn Masarra may well have been inspired by Jewish speculation on the form and meaning of the Hebrew alphabet.105 Let us consider, in this vein, the im­mensely popu­lar tenth-­century Jewish text The Book of Creation (Sefer Yeṣira). In condensed, rhythmical, and distinctly poetic Hebrew, this brief composition tells how God created the world using the twenty-­two letters of the Hebrew alphabet.106 The suggested dating for the composition of this foundational text of Jewish mysticism varies from as early as the first c­ entury CE to as late as the early Muslim period.107 But while the circumstances and date of the composition of this book are a ­matter of dispute, ­there is no disagreement about its enormous and sudden popularity in the early M ­ iddle Ages. This book—in more than one recension—­seems to have surfaced abruptly in the tenth ­century, attracting the interest of learned Jews around the Mediterranean.108 In Baghdad, Saadya Gaon (d. 942) wrote a Judeo-­ Arabic commentary on it, the impact of which is ­later evident in Andalusian Jewish texts such as Ibn Gabirol’s Fons Vitae as well as Maimonides’s Guide of the Perplexed.109 In southern Italy, Shabbetai Donnolo (d. ­after 105. See Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 322–23. For more on the t­ riple character of the alif and aleph, see Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra,” 109–10. 106. See Gruenwald, “A Preliminary Critical Edition of Sefer Yezira.” For an En­glish translation of this text, see Hayman, Sefer Yeṣira. On its unique poetic language, see Liebes, Ars Poetica, esp. 7–12. 107. See Scholem, Major Trends, 75; Liebes, “The Seven Double Letters”; Wasserstrom, “Sefer Yeṣira and Early Islam”; idem, Between Muslim and Jew, 129; Hayman, Sefer Yeṣira, 6–8; Tzahi Weiss, “Sefer Yeṣira” and Its Contexts, 111–15. 108. On the recensions of Sefer Yeṣira, see Hayman, Sefer Yeṣira, 16–24; Ben-­Shammai, “Saadya’s Goal,” 2. On the early Medieval commentaries, see Jospe, “Early Philosophical Commentaries”; Idel, “Jewish Thought in Medieval Spain,” 263–64. 109. Saʿadya, Sefer Yeṣira; and see Pines, “Points of Similarity,” 122–32.

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982) penned a Hebrew commentary on the text.110 Another Judeo-­Arabic commentary on the book was written around this period in Kairouan, by Dūnash ben Tamīm (d. a­ fter 955), and was l­ater translated at least five times into Hebrew. Dūnash’s work reflected his discussions of this book with his teacher Isaac Israeli (d. 955), and it is likely that Israeli himself also composed a commentary on this book, which is now lost.111 In the mid-­twelfth c­ entury, Judah ben Barzillai of Barcelona composed a lengthy Hebrew commentary, which included extensive citations from previous, sometimes lost works of Jewish authors.112 To ­these “four pre-­Kabbalistic Commentaries” listed by Peter Hayman, one must add at least the extensive discussion of Sefer Yeṣira, incorporated in Judah Halevi’s Judeo-­ Arabic Kuzari.113 The proliferation of commentaries on Sefer Yeṣira was not detached from the preoccupation with letter speculation among non-­Jews. In writing his commentary, Saadya was responding to con­temporary nonrationalistic currents among Jews as well as Muslims. This commentary shows marked similarities to the letter speculation that al-­Tawḥīdī attributed to the authors of The Epistles of the Pure Brethren.114 As stated ­earlier, I believe that the transmission of ideas between Muslims and Jews was not a unilateral one. The commentaries on Sefer Yeṣira provide us not only with examples of the transmission of ideas from Muslims to Jews, but also with a much rarer example of their transmission from Jews to Muslims. Unfortunately, the commentary written, prob­ably in Judeo-­ Arabic, in Fāṭimid Kairouan by Isaac Israeli, around the time that Ibn Masarra passed through this city, is lost. Thus, it cannot be compared to Ibn Masarra’s extant work.115 Nonetheless, the echoes of another commentary on Sefer Yeṣira resound in the first lines of Ibn Masarra’s Book of Letters, which say, God . . . ​sent down His book which attests to Him. . . . ​He, the exalted, sent it down—­one from His perspective, divided from the perspective of His creatures. It is thus one complex as regards His essence, [but] 110. See Sharf, The Universe of Shabbetai Donnolo; Hayman, Sefer Yeṣira, 31. 111. Hayman, Sefer Yeṣira, 29–30; Vajda, Le commentaire sur le livre de la création, 10–16. 112. Judah ben Barzillai, Perush Sefer Yeṣira; Hayman, Sefer Yeṣira, 32–33. 113. Kuzari, 174–85. On a partial commentary attributed to Abraham Ibn Ezra (d. 1167), see Weinstock, An ‘Anonymous’ Commentary on Sefer Yeṣira, 16–20. 114. See Stroumsa, “Wondrous Paths.” 115. See Fenton’s introduction to Vajda, Le commentaire sur le livre de la création, 10–20.

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divided into three complexes from the perspective of His creatures. The first complex is the science of Lordship with its indications, attestations, and certainty; [the second complex is] the science of prophecy with its proofs, signs, and the obligation to accept it; and [fi­nally] the science of trial, with its way of operation, its laws, its promise and threat [of the hereafter]. T ­ hese three parts make out knowledge; fundamentally, t­ here is no fourth nor ­shall t­ here ever be. 116

The tripartite nature of the one book with which (as the treatise shows ­later) God created His world is reminiscent of the three books mentioned in the first lines of Sefer Yeṣira: “God created His world with three books [sefarim]: sfar, sippur and sefer.” Although the role of the three books in the two texts is developed in dif­fer­ent ways, the similarity of the tripartite paradigm of the single book is noteworthy. This similarity becomes even more remarkable when one considers the commentary on this passage, imbedded in Judah Halevi’s Kuzari: Sefer Yeṣira . . . ​which indicates God’s unity and His divinity by dif­fer­ ent ­things, which are multiple from one aspect, but agree and are one from another. Among them are sfar, sippur and sefer . . . ​the sfar, sippur and sefer are one t­ hing from the point of view of God, and three from the point of view of the ­human being. . . . ​He created His world with three books, all three of which are one from His perspective.117

Like Ibn Masarra, Halevi insists that the books with which God created His world are three only from a ­human perspective, but one from that of the divine. While the possibility that the similarity of the two texts is a mere coincidence cannot be ruled out, it seems very unlikely. Although Halevi might well have been familiar with Ibn Masarra’s work, in light of the above, the most plausible explanation for the similarity in this case is an ­earlier commentary on Sefer Yeṣira, prob­ably in Judeo-­Arabic, which inspired both Ibn Masarra and Halevi.118 As noted, Judeo-­Arabic works ­were usually written in Hebrew characters. Even when written or copied in Arabic characters, they ­were sprinkled with Hebrew words and citations,

116. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 311–12. 117. Kuzari, 4:25 (ed. Baneth/Ben-­Shammai, 174–75; ed. Bashīr, 482–85). 118. The impact of Sefer Yeṣira on the first Andalusian mystic is prob­ably a better indicator for the interest in this book than the fact that the first full-­scale commentary it received on Iberian soil was undertaken only in the twelfth c­ entury, by the other­wise nonphilosophical writer Judah ben Barzillai ha-­Barceloni; cf. Idel, “Jewish Thought in Medieval Spain,” 264.

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especially if they ­were glossing a Hebrew text. We have no reason to think that Ibn Masarra could read such a commentary, but he could have heard about it in discussions with Jewish scholars. Also notable in this re­spect is the special place Ibn Masarra grants the patriarch Abraham. The Qurʾānic narrative of Abraham’s quest to know God is echoed throughout Ibn Masarra’s Epistle of Contemplation; he is the model for the contemplative pro­cess (iʿtibār) that leads to certainty (yaqīn), and his name is the only one mentioned in the Epistle. It stands to reason that his par­tic­u­lar status in Ibn Masarra’s epistle was inspired by the author’s contacts with Jews and their reflections on Sefer Yeṣira, which depicts Abraham’s quest through the contemplation of letters and is even often attributed to him.119 The possibility of Ibn Masarra having encountered Jews seems to be further reflected in his discussion of the cluster of letters alif-­lam-­rāʾ. ­After stating that the six occurrences of this cluster in the Qurʾān correspond to the six days of creation, he adds, And the seventh day is the day of rest and completion. For this reason, the Jews made it a Sabbath; that is to say, they rested.120

Unlike the Hebrew Bible, the Qurʾān refers to the six days of creation without mentioning God’s rest on the seventh day.121 Nor does the Qurʾān specify in the context of creation the name of the seventh day as “yaum al-­ sabt.”122 The linkage of the six days of creation with a seventh day of rest, and with the name of this day, thus triggers an immediate association with the Jewish Sabbath and the Hebrew etymology of its name. Ibn Masarra could of course have found the etymology in Muslim sources, which had already pro­cessed and integrated such information via ­earlier Jewish traditions (isrāʾiliyyāt). Nothing, however, in the discussion of the letters in this cluster necessitates mention of the seventh day at all, let alone an elaboration of its meaning. The w ­ hole statement is a rather uncharacteristic digression on Ibn Masarra’s part, one that, again, points to a distinct 119. See Stroumsa, “ ‘The F ­ ather of Many Nations,’ ” 31–32. See also Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 228. 120. Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 333. 121. The Qurʾān explic­itly rejects the idea that God should rest; see Q. 50:38, and see Rippin, “Sabt.” 122. Although the name does appear in the Qurʾān as the day of resting, imposed on the Jews on Mount Sinai, see Q. 4:154. It also mentions the breaking of the Sabbath, and the punishment thereof; see Q. 2:65, 4:47, 7:163, and 16:163. In all t­ hese verses, the name yahūd does not appear, and the context speaks of “­people of the book” or p ­ eople associated with the prophets Moses and Abraham.

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preoccupation with ­things Jewish. Moreover, the use ­here of the name yahūd (Jews), rather than the Qurʾānic term banū isrāʾil (­Children of Israel) seems to imply that Ibn Masarra does not intend this digression as an exegetical observation. The train of thought that leads him to associate the days of creation with the Jewish Sabbath suggests an acquaintance with con­temporary Jews, with whose ways of life (and the theological explanation thereof ) he seems to have been familiar. It can of course be argued that the Jewish ele­ments detected ­here reached Ibn Masarra through Muslim books and travelers who transmitted ­these ideas to al-­Andalus. But the nature of ­these ele­ments, as well as the circumstances of his life, ­favor the possibility that he also had immediate access to Jewish material, perhaps through direct contacts with Jewish scholars during his time in Fāṭimid North Africa. Kairouan, a city in which Ibn Masarra is known to have sojourned, was at the time a thriving seat of Jewish learning.123 The tight connections of some Jewish intellectuals to the Fāṭimids are exemplified in the person of Isaac Israeli (d. ca. 951), a Neoplatonist phi­los­op ­ her who was also the court physician of the first Fāṭimid caliph, ʿAbd Allāh al-­Mahdī (d. 343/955).124 For a less famous, but no less telling, item of evidence concerning ­these connections, we may turn to an anecdote recounted in the autobiography of Ibn al-­Haytham, an Ismāʿīlī missionary from Kairouan who was ­later sent to al-­Andalus. Born to a respectable Shiʿite ­family, Ibn al-­Haytham received a traditional Islamic education, with two instructors for each field of learning. In the field of logic, however, his sole teacher was an other­ wise unknown Jew named Yūsuf ibn Yaḥyā al-­Khurāsānī, with whom he studied in Kairouan.125 We know that it was in Kairouan that Isaac Israeli composed his commentary on Sefer Yeṣira.126 Ibn Masarra’s writings, and in par­tic­u­lar his letter speculation, indeed seem to reflect encounters with this Jewish-­Ismāʿīlī milieu.127

123. See Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, 1:18; Ben-­Sasson, The Emergence, esp. 250–52. 124. Much of Israeli’s oeuvre is still considered lost. On his philosophy and writing, see Altmann and Stern, Isaac Israeli. 125. See Madelung and Walker, The Advent of the Fatimids, 52, 60, 11. Almost a ­century ­later, Ibn al-­Kattānī (d. 523/1129) lists ten teachers with whom he studied logic, one of whom is the bishop Abūʾl-­Ḥārith, a disciple of the bishop phi­los­o­pher Rabīʿ bn. Zayd; see Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 193. 126. See Fenton’s introduction to Vajda, Le commentaire sur le livre de la création, 3–6. 127. On letter mysticism in Ismāʿīlī thought and its relation to Ibn Masarra’s work, see

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The crucial role of Sefer Yeṣira in forging fundamental concepts and ideas in Jewish mysticism is well recognized.128 The telltale marks of this seminal Jewish text on Ibn Masarra give us a rare glimpse of the reciprocity of exchange in this period between Jewish and Muslim thinkers. The tenth ­century, an impor­tant phase in the history of Jewish spirituality, was thus also critical for the shaping of Muslim spirituality in al-­Andalus. And for both Jewish and Muslim Andalusian mysticism, the setting of their initial phase is Fāṭimid North Africa. This fact was, of course, noticed by ­earlier scholars who worked on t­ hese mystical traditions; what remained unnoticed is the extent of their probable interconnections in this mutually formative period.

The Persecution of the Masarrīs Some twenty years a­ fter Ibn Masarra’s death, the Umayyad caliphs of Cordoba suddenly turned their attention to his supposed followers. The persecution of the so-­called Masarrīs came in several waves, beginning in 340/952, 345/956, and 346/957 ­under the caliph ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III (d. 350/961) and continuing in 350/961, ­under al-­Nāṣir, as well as in 381/999, ­under al-­Manṣūr Ibn Abī ʿĀmir.129 The edicts that ­were read against them in the mosques include references to what can pass as Muʿtazilite doctrines, but more pronounced are allusions to what was then the caliphs’ main concern, namely, the ideology of the Fāṭimid Caliphate of North Africa.130 Clearly, it was not Muʿtazilite rationalism that drove the Umayyad anxiety, but rather the pos­si­ble affinity of Ibn Masarra’s mystical esotericism or bāṭinism with the po­liti­cal bāṭinism of the Fāṭimids.131 Both the edicts and also Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 80–122; on the Jewish-­Ismāʿīlī milieu, see ibid., 73–76 and 233–34. 128. See Sviri, “Spiritual Trends,” 80. 129. Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabis, 5:20 ff.; and see Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 12, 17–18, 26–27; Cruz Hernández, “La persecución anti-­masarrī”; Fierro, “Opposition to Sufism,” 180–84; eadem, “La política religiosa,” 133–35; eadem, ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III, 131; Safran, Defining Bound­aries, 72–73; eadem, “The Politics of Book Burning.” 130. Ibn Ḥayyān, who transmits t­ hese edicts (Muqtabis, 5:26–21), also refers to Ibn Masarra’s missionaries (duʿāt), or “missionaries and imāms” (duʿāt wa-­aʾimma; ibid., 5:20–21). Asín Palacios (Obras Escogidas, 1:42–43; The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 133–35) associates the caliph ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān’s concern regarding the mounting “indigenous nationalism” (of rebels like Ibn Ḥafsūn, who allied himself with the Fāṭimids, as well as the Banū Qasī of Aragon and Ibn Marwān al-­Jillīqī of Ronda) with his anxiety regarding Muslim ascetics and mystics. 131. See Fierro, “La política religiosa,” 135. In his identification of the “Masarrīs” with other bāṭinīs, the caliph may be compared to Ibn Taymiyya, who uses the term “Nuṣayrīs”

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the (other­wise rather patchy) information about the persecuted Masarrīs leave room for a certain skepticism even regarding the identification of some of the so-­called Masarrīs with Ibn Masarra and his doctrines. Asín Palacios has already informed us that none of the Masarrians “could have known and dealt personally with the master” and assumes an intermediary teaching by two or three personal disciples. He lists eight Massarians but admits that we actually know nothing of “the special shades of their doctrines.” ­There is l­ittle, then, that links ­these eight to the doctrines or practices of Ibn Masarra.132 The Masarriyya—­a term used only by Ibn Ḥazm, and perhaps, as suggested by James Morris, coined by him—­were variously accused of upholding belief in the createdness of the Qurʾān, sowing dissent concerning God’s verses (and/or His miracles, āyāt Allāh), denying the possibility of repentance, denying the Prophet’s intercession, or casting doubt on the ḥadīth.133 Of par­tic­ul­ ar interest is Ismāʿīl al-­Ruʿaynī, whose views w ­ ere rejected by other Masarrīs, and who is said to have claimed to have attained prophecy (iktisāb al-­nubuwwa), a claim that some of the Masarrīs attributed to Ibn Masarra himself.134 While we do not know if ­those considered Masarrīs can indeed be seen as disciples of Ibn Masarra, the edicts published against them can help to reconstruct Ibn Masarra’s image and are indicative of the impact that the doctrines associated with him had in con­temporary al-­Andalus. In this vein, we often hear about Khalīl b. ʿAbd al-­Mālik (known as Khalīl al-­Ghafla, or Khalīl al-­Qadarī) and his disciple Abū Bakr Yaḥyā Ibn al-­Samīna (d. 315/927).135 Khalīl’s books ­were burnt, but only ­after his death, just as Ibn Masarra was not physically molested, nor w ­ ere his as a generic name for vari­ous bāṭinī movements; see De Smet, “Bibliothèques ismaéliennes,” 483, note 8. 132. See Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 96–99. Most of t­ hese eight ­were men of letters who had traveled to the East, where they had been exposed to some ideas that, presumably, ­were not well viewed in al-­Andalus. Only two of them—al Khawlānī and ʿAbd al-­ʿAzīz—­are reported to have dealt in philosophy or theology. The former is also said to have directed his prayers to the astronomical East (which is not a peculiarity noted about Ibn Masarra, although his opponents would have surely been quick to say had he practiced it). The practice, wrote Asín Palacios, was common to the “bāṭinīs of North Africa.” Nevertheless, Asín Palacios continued to analyze the practice as a reason for the public suspicion about “the progressive expansion of the Masarrians.” 133. Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabis, 5:20 ff.; Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 12, 17–18, 26–27; Cruz Hernández, “La persecución anti-­masarrī”; Fierro, “Opposition to Sufism,” 180–84; Fierro, “Plants,” 131–44; Safran, Defining Bound­aries, 72–73. 134. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 5:67. 135. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 161–62; and see chapter 2, page 64.

Begin nings [ 59 ]

books burnt, during his lifetime.136 The absence of persecution during Ibn Masarra’s lifetime further highlights the oddity of the belated persecution of his purported followers. The edicts against the Masarrians claimed that they practiced takf īr of their opponents, labeling them as miscreants.137 But Ibn Masarra himself does not seem to have been concerned with the meaning of īmān (“belief ”) or of islām, two equally central concepts, germane to the issue of proclaiming God’s unity (tawḥīd). Discussions of ­these two concepts tended to be ­legal in character, as they served to distinguish the community of believers from outsiders, both heretics and infidels.138 A question regarding the typical traits of the believer (ṣifat al-­muʾmin), addressed to “one of the ascetics [baʿḍ al-­zuhhād],” is attributed to Dhū ʾl-­Nūn al-­Miṣrī, who may have been one of Ibn Masarra’s sources of inspiration.139 Several historiographical sources charge Ibn Masarra as well as the so-­called Masarrīs with distancing themselves from the rest of the Muslim community. Ibn Masarra is said to have ­adopted an aloof comportment.140 The Masarrīs are accused of advocating separation from the community (iʿtizāl ʿan al-­ʿāmma), of neglecting to properly salute their fellow Muslims, and of regarding non-­ Masarrīs as outside the pale of Islam. Such claims might insinuate the Masarrīs’ supposed Muʿtazilī inclinations (although, as noted above, Ibn Masarra was not a Muʿtazilī, nor ­were his followers), but the main thrust is clearly a condemnation of their social aloofness. It has been suggested that, in the case of the Masarrīs (and especially Ismāʿīl al-­Ruʿaynī and the circle of his followers), this antisocial be­hav­ior may have reflected their doubts regarding the religious state of t­ hose outside their circle; if the belief of the o ­ thers is faulty, and they are not true Muslims, then withdrawal from their midst would be a religious obligation, as would the refusal to greet them as Muslims.141 According to Ibn Ḥazm, Ismāʿīl al-­Ruʿaynī considered 136. See Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 41–42. On the burning of t­ hese books in 961 in the courtyard of the G ­ reat Mosque of Cordoba, see Safran, “The Politics of Book Burning.” Safran (ibid., 2–3, note 3) regards the burning of Khalīl’s books as separated from the move against Ibn Masarra, and associates the purge of Khalīl’s library with what she describes as his “quiet investigation.” T ­ here is, however, no indication of the caliph ordering the burning of Ibn Masarra’s books; the decision to do so is expressly attributed to Muḥammad b. Yabqā ibn Zarb, who in 961 burnt the books of the repentant Masarrīs. 137. Fierro, “La política religiosa,” 135. 138. Stroumsa, Freethinkers, 1–7. 139. Ibn al-­Khayr, Fahrasa, 274. 140. “Maʿrūf bi-­madhhab min al-­iʿtizāl” (Abū l-­Walīd Ibn al-­Faraḍī, quoted in Muqtabis, 5:32); “inqabaḍa ʿan akthar al-­nās” (al-­Khushanī, Akhbār, 135). 141. Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabis, 5:20–24, 30–36; Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 50–51; Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 35.

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al-­Andalus to be infidel territory (dār kufr), and went so far as to declare licit the killing of t­ hose who did not follow him.142 ­Whether or not this line of thought dictated the be­hav­ior of al-­Ruʿaynī’s followers, nothing in Ibn Masarra’s writings implies such a preoccupation with the predominantly ­legal definition of who is a (true) believer. All in all, the convulsive persecutions of the Masarrians remain strangely disconnected from Ibn Masarra himself. They are, however, closely connected, both chronologically and thematically, to the above-­ mentioned censoring of philosophical and scientific books by al-­Manṣūr Ibn ʿĀmir. The background for both episodes was the growing anxiety in the face of Fāṭimid propaganda and its bāṭinī influence. It was the Fāṭimid interest in philosophy and science that rendered interest in t­ hese fields suspect, and the already dead local bāṭinī, Ibn Masarra, became the straw man u ­ nder whose name one could group t­ hose suspected of illicit tendencies, both mystical and philosophical. ­T hese essentially anti-­Fāṭimid moves determined the subsequent development of philosophy as well as that of mysticism in al-­Andalus. They drastically l­ imited, and sometimes para­lyzed, the Muslim practice of philosophy as it was prevalent at the time: Neoplatonic as well as mystical philosophy.143 Yet ­these restrictions w ­ ere applicable to Muslims alone. Jewish thinkers, inspired by the same suspect sources, continued to develop the same sort of forbidden philosophy. Consequently, it is ­these Jewish thinkers who are prominent in the history of philosophy in al-­Andalus in the eleventh ­century; and it is also they who served as custodians of the forbidden lore ­until better times. As the next chapters ­will establish, the events and environment of the tenth ­century left a lasting imprint on al-­Andalus. Becoming embedded in the Andalusian cultural memory, t­ hese f­ actors critically s­ haped the conscious and unconscious philosophical choices of the following generations. To a g ­ reat extent, they determined the attraction or aversion to dif­fer­ent schools of thought, and they influenced which sectors of Andalusian society chose to turn to philosophical pursuits.

142. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 5:67; repeated in al-­ʿAsqalānī, Lisān al-­mīzān, 1:466. 143. See below, chapter 4.

ch a p t er  2

Theological and ­Legal Schools

the st u dy of the Western philosophical tradition makes use of language derived from the philosophical map of Antiquity and Late Antiquity. In the classical philosophical tradition, one expects “schools” to refer to Pythagoreans, Platonists, Aristotelians, and so on. In the medieval Islamicate world, however, the development of philosophy was tightly linked to religion and religious thought. As such, theology and law are constitutive of the study of medieval Islamicate philosophy. Furthermore, theological and ­legal schools w ­ ere often more precisely delineated than philosophical ones, and individual allegiance to them tended to be more clearly identified, or at least was expected to be so. The pre­sent chapter is dedicated to the theological and ­legal scene of al-­Andalus. To be sure, a single chapter cannot presume to do justice to the complexity of this scene, which deserves several separate studies. Instead, this chapter offers two examples of the way an integrative approach can contribute to our understanding of theological and ­legal developments. The chapter w ­ ill focus on two Muslim schools, the one theological (the Muʿtazila), the other ­legal (Ẓāhirism), and on their pos­ si­ble manifestations among con­temporary Andalusian Jews, both Karaites and Rabbanites.

Muʿtazila: The Footprints of a Phantom Muʿtazila As noted in the introduction, ­there is a strong scholarly assumption that theological, philosophical, and mystical thought was imported to al-­ Andalus from the Muslim East (sometimes via North Africa) and that, [ 61 ]

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therefore, it must have been modeled on Oriental patterns.1 In the Muslim East, the Muʿtazila, the first school of systematic, rationalistic theology, appeared in the mid-­second/eighth ­century, before the translation movement that made Greek philosophy a cornerstone of Arabic philosophy. From the third/ninth to the fifth/eleventh ­century, the Muʿtazila was a major intellectual force in the world of Islam. In the third/ninth ­century, it even played a significant role in the Abbasid po­liti­cal sphere, becoming at times what one may call “a state doctrine.” During this formative period of Arabic thought, the Muʿtazilites made an indelible impression on the development of theology, exegesis, linguistics, lit­er­a­ture, and science. Accordingly, it was only natu­ral for scholars to assume that what was true for the rest of the Islamicate world, namely, the importance of the Muʿtazila in the formative period of Islamicate thought, would also hold true for al-­Andalus. The Muʿtazila, whose adherents w ­ ere known as “the proponents of divine unity and justice,” firmly upheld the primacy of the intellect as a divine gift to humanity. They also believed that the revealed text—­that is, the Qurʾān—­which is also a divine gift, cannot possibly contradict the ordinances of the intellect, as one divine gift cannot counteract the other. With ­these presuppositions, the Muʿtazilites set out to harmonize the two divine sources of knowledge, the intellect and the Qurʾān. They reinterpreted anthropomorphic Qurʾānic utterances such that they would agree with the transcendent, incorporeal divine nature; they highlighted ­those Qurʾānic verses that expressed divine justice and h ­ uman free will, and they interpreted other verses that expressed God’s omnipotence and ­human predestination. From the start, the Muʿtazila developed as a school, with all the marks of a scholastic tradition: a structured organ­ization for the transmission of knowledge with a hierarchy of teachers and disciples in which the latter rely on the authority of the former to legitimize their own innovations. Members of this school explic­itly identified themselves as Muʿtazilites. The school formulated a set of distinguishing ideas and a corpus of formative, almost canonical texts.2 As a theological school, the Muʿtazila was clearly a Muslim movement. But its intellectual impact spread beyond Islam, and the first medieval Jewish authors writing in Arabic ­were im­mensely influenced by Muʿtazilite theology. 1. See introduction, note 4. 2. On the criteria distinguishing a theological or a philosophical school, see, for example, Wilken, “Alexandria,” 15; and see chapter 5, page 127, note 13.

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In the heyday of the Muʿtazila, between the ninth and the eleventh centuries, the Jewish Oriental community was in the midst of a major schism: Rabbanites accepted the authority of the Mishna and Talmud, and Karaites rejected it, sometimes to the point of strict scripturalism. Both groups w ­ ere influenced by the Muʿtazila and espoused its vocabulary and its ideas, but the Karaites, in par­tic­ul­ ar, ­wholeheartedly a­ dopted the Muʿtazilite doctrine and made it the basis of their own Jewish theology. ­After the waning of the Muʿtazila in the fifth/eleventh ­century, the school’s doctrine was preserved by two groups, where it is upheld to this day: among Zaydī Shiʿites in Yemen, and among Karaite Jews.

Muʿtazila in al-­Andalus In their attempts to trace the Muʿtazila in al-­Andalus, con­temporary scholars have concentrated on three periods: the formative period in al-­ Andalus, from the Muslim conquest to roughly the ­middle of the ninth ­century; the period of Mālikī dominance (roughly from the mid-­ninth ­century); and the Almohad period, from the mid-­twelfth to the beginning of the thirteenth c­ entury. During the first two centuries of Islamic rule in the Iberian peninsula, our sources yield only scanty information regarding philosophical and theological trends in the region. By the end of the third/ninth c­ entury, the Mālikī school of law gained a position of hegemony in al-­Andalus, supplanting all other Muslim l­egal schools and treating them, at times, as outright heresies. As the dominant tendency of the Mālikīs was antirationalistic and antispeculative, theological and philosophical thought went into retreat a­ fter the Mālikī takeover.3 Theoretically, however, in the ­earlier, formative period, t­ here still could have been room for rationalistic thought to develop. The early Muʿtazila had a pronounced missionary character, and emissaries ­were sent around, including to North Africa, to spread its doctrine.4 As far as we know, however, the missionary drive of the Muʿtazila lost its 3. See Goldziher, Le livre, 64 and note 6; Makki, Ensayo, 212. On the Mālikī hegemony, and on its consequences for other schools (including Ẓāhirism), see Fierro, “La política religiosa,” 137ff.; on Ẓāhirism, see further below, pages 77–80. 4. On Muʿtazilite missions to North Africa, and on Muʿtazilite presence and connections in the Maghreb, see, for example, Le Tourneau, “ ‘La Chronique’ d’Abû Zakkariyāʾ al-­Wargalanī,” 144–55, and 175, note 64; Makki, Ensayo, 211–12; Fierro, Heterodoxia, 48; van Ess, TG, 4:259–72; Madelung and Walker, The Advent of the Fatimids, 59–60, and see index, s.v. “Muʿtazila”; Schwarb, “Muʿtazilism in the Age of Averroes,” 280–82 and note 17.

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strength at the Strait of Gibraltar, and did not make it across to the Iberian peninsula. Our sources do mention the names of several individuals who in the ninth and tenth centuries are reported to have come ­under Muʿtazilite influence—­typically, so the sources say, during their travels to the East. ­These p ­ eople are said to have leaned t­ oward the Muʿtazila, e­ ither in a general way or as adherents of specific doctrines identified with this school. Occasionally, the texts attribute Muʿtazilite inclinations to ­those accused of holding specific unorthodox notions, which ­were indeed identified with this par­tic­u­lar school of theology: f­ ree w ­ ill, insistence on the noneternal nature of the Qurʾān, and interpretation (taʾwīl) that takes the sting out of the most anthropomorphic Qurʾānic verses. By way of example, we may mention ʿAbd al-­Aʿlā b. Wahb of Cordoba (d. 261/874), a well-­respected jurist who is considered to have been the first to have read Muʿtazilite works.5 Also frequently brought up in connection with the Muʿtazila are Ibn Masarra and some of the so-­called Masarrians, such as the above-­ mentioned Khalīl al-­Ghafla and Ibn al-­Samīna.6 Khalīl al-­Ghafla is said to have discussed h ­ uman agency (istiṭāʿa), presumably maintaining a position associated with ­free ­will. He is also reported to have called for the allegorical interpretation of some central components of Qurʾānic eschatology (taʾwīl al-­mīzān wa’l-­ṣirāt), and to have suspiciously evaded the question of the created or uncreated nature of the Qurʾān. Muʿtazilite proclivities ­were also atttibuted to Muḥammad b. Abī Burda, a Shāfiʿite from Iraq who moved to Cordoba in 360/971 and was banished ­because of his purported Muʿtazilism; Ibn Lubāba (d. 314/926); and the Cordoban judge Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-­Ballūṭī (d. 355/966), as well as his three sons:7 ʿAbd al-­Wahhāb (d. 436/1044); al-­Ḥakam (d. ca. 420/1029), described by Ibn Ḥazm as “head of the Muʿtazilites of 5. Fierro, Heterodoxia, 49–52, 189–92; van Ess, TG, 4:272. 6. See chapter 1, pages 58–59. Asín Palacios (Obras escogidas, 1:40; idem, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 31) attributed it to the influence of Ibn Masarra’s f­ ather, ʿAbd Allāh, who, as a young man in Baṣra, “was contaminated by them with the rationalist virus of Muʿtazilism” (and not, as the published text has, the “nationalist virus”—an understandable typo in view of the “Spanish nationalism” that Asín repeatedly vaunted in this context; see, for instance, chapter 1, note 130). 7. See Fierro, Heterodoxia, 140–42. Fierro (ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III, 131), who notes that Mundhir denied being a Muʿtazilite, suggests that his accusation may have been related to Ẓāhirism, ­because the founder of the Ẓāhirī school “shared a fundamental doctrine with the Muʿtazilis, namely that the Qurʾān was created in time.” Abū Bakr b. al-­ʿArabī (al-­ʿAwāṣim min al-­qawāṣim, 493) claims that Mundhir has met al-­Jubbāʾī in the East. See also Adang, “The Beginnings of the Zahiri Madhhab in al-­Andalus,” 120–21.

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al-­Andalus, their leader, teacher and the most pious ascetic among them”;8 and ʿAbd al-­Mālik, who was executed for conspiracy in 368/978–79.9 The attribution of Muʿtazilite notions to ­these ­people is of questionable reliability, but even if such accusations ­were true, they remain anecdotal. Significantly, the vari­ous references in our sources do not add up to a full-­fledged Muʿtazilite profile of t­ hose concerned. More often than not, the appellation “Muʿtazilite” seems to be used as a term of opprobrium, designed to smear an unorthodox opponent.10 It is indeed quite likely that some individuals holding rationalistic ideas came ­under Muʿtazilite influence. In the East, however, Muʿtazilite thinkers share some axiomatic foundational princi­ples from which the rest of the complex Muʿtazilite theology evolves. ­These foundational princi­ples served as the cement that allowed the development of the Muʿtazila; they w ­ ere the basis of intricate Muʿtazilite discussions, and they lent coherence to Muʿtazilite thought: that of individuals as well as that of the school as a ­whole. Individual theologoumena, such as ­human f­ ree agency or the created Qurʾān, and the interpretation of certain Qurʾānic verses, ­were not stand-­alone doctrines, but part of a rational, coherent theological system. In al-­Andalus, we sometimes find wholly unsubstantiated charges that a certain person was oriented ­toward the Muʿtazila. But even when supposedly Muʿtazilite Andalusians are associated with specific doctrines, some of which w ­ ere indeed upheld by the Muʿtazila, ­these doctrines appear like disconnected positions on unrelated issues. In ­these cases, our sources do not show the typical Muʿtazilite reasoning and a coherent Muʿtazilite approach. To put it more cautiously: if ­these Andalusian individuals did adopt a consistent Muʿtazilite method, our sources do not allow us to identify it. Nevertheless, some modern scholars have sought to consider such individual cases as dots that can be connected into lines, in order to draw a picture of a fully developed Muʿtazilite Andalusian school. Évariste 8. “Huwa raʾs al-­muʿtazila biʾl-­andalus wa-­kabīruhum wa ustādhuhum wa nāsikuhum” (Ibn Ḥazm, Ṭawq al-­ḥamāma, 61–62); and see Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 104–5. 9. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 4:138; Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 162; Goldziher, Le livre, 67; Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 104; Cruz Hernández, Historia del Pensamiento, 2:340–41; van Ess, TG, 4:273–75. See also Asín Palacios’s list, Abenmasarra y su escuela, appendix 2, 179–84); Fierro, Heterodoxia, 111–13, 155, 161–67. Fierro (“La política religiosa,” 150–51) leaves open the possibility that the Banū Ḥudayr, who held official positions in the Umayyad administration, ­were Muʿtazilites, a possibility that she interprets as reflecting the Umayyad policy of leaving room for pluralism, thus highlighting the difference between themselves and the authoritarian Shīʿite, Fāṭimid rule. 10. See van Ess, TG, 4:272.

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Lévi-­Provençal, for example, maintained that, whereas “Shiʿism got hardly a foothold [in al-­Andalus], Muʿtazila . . . ​had a more significant number of ­adepts.” He estimated that the first infiltration of the Muʿtazila to al-­ Andalus was “not before Muhammad I” (r. 237/852 to 272/886), and suggested that the works of the ninth-­century Muʿtazilite polymath ʿAmr b. Baḥr al-­Jāḥiẓ, which circulated widely in the intellectual milieu of Cordoba, may have played a part in introducing Muʿtazilite notions to al-­ Andalus.11 Lévi-­Provençal’s cautious suggestion was further developed by Asín Palacios, who argued for the existence in al-­Andalus of a Muʿtazilite school that followed Jāḥiẓ’s teachings.12 This suggestion is difficult to accept, since, as far as we know, among Jāḥiẓ’s works that ­were popu­ lar in al-­Andalus, we find more literary texts than specifically theological works, and hence not the ones most clearly identifiable as Muʿtazilite.13 Nevertheless, other scholars have accepted this suggestion. Following the same line of thought, Joaquín Lomba Fuentes identifies two individuals: Abū Jaʿfar Ibn Hārūn, a physician from Saragossa, who met al-­Jāḥiẓ in the East and upon returning to al-­Andalus “established a genuine school, the first Muʿtazili [school] in al-­Andalus,” 14 and Abū Bakr Faraj b. Sallām.15 Lomba Fuentes further states that ­these two had many students. For him, the importance of ­these and other Muʿtazilites lies in their contribution to the introduction of philosophy to al-­Andalus.16 This evaluation of Andalusian Muʿtazila betrays the reasoning that required its existence: just as the Muʿtazila preceded falsafa in the East, so a prior stage of Muʿtazila must have been necessary in order to account for the emergence of falsafa in the West. Such a chronological reconstruction, and the causal connection it suggests, discloses a value judgment, namely, that the mutakallimūn or theologians, possessing a less abstract form of thinking, paved the way for the higher form of thought, the Aristotelian philosophy or falsafa. 11. Lévi-­Provençal, Histoire, 3:481. 12. On Jāḥiẓ and the diffusion of his books in al-­Andalus, see Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 34–35, and appendix 1, 146–50. 13. See van Ess, TG, 4:116–17. According to Charles Pellat, Jāḥiẓ’s K. al-­Bayān “is the only one of which we know that it was studied in al-­Andalus”; see Pellat, “Note sur l’Espagne musulmane et al-­Yâḥiẓ,” 261. Dominique Urvoy (“Sur les débuts de la pensée spéculative en Andalus”) is also of the opinion that ­those books of Jāḥiẓ’s that reached al-­ Andalus do not reflect his theological output; see also idem, “The ʿUlamāʾ of al-­Andalus,” 855. 14. “Una auténtica escuela, la primera muʿtazili en al-­Andalus” (Lomba Fuentes, La filosofiía islamica en Zaragoza, 82–83). 15. Lomba Fuentes follows h ­ ere Asín Palacios, Abenmasarra y su escuela, 27–28. The description of Faraj as a Muʿtazilī has alread been dismissed by Dominique Urvoy (see chapter 2, note 13) and Fierro, Heterodoxia, 92 and 113. 16. Lomba Fuentes, La filosofiía islamica en Zaragoza, 83, 86.

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Cruz Hernández, on his part, enumerates nine individuals whom he believes to be associated with the Muʿtazila, and, like Lomba Fuentes, he pre­sents Abū Bakr Faraj b. Sallām as “having laid the foundations for an Andalusi Muʿtazilite school.”17 Combing the medieval sources, Maribel Fierro provides meticulously gathered information about Muʿtazilites in this early period. Her first analy­sis of heterodoxy in al-­Andalus includes t­ hose who w ­ ere described as Muʿtazilīs, t­ hose who w ­ ere said to be sympathizers and can be described as fellow travelers, as well as t­ hose whose portrayal as Muʿtazilites is patently false. The total number of ­these individuals remains rather small. Nevertheless, Fierro states that Muʿtazilite influence entered al-­Andalus ­under ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān II (r. 206/822–238/852).18 In a ­later publication, Fierro mentions the introduction into al-­Andalus, in the fifth/eleventh ­century, of books attempting to curb Muʿtazilite doctrines, by al-­Ashʿarī and his disciples, and Ibn Ḥazm’s polemics against both ­these forms of kalām.19 In the second half of the ninth and in the tenth ­century, references to the Muʿtazila and even names of so-­called Muʿtazilites occur repeatedly in our sources, and the rate of their appearance is not significantly dif­fer­ent from that of the ­earlier period. But con­temporary scholars seem to agree that ­after the Mālikī takeover, around the ­middle of the ninth ­century, Muʿtazila development was stifled. Modern scholarship on this topic has progressed over the last c­ entury and a half, and regarding this l­ ater period, two prominent figures surface frequently in the context of the Muʿtazila: Ibn Masarra and Ibn Ḥazm. Modern scholars have attempted to identify the school of thought to which Ibn Masarra belonged. This question betrays, once again, the scholarly assumption that, just as in the East, philosophy in the West was or­ga­nized according to schools. Several scholars viewed Ibn Masarra as a Muʿtazilite, assuming again that as in the East, the first rationalist thinker in the West must have belonged to the Muʿtazila, or have had Muʿtazilite proclivities.20 Admittedly, the idea finds some support in several medieval 17. “[D]ando origen a una escuela muʿtazilí andalusí” (Cruz Hernández, Historia del Pensamiento, 2:340). 18. Fierro, Heterodoxia, 43–44, and 52; see also Forcada, “Books from Abroad, ” 66–67. 19. Fierro, “Unidad religiosa,” 414–15. 20. Lomba Fuentes, La filosofía islamica en Zaragoza, 82, 85, 88; Fierro, Heterodoxia, 116–17; Cruz Hernández, Historia del Pensamiento, 2:344–45. For Asín Palacios (The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 104 and 21), the relation between Masarrians and Muʿtazilites is “evident.” Dominique Urvoy (“The ʿUlamāʾ of al-­Andalus,” 856) realizes that ­there was no doctrinal connection between “Masarrism” and Muʿtazila, but suggests that “Masarrism” was connected to the Muʿtazila on the social level. García-­Arenal (Messianism

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sources that ascribe to Ibn Masarra Muʿtazilite inclinations, which he had supposedly acquired e­ ither from his f­ ather or during his own travels in the East and North Africa.21 But his two short treatises definitively demonstrate that Ibn Masarra was no Muʿtazilite.22 The polymath Ibn Ḥazm of Cordoba was, of course, never suspected of being a Muʿtazilite. Nonetheless, he speaks about the Muʿtazila in al-­ Andalus, and his stature makes his information hard to ignore.23 In his short “Epistle on the Praises of al-­Andalus,” Ibn Ḥazm admits that speculative theology was not particularly developed in al-­Andalus. Nevertheless, he says, a handful of ­people did incline ­toward the Muʿtazila, naming some of the very individuals mentioned by other sources as proponents of this or that Muʿtazilite notion.24 Sabine Schmidtke, listing t­ hose whom Ibn Ḥazm identified as Muʿtazilites, states that “[w]ith the exception of Ibn Masarra and Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-­Ballūṭī, both of whom ­were definitely not Muʿtazilites, we do not possess any writing of any of them, and it is impossible to verify their doctrinal affiliations on the basis of the scattered remarks given by Ibn Ḥazm.”25 Schmidtke further says that “it remains unclear what Muʿtazilism stands for at all in the Andalusī context.”26 Her prudence regarding the Muʿtazila in al-­Andalus during Ibn Ḥazm’s and Puritanical Reform, 130–31) also associates Ibn Masarra with the Muʿtazila, although she cautiously puts his “Muʿtazilism” in brackets. Safran (“The Politics of Book Burning,” 2) also gives credence to the claim that in the East “he became interested in the teachings of Muʿtazilīs.” 21. See, for instance, Ibn al-­Faraḍī (Taʾrīkh ʿulamāʾ al-­andalus, 2:41–42), according to whom Ibn Masarra discussed h ­ uman agency (istiṭāʿa), the interpretation of the Qurʾān (taʾwīl), and the real­ity of the final judgment. On this last topic, see Tornero, “Nota sobre el pensamiento de Abenmasarra.” Ibn Ḥayyān ascribes to Ibn Masarra the belief in the createdness of the Qurʾān, in ­free w ­ ill, and the denial of prophetic intercession (shafāʿa); see Muqtabis, 20–24, 30–36. Ibn Ḥazm (Fiṣal, 5:65–66) says that “he agreed with the Muʿtazila regarding the issue of predestination [qadar],” and that he believed that God’s knowledge and his power are created attributes. See also van Ess (TG, 4:273), who discusses the travels of Ibn Masarra’s ­father to Baṣra and his meetings with Muʿtazilites ­there. Fierro (“La política religiosa,” 133–34) also accepts that he was instructed in Muʿtazilism by his ­father, and that at an early age he was interested in kalām. 22. Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” esp. 210 and 214; and see chapter 1. 23. On Ibn Ḥazm, see further below, pages 78–80; van Ess (TG, 4:275) does raise the question w ­ hether Ibn Ḥazm himself was influenced by the Muʿtazila. 24. Ibn Ḥazm, Risāla f ī faḍl al-­andalus, 186 (text corrected following al-­Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 1:120); and see also Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 5:65–66. 25. Schmidtke, “Ibn Ḥazm’s Sources on Ashʿarism and Muʿtazilism,” 381; cf. Asín Palacios, The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 104. 26. Schmidtke, “Ibn Ḥazm’s Sources on Ashʿarism and Muʿtazilism,” 382; see also van Ess, TG, 4:272.

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lifetime should also be applied, I believe, to the ­earlier period.27 The assumptions that allow for a significant Muʿtazilite presence in al-­Andalus in the pre-­Mālikite era seem to me unwarranted. ­Under the Almoravids, theological speculations of all stripes ­were regarded with a jaundiced eye, of which the notorious burning of Abū Ḥāmid al-­Ghazālī’s books was prob­ably an extreme case.28 But with the rise of the Almohads, dialectical theology was both legitimized and encouraged. It informs “The Book” attributed to the Almohad Mahdī Ibn Tūmart (d. 524/1138), both in content and in structure, and it inspired Almohad catechism in all its versions.29 The story that relates the meeting of Ibn Tūmart with al-­Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) is prob­ably fictitious, but Ashʿarite theology in general and al-­Ghazālī’s thought in par­tic­u­lar became the basis of Almohad theology.30 This is recognized in the Muʿjib, composed in 621/1224 by ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī (b. 581/1185), the post-­Almohad historian who was close to the Almohads (chronologically as well as in his sympathies). But al-­Marrākushī also suggests some Muʿtazilite influence on Ibn Tūmart, “regarding his denial of the separate ontological existence of the divine attributes as well as in some other minor issues,” and Muʿtazilite influence on Ibn Tūmart is suggested by al-­Subkī as well.31 This assessement has been taken up by modern historians.32 Goldziher, who relies on al-­Marrākushī, points out that Ibn Tūmart’s use of the term tawḥīd and his position on the divine attributes follows 27. Schmidtke (“Ibn Ḥazm’s Sources on Ashʿarism and Muʿtazilism,” 379) also refers to the scattered remarks “that suggest that Muʿazilism was still a living tradition in al-­ Andalus during his lifetime.” If, however, an e­ arlier living tradition of the Muʿtazila ever existed, it was at best a bookish tradition, carried in doxographies or by hearsay rather than by a consolidated group of adherents. 28. See Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 70–72; Griffel, “Ibn Tūmart’s Rational Proof,” 754. 29. See Griffel, “Ibn Tūmart’s Rational Proof,” esp. 756. On the place of philosophy in the Almohad revolution, see chapter 5. 30. For the story of their meeting, see Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 72–73; Griffel, “Ibn Tūmart’s Rational Proof,” passim. The change of attitude to al-­Ghazālī’s books ­under the Almohads is nicely summarized by Ibn Ṭumlūs, al-­Madkhal li-­ṣināʿat al-­manṭiq, 12 (= Ibn Aḥmad, Ibn Ṭumlūs, 346): “It now became a religious duty to read them, whereas previously it was considered to be disbelief and heresy [fa-­ṣāra [sic.] qirāʾatu-­hā sharʿan baʿda an kānat kufran wa-­zandaqa].” 31. ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī, cited in Goldziher, Le livre, 9; Dominique Urvoy, “Les professions de foi d’Ibn Tūmart,” 740. 32. See, for instance, García-­Arenal, Messianism and Puritanical Reform, 174; Kalby, “Legitimacy of State Power,” 19–20 (and quoted by García-­Arenal, Messianism and Puritanical Reform, 175): “the eclectic legitimacy claimed by (the Almohad) caliphate invoked

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Muʿtazilite doctrine. He considers this position the most impor­tant dogmatic ele­ment that Ibn Tūmart learned in the East (that is to say: not in al-­Andalus, since, says Goldziher, no dialectical theology was developed in the Maghreb).33 Goldziher, however, also notes the superficiality of Ibn Tūmart’s Muʿtazilite learning, and brushes aside the Maghrebi documents that regard Ibn Tūmart as a Muʿtazilite. For Goldziher, the authors of ­these documents clearly did not study the Muʿtazilite writings themselves.34 The Almohads, of course, came from North Africa, where Muʿtazilite proselytizing (daʿwā) was active already in the ninth c­ entury.35 It is not clear, though, if the first, swift expansion of the daʿwā was followed by a more stable Muʿtazilite presence that relied on the circulation of books and is documented in writing. The scope of Muʿtazilite presence in mid-­twelfth-­century Morocco requires further study. One can say with a fair degree of certainty, however, that Muʿtazilite ideas ­were not unknown, and that they could have left their mark on local theology. Nevertheless, to the extent that the Almohad doctrine can be said to have been s­ haped by any par­tic­ul­ ar school of kalām or influenced by it, their main source of inspiration was clearly the Ashʿariyya. This includes their unitarian princi­ ples; their uncompromising rejection of anthropomorphism can be seen as an extreme position that remains nevertheless within the Ashʿarī interpretative spectrum.36 An in­ter­est­ing ­angle on Almohad kalām is gained when we examine it through the eyes of an outsider, the Jewish phi­los­op ­ her Moses Maimonides (Cordoba, 1138–­Cairo, 1204). In his Guide of the Perplexed, Maimonides devotes several chapters to a critique of the theology of the mutakallimūn, which he bases on a systematic summary of their princi­ ples.37 This summary has been closely analyzed by Michael Schwarz, who principally a Muʿtazilite Unitarianism adapted to a doctrine of shīʿi Mahdism of the most radical sort.” 33. Goldziher, Le livre, 55–56, 57, 64–65. 34. “Les documents maghrébins qui lui donnent le nom de moʿtazilite . . . ​prouvent par là que leurs auteurs n’ont guère eu l’occasion d’étudier les théories qui caractérisent cette école dogmatique et que cette appellation n’est pour eux qu’un terme générique vague, applicable à tous les esprits indépendants qui résistaient aux doctrines orthodoxes” (Goldziher, Le livre, 68). 35. See chapter 2, note 4. 36. See, for instance, Griffel, “Ibn Tūmart’s Rational Proof,” passim. For an overview of Muslim positions regarding anthromorphic verses and traditions, see Gimaret, Dieu à l’image de l’homme, 13–58. For a detailed exposition of traditionalist views, see Holtzman, Anthropomorphism. 37. In par­tic­u­lar, see Maimonides, Guide, 1.71 and 1.73–76 (Dalāla, 121–27, 135–62; Pines, 175–84, 194–231).

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showed its diversion from both Muʿtazilite and early Ashʿarite kalām, and its relative closeness to the Ashʿarite kalām con­temporary with Maimonides.38 Maimonides, of course, did not belong to the Almohad ruling elite, nor did he wish to be identified with the mutakallimūn. But his life ­under the Almohads as a crypto-­Jew left its mark on his own thought.39 His fierce unitarian theology bears the stamp of Almohad dogma, and it is quite pos­si­ble that his synthesis of the kalām princi­ples also displays the kind of unitarian Ashʿarite kalām he encountered in Almohad territory. Maimonides’s con­temporary Averroes was also familiar with Ashʿarite kalām, a fact that may explain his puzzling comment according to which the Muʿtazilite method of establishing God’s existence may resemble that of the Ashʿariyya.40 Josef van Ess contends that the Muʿtazilite Jāḥiẓite school, which Asín Palacios believed he had uncovered in al-­Andalus, was “as far as theological influence is concerned, a phantom.”41 One may broaden van Ess’s remark to the very notion of a Muʿtazilite school in al-­Andalus: apart from fleeting notions and some sympathizers, it had no real life, no significant presence, no adherents of the school-­traditions as such, and it certainly did not constitute any entity deserving of the title “school.” And yet, like other phantoms, this one too has per­sis­tently refused to be dispelled, and keeps hovering over al-­Andalus.42 Medieval orthodox scholars w ­ ere haunted by it and saw its shadow b ­ ehind unorthodox pronouncements. In recent scholarship, the appearance of the epithet “Qadarite” (i.e., 38. See Schwarz, “Who ­Were Maimonides’ Mutakallimūn?,” passim. 39. See Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, chapter 3; and see this book, chapter 5. 40. “As for the Muʿtazilites, nothing of their writings has reached this peninsula, from which we could learn the methods they ­adopted in this ­matter. It seems that their methods are similar to t­ hose of the Ashʿariyya” (Ibn Rushd, Kashf, 118); see Schwarb, “Muʿtazilism in the Age of Averroes.” Noteworthy in this context is Maimonides’s statement that “­every mutakallim from among the Muslims” (i.e., without distinction between Muʿtazilites and Ashʿarites) follows the same method in establishing God’s existence and His unity; see Guide, 1.71 (Dalāla, 124; Pines, 179). Maimonides criticizes the mutakallimūn, who attempt to establish God’s existence on the temporal creation of the world, an issue that is “fraught with doubts.” In this criticism, Maimonides resembles Averroes (Kashf, 107), who, immediately a­ fter mentioning the Muʿtazilite position on absence, states that the knowledge of God should be established in clearer ways, which are not tainted with doubts. On Maimonides’s probable acquaintance with Averroes’s theological writings, see Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 73–76. 41. “Die ‘Schule’ des Ǧāḥiẓ’s, die Asín-­Palacios in Spanien hatte entdecken wollen, ist, was den theologischen Einfluss angeht, ein Phantom” (van Ess, TG, 4:272–73). 42. See van Ess’s remark apropos of Ibn Masarra and Pseudo-­Empedocles, TG, 4:274: “Die Forschung tut sich schwer damit, sich von Phantomen zu trennen.” And see chapter 4, page 116.

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a proponent of free will) or “Muʿtazilite” in our sources continues to be taken at face value, presented as a proof for the existence of a Muʿtazilite school in al-­Andalus. A school of thought requires the existence of a coherent platform of shared ideas, traditions, and social and institutional structures. Some Muʿtazilite ideas must have infiltrated al-­Andalus, enough to influence some ­people and render ­others quite anxious. But the sum total of the snippets of information we have also confirms that t­ here was no Muʿtazilite school in al-­Andalus. We can speculate about the ways the snippets regarding the Muʿtazila reached al-­Andalus. But nothing whatsoever indicates an abundance, indeed the very presence, of Muʿtazilite primary sources among Muslims in al-­Andalus in this period. Additionally, knowledge of the Muʿtazila seems to have been mostly of secondary nature: oral transmission of some kind or another, perhaps, indeed, through travelers to the East or to North Africa, and heresiographical knowledge.43 For a full explanation of the stubborn, recurrent presence of the Mu’tazilite phantom, however, one must also look beyond the dominant Muslim majority of al-­Andalus. Indeed, when one examines the writings of Jewish Andalusian authors from this period, one is struck by the depth of their familiarity with Muʿtazilite writings, which exceeds what one could expect if they relied only on Oriental Rabbanites influenced by the Muʿtazila, such as the tenth-­century Saʿadya Gaon. The Andalusian Rabbanites themselves ­were no Muʿtazilites. This observation was already made by Maimonides, who stated in the Guide that, unlike their brethren in the Orient, the Jews of al-­Andalus had nothing to do with the Muʿtazila: As for the Andalusians among the ­people of our nation, all of them cling to the affirmations of the phi­los­op ­ hers and incline to their opinions, insofar as ­these do not ruin the foundation of the Law. You ­will not find them in any way taking the paths of the Mutakallimūn.44

43. In this last category, one should note the works of the rival Muslim theological school, the Ashʿariyya, which did reach al-­Andalus, and periodically (as ­under the Almohads) gained a certain authority. But of course, the Ashʿarites’ description of the Muʿtazila was polemical, and the portrait of the Muʿtazila they drew was prob­ably somewhat biased. 44. “Ammā al-­andalusiyyūn min ahl millatinā, kulluhum yatamassakūna bi-­aqāwīl al-­ falāsifa wa-­yamīlūna li-­ārāʾihim mā lā tunāqiḍu qaʿidat sharīʿa, wa-­lā tajiduhum bi-­wajh yaslikūna f ī shayʾ min masālik al-­mutakallimīn” (Maimonides, Guide, 1.71 [Dalāla, 122: Pines, 177]). As Maimonides explains in the previous lines, the kalām that was ­adopted by the Oriental Jews, but not by their Andalusian brethren, was specifically Muʿtazilite. In what seems to be a direct response to Maimonides’s statement, Daniel Ibn al-­Māshiṭa (Taqwīm al-­A dyān, quoted in Russ-­Fishbane, “Maimonidean Controversies ­a fter

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Nevertheless, ­there is ample evidence that the same Andalusian Jews ­were both familiar with and interested in the school. Judah Halevi writes in detail about kalām in his Kuzari.45 His con­temporary Joseph Ibn Ṣaddiq (d. 1149), who wrote his Microcosmos in Arabic in Cordoba, cites from Karaite works, which in turn refer repeatedly to Muʿtazilite works written by the g ­ reat Muslim masters of the school in the Orient.46 More often than not, the Andalusian Rabbanite Jews mention the Muʿtazila or cite Muʿtazilite sources in the context of their polemic with Karaism, a point that might prove helpful in making sense of what I called above “the phantom of Andalusian Muʿtazila.”

Literalism and Scripturalism K araites In order to understand the presence and nature of Karaism in al-­Andalus, we must take a short detour, to the beginnings of the Karaite movement in the East. The early crystallization of Karaism as a scripturalist movement can prob­ably be attributed to the tenth-­century Daniel al-­Qūmisī (d. 946), but many of our sources (especially the polemical ones) associate the emergence of Karaism with the eighth-­century Anan ben David.47 Relying on information received from Eliʿezer Alluf of Lucena, the ninth-­century Rabbanite Naṭronay Gaon says that Anan had promised his followers to write for them a Talmud of his own.48 His Book of Laws, written circa 770, was composed in Babylonian Aramaic, the language of the Talmud. The tenth-­century Karaite al-­Qirqisānī reports that Hai Ben Naḥshon (the Gaon of Sura in 886–96) and his ­father had translated this book into Hebrew, and they had found most of its regulations to be grounded in Talmudic law.49 It thus seems that Anan relied on a parallel exegetical, oral Maimonides,” 177) argues that the Andalusian preference for philosophy over kalām “sank [them] into a sea of perplexity.” 45. Kuzari, esp. chapter 5 (ed. Baneth/Ben-­Shammai, 191–208; ed. Bashīr, 511–33). 46. See, for example, Ibn Ṣaddiq, Der Mikrokosmos, 45–49. The Arabic original of this book is lost, and the book is preserved in a medieval Hebrew translation. Ibn Ṣaddiq relies in this chapter explicitely on the Arabic original of al-­Kitāb al-­Manṣūrī, the shorter theological work of the prolific Karaite theologian Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr (d. 1040). According to Ben-­ Shammai (“Major Trends in Karaite Philosophy,” 357), his knowledge of the kalām system was derived mainly from Karaite sources. 47. For instance, Ibn Daud, The Book of Tradition, 48–50, 91–92. 48. See Ben-­Shammai, “Between Ananites and Karaites,” 20; Seder Rav ʿAmram, 206–7. 49. See Qirqisānī, Anwār, 1:13, lines 5–9; Ben-­Shammai, “Between Ananites and Karaites,” 20 and note 12.

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tradition. Apparently, he did not object to the authority of oral tradition as such, but rather rejected the servile adoption of a par­tic­u­lar oral tradition (servility of the kind known l­ater in Arabic as del­e­ga­tion of authority or taqlīd). Unlike the Karaites, therefore, this purported originator of Karaism was not a scripturalist. He was also not committed to a literal understanding of the biblical text, and he condoned the use of reasoning in ­legal ­matters.50 This approach seems to have prepared the ground for the ­wholesale adoption of rational theology by his followers, as well as by the Karaites. Haggai Ben-­Shammai has proposed an intriguing reconstruction of the history of the Karaites’ relationship with Anan. In the ninth ­century, he suggests, followers of Anan apparently migrated to Spain, whereas ­others had settled in Jerusalem.51 A ­ fter some time, the Jerusalem community split over the question of the authority of oral tradition. The followers of the scripturalist al-­Qūmisī established a Karaite community, and some of Anan’s descendants joined them, whence came the notion that Anan was the founder of Karaism. Other followers of Anan, however, remained a separate community, which came to be known as “Ananites.” In the tenth ­century, Karaites and Ananites thus formed two separate communities in Jerusalem, alongside the Rabbanites. In the eleventh ­century, Ananites from the Iberian peninsula traveled to Palestine, but since the Ananite community of Jerusalem had by then died out, they too joined the Karaites, thus terminating the separate existence of the Ananite sect.52 According to this reconstruction, the Iberian community of Ananites, which then became Karaite, developed in intermittent contacts with the Jerusalem Karaites. Information regarding t­ hese Iberian Ananites and Karaites is frustratingly scant. None of their writings (assuming that they composed their own writings) have survived.53 Naṭronay Gaon says that they followed Anan’s Book of Laws, and this prob­ably means that they became 50. This is encapsulated in the oft-­quoted (and prob­ably apocryphal) dictum attributed to Anan: “Search Scripture well, and do not rely on my opinion.” The dictum is first quoted by the tenth-­century Karaite author Yefet Ben ʿEli, in his commentary on Zech. 5:8. On the development of the two parts of the dictum, see Daniel Frank, Search Scripture Well, 22–32. 51. In this context, the absence of any sign of Karaism in the North African Jewish center in Kairouan before the end of the tenth c­ entury is noteworthy; see Ben-­Sasson, “The Emergence of the Local Jewish Communities,” 3. 52. Ben-­Shammai, “Between Ananites and Karaites;” idem, “Babylonian Aramaic in Arabic Characters.” 53. See Cohen, in Ibn Daud, The Book of Tradition, xlix.

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the Jerusalem Karaites. Ibn Ḥazm mentions followers of Anan who lived near Toledo and Talavera. Since he also rec­ords his own visit to Talavera, his testimony regarding the Ananites may well reflect first-­hand acquaintance and can be taken as reliable.54 One could, of course, argue that, like other Muslim authors, Ibn Ḥazm did not distinguish Ananites from Karaites, and that he described all of ­these Jewish sectarians as followers of Anan.55 Be that as it may, quite a few ­later sources testify to the existence of a strong Karaite community in the northern parts of al-­Andalus and suggest its continued existence well into the second half of the twelfth c­ entury. Karaites are mentioned by the tenth-­century Jewish poet and statesman Samuel ha-­Nagid, and by the twelfth-­century Rabbanite author Abraham Ibn Daud. Particularly intriguing is a story recounted about the Karaites of Carrión who, with the help of t­ hose of Burgos, are said to have imposed their Sabbath laws on the local Rabbanites.56 Jewish authors in al-­Andalus in the twelfth c­ entury (such as Joseph Ibn Ṣaddiq, Abraham Ibn Ezra, and Judah Halevi) repeatedly refer to the Karaites, argue with them, and quote extensively from their writings.57 ­Whether this ongoing debate proves the presence of a sizable Karaite community in the twelfth ­century in the Iberian peninsula, as argued by some scholars, or only their mere existence and the familiarity with their ideas, it is clear that they remained

54. Ibn Ḥazm, Fiṣal, 4:180; cf. Adang, “Éléments karaïtes,” 435, note 52. 55. Adang, “Éléments karaïtes,” 436, note 52. The blurred distinction between the two groups is evident also in the writings of Jewish authors. As noted by Cohen (The Book of Tradition, xxxviii, note 110), “Ibn Daud never once refers to the Karaites by name, but always by the Hebrew epithet min.” But Ibn Daud applies this epithet to Anan as well as to al-­Qirqisānī, both of whom he calls “the ­fathers of the heresy” (The Book of Tradition, 2:10; see also Cohen’s introduction to Ibn Daud, The Book of Tradition, 17, as well as 24). 56. See Cohen, The Book of Tradition, xliv–xlvi. The mountainous area around Burgos seems to have favored the development and preservation of sectarian enclaves. Thus, Bishop Braulius of Saragossa, in his Life of Saint Aemelianus, speaks of attempts to convert the pagans in the mountains between Burgos and Logroño as late as the seventh ­century; see Reilly, Medieval Spains, 30. 57. See Ibn Ṣaddīq, Der Mikrokosmos, 44, 47; P. Weiss, “Ibn Ezra, the Karaites and the Halakhah”; Kuzari, ed. Baneth/Ben-­Shammai, 89, 112–31, 138, 213; ed. Bashīr, 372–404, 418–19, 540. The intriguing Genizah fragment in which Judah Halevi refers to someone “from the heretics in Christian territory” (muntaḥilī al-­minut f ī bilād al-­rūm) does not necessarily refer, I believe, to a Karaite from Christian Spain; see Langermann, “Science and the Kuzari,” 501; and cf. Baneth, “Some Remarks on Judah Halevi’s Autograph”; Goitein, “The Biography of Rabbi Judah Ha-­Levi”; Gil and Fleischer, Yehuda ha-­Levi and His Circle, 324–26.

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a meaningful presence in the imaginaire of Jewish authors in twelfth-­ century al-­Andalus.58 Notwithstanding the animosity between Karaites and Rabbanites, ties between the Iberian Jewish community and the Karaites of Jerusalem bore some fruitful intellectual exchange. ­Because of their scripturalist approach, the Karaites gained a reputation as experts in Hebrew linguistics, and thus the Hebrew grammar of the Jerusalem Karaite Abūʾl-­Faraj Hārūn was imported from Palestine by a certain Jacob, a scribe from León, who had copied it in his own hand. Despite his provenance from the north of the peninsula, we do not know ­whether this Jacob was a Karaite. But the book itself is used (with a pointed dissimulation of its author’s name) by the Rabbanite grammarian Ibn Janāḥ (d. 1055).59 In the eleventh ­century, a certain Abūʾl-­Ṭaras was sent by the Andalusian Karaite community to the intellectually vibrant Karaite community in Jerusalem. When he returned to al-­Andalus, Abūʾl-­Ṭaras brought with him theological books. Ibn Daud mentions specifically the books of Yeshuʿah ben Yehuda, a prolific and influential Karaite theologian, exegete, and linguist who (like other Karaites) was a staunch follower of the Muʿtazila. Yeshuʿah’s books contain lengthy citations of works by the Muslim masters of the school, and it is entirely pos­si­ble that this emissary, or l­ater ones, also brought with them copies of works by the Muslim masters. The Karaite community of al-­Andalus provides a definite link that can explain the introduction of a substantial body of Muʿtazilite books and ideas to al-­Andalus, which became pre­sent not just as floating notions or anxious rumors but as full-­fledged works containing coherent teachings.60 This corpus is not likely to have remained confined to the Karaite community. As we have already seen, while the circulation of suspect books among the Muslims of al-­Andalus was periodically checked and censored, ­these restrictions w ­ ere never enforced in the Jewish community. Once books found their way into the libraries of Jewish intellectuals, they came within reach of Muslim intellectuals as well.61 This was true in the East as well as in the West, so that Muslim Andalusian scholars traveling in the East could become acquainted with the Muʿtazila not only within their own Muslim milieu, but also through meetings with Jews, and in

58. Cf. Lasker, “Judah Halevi and Karaism,” 117. 59. Ibn Janāḥ refers to the book as “kalām li-­rajul muqaddasī lā usammīhi”; see Kitāb al-­Lumaʿ, 322–23; Sefer ha-­Riqmah, 338 and note 5; Ashtor, The Jews of Moslem Spain, 4. 60. See also Schwarb, “Muʿtazilism in the Age of Averroes,” 280–81. 61. See Stroumsa, “Thinkers of ‘This Peninsula’ ”; and see chapter 1.

Theologica l a nd ­Lega l Schools [ 77 ]

par­tic­u­lar with Karaites.62 Furthermore, unlike the Rabbanites (who typically wrote Arabic in Hebrew characters), Karaites usually wrote in Arabic characters, which made their books quite accessible to Muslims. Therefore, and notwithstanding the implications of Averroes’s claim to the contrary, original Muʿtazilite works must have become obtainable to Muslims in twelfth-­century al-­Andalus.63 Muʿtazilite commentaries on the Qurʾān ­were not likely to have been a first choice for Jews, ­either Karaites or Rabbanites, who brought books to the peninsula. But other Muʿtazilite works w ­ ere part of the broader Andalusian Jewish library, and the Muʿtazilite trademark ideas—­free ­will, ­human accountability (which includes such topics as h ­ uman agency or the denial of intercession), and the denial of God’s corporeality—­could thus have been at hand for Muslims in the region; at least, they w ­ ere close enough to explain the per­sis­ tent existence of the Muʿtazilite phantom.

ẓāhirīs As two movements that reject part of what their coreligionists consider to be a sacred tradition, Ẓāhirism is sometimes presented as a Muslim equivalent to Karaism. In his examination of the two groups, however, Ignác Goldziher concluded that “it would not be easy to find a more pronounced opposition than the one which exists between the princi­ples of ­these two schools.” Whereas the Ẓāhirites reject the use of reasoning (qiyās) in l­ egal ­matters, the Karaites rely on it heavi­ly.64 Indeed, the Ẓāhirites rejected the use of qiyās categorically, and relied on the two primary sources, the Qurʾān and the ḥadīth.65 The Karaites, by contrast, who denied the authority of the Rabbinic oral tradition, had to find another mechanism to bridge the gap (chronological as well as conceptual) between the Bible and contemporaneous readers. Turning to reasoning in both l­ egal m ­ atters and theology, they enthusiastically ­adopted Muʿtazilite kalām. Whereas Karaism was a scripturalist movement, Ẓāhirism was a decidedly literalist one.66 62. Thus, for example, Ibn al-­ʿArabī, who visited Jerusalem in 485/1092, met ­there a representative of the renowned Jewish Tustarī f­amily, who w ­ ere deeply immersed in Muʿtazilism, and discussed doctrinal issues with him; see Schwarb, “Sahl b. al-­Faḍl al-­ Tustārī’s Kitāb al-­Īmāʾ,” 67*–71*; Schmidtke, “Ibn Ḥazm’s Sources on Ashʿarism and Muʿtazilism,” 382, note 40. 63. See chapter 2, note 40. 64. Goldziher, “Mélanges judéo-­arabes IV: Caraïtes et Zahirites,” esp. 6. 65. See Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 27–30; Hallaq, A History of Islamic ­Legal Theories, 32. 66. On the pos­si­ble connections between early (Muʿtazilite or Khārijite) Islam with

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Baghdādī Zāhirism is therefore unconnected to Karaism, but the two movements reappear side by side in al-­Andalus. Whereas Karaism in al-­ Andalus is a shadowy presence, an entity whose contours and influence can only be guessed, Ẓāhirism has an undisputed anchor in al-­Andalus in the towering figure of Ibn Ḥazm. It is further presented as a recurring feature of Andalusian intellectual history. Goldziher considered the sixth and seventh centuries as “the prime of the Ẓāhirite school in Andalusia.”67 The magnitude of Andalusian Ẓāhirism, however, and the scope of its influence, are less clear. In her review of the relevant biographical lit­er­a­ture, Camilla Adang drew up a list of Andalusian Ẓāhirites ­after Ibn Ḥazm. She restricted this list to t­ hose Muslim scholars who w ­ ere “described in at least one source . . . ​ as having been a Ẓāhirī, tended ­towards literalism, or ­adopted a literalist approach to the revealed sources of the law,” and omitted t­ hose about whom ­there might be other reasons to suspect Ẓāhirī affiliations.68 ­These criteria, presented as the basis for a minimalist list, are, in fact, too broad: a single description of someone as a Ẓāhirī is not enough to confirm his Ẓāhirī affiliation, especially when we have other sources mentioning this person but failing to include such a description. Ẓāhirism, like Bāṭinism, Qadariyya, and Muʿtazilism, also came to be used as a term of opprobrium. A single claim that a person tended ­toward literalism is no proof, indeed not even a serious sign, of his being a Ẓāhirite. Such a claim could fit not only t­ hose who reject qiyās, but also p ­ eople with rational tendencies, who ­favor it. Ideally, for someone to be counted as a Ẓāhirī, he ­ought to be named as such by several in­de­pen­dent sources. When only one of our sources indicates a person’s Ẓāhirī affiliation, the indication should at least be unambiguous, with no other relevant sources contradicting its information or even remaining s­ ilent about what must have been a con­spic­u­ous trait in someone’s profile.69 For Adang, the strength of Andalusian Ẓāhirism allowed it to shape ­later Ẓāhirism, with prominent representatives of the madhhab pumping new blood, as it ­were, into the dwindling Ẓāhirism of Baghdad. ­Later Ẓāhirites in the East ­were indeed “a weak fad of individual theologians,” early Karaism, see the suggestions of Cook, “ ʿAnan and Islam,” as well as the response of Ben-­Shammai, “The Karaite Controversy,” esp. 24. Osman (The Ẓāhirī Madhhab), argues that the Ẓāhirīs ­were textualists rather than literalists; but see Madelung’s review, 277. 67. Goldziher, The Ẓāhiris, 171. 68. Adang,“The Spread of Ẓāhirism,” 300. 69. On the methodology of evaluating information dependent on a single source, see Stroumsa, “Single-­Source Rec­ords.”

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unlike “the wide-­spread religious party” it had been in the fourth/tenth ­century.70 Nonetheless, this supposed strength of Andalusian Ẓāhirism still needs to be corroborated.71 Despite her wide criteria for identifying Ẓāhirīs, Adang herself concludes that “the claim that t­ here was a dramatic increase in the number of Ẓāhirīs in al-­Andalus is not borne out by the extant biographical lit­er­a­ture.” 72 Ibn Ḥazm is the only early Ẓāhirite whose writings are extant. When the story of Andalusian Ẓāhirism is told, the Almohads take up a prominent place in it. In theological m ­ atters, the Almohads a­ dopted Ashʿarite theology, but in m ­ atters of law, Ẓāhirī tendencies are often made explicit.73 It was particularly the Almohad caliph Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb who “publicly professed to belong to the Ẓāhirīyah and turned away from the Mālikīs.” According to al-­Marrākushī, [Yaʿqūb’s] purpose in this was to obliterate Mālik’s madhhab in the Maghrib once and for all, and to impose on p ­ eople the external meaning [ḥaml al-­nās ʿalā al-­ẓāhir] of the Qurʾān and the Ḥadīth. It was the exact same purpose of his ­father and grand­father, except that they did not show it.74

This semi-­official Ẓāhirism was short-­lived, and in the eighth/fourteenth ­century, “a theological spirit that was decisively unfavorable to the Ẓāhirīs had aspired to power in al-­Andalus.”75 Adang attributes the small number of Ẓāhirīs in the biographical lit­er­a­ture to “the censorship in the post-­ Almohad era, which was characterized by a l­imited tolerance t­ owards non-­Mālikī groups.”76 In this, she rightly recognizes anti-­Mālikism as a basic trait uniting many dif­fer­ent groups. 70. Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 106. 71. Curiously, evidence for significant intellectual presence of Ẓāhirism in the Iberian peninsula is found in a Christian text, the Liber denudationis 2.3, which, prob­ably ­under the influence of Ibn Ḥazm, refers to Dāwūd al-­Ẓāhirī as “the most impor­tant” commentator. See Burman, Religious Polemic, 50. 72. Adang, “The Spread of Ẓāhirism,” 301, 333, 337. 73. Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 124, 159 ff.; Fierro, “­Legal Doctrines,” 11; Sabra, “The Andalusian Revolt,” 143–44. Sabra treats the w ­ hole Ẓāhirī phenomenon as a product of Ibn Ḥazm, and thus as a typical Andalusian phenomenon. 74. Al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 201–3. See also Ibn al-­Athīr, Kāmil, 12:61; Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 2:72; Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 160–61. 75. Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 177; ibid., 171: “the power and influence of the Ẓāhirite movement disppears with the Almohades.” See also Fierro, “The Almohads,” 70; and see chapter 5. 76. Adang, “The Spread of Ẓāhirism,” 338.

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The revolutionary zeal of Almohad ideology had in common with Ẓāhirism a break with Mālikī jurisprudence, a desire to do away with the accumulated exegetical lit­er­a­ture and to go back to the fundamental texts. According to Goldziher, “it was . . . ​precisely the specific manner of Andalusian Islam which was the a­ ctual prerequisite for developing a theological personality like . . . ​Ibn Ḥazm.”77 This “specific manner” continued to be pre­sent in al-­Andalus ­after him, and to prompt similar reactions. Ibn Ḥazm’s formidable figure undoubtedly continued to raise interest ­after his death, but the attempt to identify this interest with Ẓāhirism goes too far. Adang is therefore right in asserting that the common claim that Ẓāhirism was elevated to state doctrine ­under the Almohad caliphs cannot be supported, and t­ here is also no ground to say that Ẓāhirism as such “continued to flourish in the Almohad period.”78

77. See Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 109. 78. Adang, “The Spread of Ẓāhirism,” 341.

ch a p t er  3

Intellectual Elites

phi­l os­o ­phers, in a l-­a nda lus as elsewhere in the medieval Islamicate world, ­were committed to what can be called “the phi­los­o­pher’s life,” namely, the unremitting effort to attain ­human perfection. At the same time, as intellectuals integrated into their own socie­ties, they could significantly shape their communities’ cultural, communal, and even po­liti­cal profiles. Accordingly, the current chapter is devoted to tracing the Andalusian phi­los­o­phers’ multiform social involvement.

Golden Ages We saw in the introduction that the prospering of Jewish philosophy in al-­Andalus is often depicted in modern scholarship as part of the “golden age” of the Jewish communities in the Iberian peninsula.1 In our attempt to understand historical pro­cesses, however, the widespread and rather indiscriminate usage of “golden age” is not particularly helpful. A dramatic early example of its use is provided by Miguel de Cervantes, who puts the following words in Don Quixote’s mouth: ­These ages and centuries to which the p ­ eople of old gave the name of “golden,” it was not ­because in ­these ages gold (which in our age of iron is so highly valued) could be gathered without any toil or fatigue, but rather ­because t­ hose who lived in that age w ­ ere ignorant of the meaning of ­these two words: “yours” and “mine.” In this sacred age every­thing was communal. . . . ​In that age, it was all peace, all friendship and harmony.2 1. See, for example, Gerber, “Reconsiderations of Sephardic History”; M. Cohen, ­Under Crescent and Cross, 3–6. 2. “Dichosa edad y siglos dischosos aquellos a quien los antinguos pusieron nombre de dorados, y no porque en ellos el oro (que en esta nuestra edad de hierro tanto se estima)

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Don Quixote’s visionary interpretation of the term “golden age” clues us into the inherently ahistorical, mythical character of this term. In presenting a period of the past as a golden age, p ­ eople tend to cast it in the mold of their own ideals for the f­ uture—­and the effort to reach t­ hese utopian ideals may be as effective as Quixote’s tilting at windmills. This literary pause also might serve to remind us that the Iberian peninsula witnessed multiple “golden ages.” For Jews, the term refers mostly to the tenth and eleventh centuries, the periods known as the Caliphate of Cordoba and the aforementioned period of the party kings, before the takeover of Islamic Spain by North African Berber dynasties. In relation to Islamic al-­Andalus, the term “golden age” most often refers to the Umayyad caliphate of Cordoba in the fourth/tenth ­century, although it is sometimes also applied to the Granada emirate of the ninth/fifteenth. And in Cervantes’s Don Quixote, the term evokes the Spanish Siglo de Oro: the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries of cultural brilliance following the ­grand expeditions and conquests, and the accumulation of riches from Spain’s American colonies following the expulsion of both Muslims and Jews from the Iberian peninsula. Indeed, the Spanish Siglo de Oro is a Christian golden age, and, unlike the Jewish and the Muslim versions, its meaning does not imply religious tolerance. For all of them, however, the essence of the golden age lies less in the accumulation of riches and po­liti­cal power— in this, Don Quixote’s analy­sis is correct—­than in cultural efflorescence, as expressed in art, poetry, and philosophy.

Courtiers The prevailing account of the Jewish “golden age” foregrounds the integration of Jews into the cultural world of the glittering courts of al-­Andalus.3 We thus find learned and intellectually curious Jews holdse alcansase en aquella venturosa sin fatiga alguna, sino porque entonces los que en ella vivían ignoraban estas dos palabras de tuyo y mío. Eran en aquella santa edad todas las cosas communes; . . . ​Todo era paz entonces, todo amistad, todo concordía.” See Cervantes, Don Quijote, volume 1, chapter 11, page 169. Yitzhak Navon, the fifth president of Israel, who once served as secretary to its first prime minister, David Ben Gurion, recalls in his Hebrew memoirs All the Way (Jerusalem: Keter, 2015, 85) how the latter, impressed by the “socialist” message of this passage, learnt it by heart and then recited it to Navon. 3. On Jewish Andalusian courtly culture, see Joseph Weiss, “Courtly Culture and Courtly Poetry”; Ashtor, The Jews of Moslem Spain; Decter, “Before Caliphs and Kings”; idem, Dominion Built of Praise, 29–49; Ben-­Sasson, “Al-­Andalus,” 130. Weiss (ibid., 396) sees the Jewish courtly culture as “structurally built on an Aristocratic culture for an elite

In tellectua l Elites [ 83 ]

holding elevated and sensitive executive posts in Muslim courts: Ḥasdāy Ibn Shaprūṭ, mentioned above, was the physician, confidant, and trusted diplomat of the last Cordoban Umayyad emir and first Umayyad caliph ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III, as well as of his son, al-­Ḥakam II;4 Samuel ha-­Nagid (aka Ibn al-­Naghrīla, d. 1055) ministered to the Berber sovereign of Granada, the Zīrid Ḥabbūs al-­Muẓaffar, and ­after the latter’s death went on to serve his son Bādīs as vizier and highest fiscal official (responsible for revenue collection) and led his army in b ­ attle.5 Moses Ibn Ezra was appointed ṣāḥib al-­ shurṭa (head of the police) in Granada, and a similar civic office must have been held by the phi­los­o­pher and astronomer Abraham bar Ḥiyya Ha-­Nassi (“the Prince”; Barcelona 1070–­Provence ca. 1137), prob­ably at the court of the Banū Hūd in Saragossa, as attested by his title Savasorda. In some families, deep involvement in the Muslim courts continued from ­father to son (although not always in the same court), forming small dynasties of experienced courtiers. ­These high ranks in the Muslim court, inherited or other­wise, often came at a price: the case of Yehoseph Ibn al-­Naghrīla, Samuel’s son, is famous for its tragic, violent end. The position of a courtier, w ­ hether Muslim, Christian, or Jew, was always precarious. The dhimmī courtier, however, had a doubly difficult job. Neither he nor the Muslim ruler ever forgot that he belonged to a tolerated religious community. This is reflected in the continuous pressure that was exerted in vari­ous forms on Jewish as well as on Christian courtiers to convert to Islam. For four generations, from Saragossa to Cairo, the descendants of Ḥasdāy Ibn Shaprūṭ served dif­fer­ent Muslim rulers. At some point, one of them (although we cannot be sure which one) opted to convert to Islam—­a fact that also indicates that their status as dhimmīs, and perhaps, even ­after conversion, their Jewish origin, remained an impediment at court.6 The same was true regarding Christian courtiers, as we can

society, whose masters and carriers w ­ ere separated, in the ideals that governed their lives, from the Spanish Jewish masses.” He thus assumes (ibid., 398) the development of an in­de­ pen­dent Jewish courtly culture, an assumption that Decter contests. 4. See chapter 1, pages 29–31. 5. See Menocal, The Ornament of the World, 79–90. On his military position, see Stroumsa, “Single-­Source Rec­ords,” 219–22. 6. See Wasserstein, “A ­Family Story,” 504–5; Beech, The Brief Eminence and Doomed Fall of Islamic Saragossa, 77–78; Stroumsa, “Between Acculturation and Conversion,” 20–29; cf. Wasserstein, “Jewish Élites,” 109; and see Vardi, “Some Notes on the Life of Joseph Ibn Ḥasday,” 297–301.

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see, for example, in the case of the ninth-­century Qūmis ibn Antunyān, a Christian convert who attained a prestigious position at court in Cordoba but whose conversion did not suffice to protect him when his rivals questioned his po­liti­cal loyalty.7 Yet Jewish intellectuals, phi­los­o­phers as well as poets, played a central role in the Jewish community, often taking leadership positions, alongside the active participation of many of them in the Muslim courts. Their connections to the Muslim courts w ­ ere thought to be an integral part of their task as community leaders: only as courtier did [the Jewish nobleman] have the opportunity to stand guard over, and influence the fate of, his p ­ eople. . . . ​Jewish power and Jewish influence in the highest echelons of state w ­ ere vital to his safety, to the safety of his friends and of the Jews at large.8

The total de­pen­dency of a non-­Muslim on the ruler’s benificence was, from the point of view of the Muslim ruler, a strong incentive to employ a Jew or a Christian.9 Jews and Christians ­were less likely than their Muslim counter­parts to become enmeshed in court intrigues, and the ruler could thus rely on their loyalty.10 To be sure, rulers also employed many Muslim intellectuals, as attested in the biographies of the three most prominent Muslim phi­los­o­phers of al-­Andalus: Ibn Bājja, Ibn Ṭufayl, and Ibn Rushd. Abū Bakr ibn al-­Ṣāʾigh Ibn Bājja (d. 533/1139, Avempace to the Latin scholastics) prob­ably started his po­liti­cal c­ areer in Saragossa, at the court of al-­Mustaʿīn II Ibn Hūd.11 He was then appointed vizier to the Almoravid governor of the city, Ibn al-­T īflwīt (d. 509/1116), who sent him on a diplomatic mission to the deposed ʿImād al-­Dawla Ibn Hūd, a mission that landed Ibn Bājja in prison for a few months. A ­ fter the 7. On Qūmis (or Qaumis) ibn Antunyān, kātib to Muḥammad I, see Ibn al-­Qūṭiyya, Taʾrīkh, 67–69; al-­Khushanī, Historia, 159–64; Lévi-­Provençal, Histoire, 1:289–91; Coope, The Martyrs of Córdoba, 88; Wolf, Christian Martyrs, 14, 87; Fierro, ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III, 23; Stroumsa, “Between Acculturation and Conversion,” 29–30. 8. Cohen, introduction to Ibn Daud, The Book of Tradition, xx. 9. See Wasserstein, “A F ­ amily Story,” 504–5. In specific cases, the vulnerability of a dhimmī courtier was deemed expedient also b ­ ecause of the ruler’s own vulnerability. One might think, for example, of when a Berber ruler needed a scribe fluent in Arabic but did not trust his Arab subjects, or when a ruler had good reasons to distrust all the Muslim factions around his court; on this, see Wasserstein, “Samuel Ibn Naghrīla ha-­Nagīd,” 119; Stroumsa, “Single-­Source Rec­ords,” 220 and note 8. 10. See Reilly, Medieval Spains, 71. 11. Puig Montada, “Ibn Bājja.”

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Christian conquest of Saragossa (in 511/1118), we find Ibn Bājja in Játiva, in yet another Almoravid court (that of Ibrāhīm b. Yūsuf Ibn Tāshufīn, aka Ibn Tāʿyāsht) and soon thereafter, in yet another prison. He also served as vizier to Yaḥyā b. Yūsuf Ibn Tāshufīn in North Africa, in Fez, where he died, supposedly by poisoning. Ibn Bājja’s tumultuous po­liti­ cal ­career may account for the somewhat haughty remark of Ibn Ṭufayl (d. 581/1185–86), who says about him that “his attention was diverted by worldly preoccupations.”12 Ibn Ṭufayl himself was just as involved in this kind of worldly preoccupation. He served loyally at the court of the Almohads, and it is prob­ably through his intervention that Ibn Rushd came to serve in the same court. Averroes was court physician in Marrakesh and then chief Qāḍī in Cordoba ­under the Almohad caliph Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf. But in 591/1195, during the rule of Yaʿqūb al-­Manṣūr, his library was confiscated, and he was exiled to Lucena—­which may have been chosen as a particularly humiliating destination ­because of its predominantly Jewish population.

Poets Poets and poetry are often presented as the most obvious manifestation of this intercommunal courtly culture. Jewish literati in al-­Andalus ­were typically well versed in both religious and secular Arabic poetry. The Hebrew poems they composed closely followed patterns of Arabic poetry, and it is sometimes pos­si­ble to identify the very Arabic poem that served as the model for a Hebrew poem.13 Many of ­these Jewish literati ­were able to compose verses in Arabic as well as in Hebrew.14 This was an integral part of the refined education given to the sons of the Jewish aristocracy, and sometimes also to their d ­ aughters.15 Nevertheless, 12. Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān, 111–12: “innahu shaghilathu al-­dunyā.” 13. Thus, for example, the Hebrew poem by the phi­los­o­pher Joseph Ibn Ṣaddiq (d. 1149), patterned ­after an Arabic poem by his older Muslim con­temporary from Tudela, Abūʾl-­ʿAbbās al-­Aʿmā (d. 1126); see Semah, “Quantity and Syllabic Parity”; idem, “Two Hebrew Strophic Poems,” 611, 614. See also Scheindlin, “Ibn Gabirol’s Religious Poetry and Sufi Poetry,” 127–28. 14. On the phenomenon of diglossia, see, for instance, Izreʾel and Drory, Language and Culture in the Near East; and see also Elaine Miller, Jewish Multiglossia. 15. Ashtor, The Jews of Moslem Spain, 3:95; Decter, Dominion Built of Praise, 13–15. The duet of Arabic verses, which Qasmūna, Samuel ha-­Nagid’s d ­ aughter, holds with her ­father, is our only testimony of a Jewish ­woman composing Arabic poetry: see Nichols, “The Arabic Verses of Qasmūna”; Bellamy, “Qasmūna the Poetess”; Wasserstein, “Samuel

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the vast corpus of Jewish poetry from al-­Andalus is almost entirely in Hebrew.16 For Goitein, “the Hebrew poetry created in Muslim countries, particularly in Spain,” is “the most perfect expression of Jewish-­Arab symbiosis.”17 It is therefore worth noting that poetry in this period, in al-­Andalus as elsewhere, remained in some ways highly sectarian and closely identified with the religious community from which it sprang. For the Muslims, poetry was the trea­sury of their cultural history, closely connected to the Arab (and then Muslim) narrative. The poetry—­both secular and religious—of Andalusian Jews developed ­under the imposing influence of Arabic poetry. But most of it was written in Hebrew, and thus remained tied to the conventions of Hebrew poetry, preserving and developing Jewish religious poetic genres like the piyyuṭ.18 Even when Jews occasionally composed poetry in Arabic, they remained foreign to the idealized Arab identity praised by Muslim poets. Jewish poets ­were, of course, well aware of the differences between the two poetic cultures. In a short poem portraying the specific poetic genres typical of vari­ous nations, Abraham Ibn Ezra pre­sents love songs as the specialty of the Arabs, whereas liturgical poetry, he says, is typical of the Jews. Notwithstanding the polemical self-­aggrandizement of this poem, it also reflects Ibn Ezra’s perception of what kind of poetry is expected in dif­fer­ent social contexts.19 Moses Ibn Ezra is another compelling example of the tension between admiration of Arabic poetic culture and a sense of not quite belonging to it. On the one hand, he rehearses an Arabic literary motif that attributes inborn poetic talents to the Arabs; on the other, he strug­gles, somewhat

Ibn Naghrīla,” 120–22; Gorgoni, “Qasmūna bint Isma’il.” But in view of similar evidence concerning Muslim ­women of the higher class, it is quite pos­si­ble that this was not a unique case among Jews; see Marín, Mujeres en al-­Andalus, 643–44. The farewell Hebrew poem by Dunash ben Labrat’s wife, also a unique example of its kind by a Jewish w ­ oman, suggests that poetic education for girls of the Jewish aristocracy was not ­limited to playful, competitive Arabic verses, and that it included a high level of the scholarly language, Hebrew; see Cole, The Dream of the Poem, 27; and cf. Ashtor, The Jews of Moslem Spain, 3:93. 16. See Drory, Models and Contacts, 173–77. 17. Goitein, Jews and Arabs, 155 (italics in the original). See also Ben-­Sasson, “Al-­ Andalus,” 127, 129. 18. We have, for example, no courtly poems in Arabic by Samuel ha-­Nagid, who is famous for his exceptional command of Arabic style. No Arabic panegyric by Jews is attested from the Andalusī period; see Decter, Dominion Built of Praise, 14. When Moses Ibn Ezra cites Arabic poems, they are always of Eastern origin, never from al-­Andalus. I am indebted to Jonathan Decter for ­these observations. 19. See Schirmann, Hebrew Poetry, 2:575, poem no. 255.

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defensively, to extol the eloquence of the ­people of Tiberias and of the ancient Jerusalemites.20

Phi­los­o­phers In contrast to this semisegregated poetic culture, phi­los­o­phers in al-­ Andalus truly shared a common philosophical tradition.21 Jews and Muslims alike read scientific and philosophical works translated from Greek into Arabic, as well as books by e­ arlier Muslim and Christian thinkers. Moreover, the main language of philosophical expression for Jews was Arabic.22 Being a small minority within their respective religious communities, and sharing the same education, interests, concerns, and ideals, phi­los­o­phers constituted, in some ways, a subculture of their own. While they lived fully within their own religious community and adhered to the bound­aries between it and other religious groups, they ­were acutely aware of the commonality of philosophy. The Aristotelian phi­los­op ­ hers, in par­tic­u­lar, stand out in this regard. The position of phi­los­op ­ hers like Maimonides and Averroes vis-­à-­vis the ancient philosophical legacy, their understanding of the philosophical quest, and their way of negotiating their place as phi­los­o­phers in society at large w ­ ere one and the same. In their view, religion (any religion, including their own) presented truth in a way suitable for the multitudes, and therefore it necessarily mingled truth with other ele­ments, dictated by pedagogical and po­liti­cal considerations.23 The uttermost truth was to be found in the realm of philosophy, and could thus be reached only by a small elite. For them, the affinity between true phi­los­o­phers could sometimes override differences of religious affiliations. As Goitein suggested, poetry can indeed be seen as emblematic of the symbiosis of cultures in al-­ Andalus. But the level of integration of scientists and phi­los­o­phers within 20. Ibn ʿEzra, Muḥāḍara, 30–34, 50–51, 60; and see Aloni, “The Reaction of Moses Ibn Ezra to ʿArabiyya.” 21. On Arabic phi­los­o­phers as a primary example for the multireligious nature of the early Islamic world, despite their small number, see also Fowden, Before and a ­ fter Muḥammad, 3–4. 22. Ibn Daud’s Hebrew Book of Tradition lists the leaders of the Jewish community in Andalus, about several of whom he says, “and he was versed in Greek knowledge” (which Cohen translates as “secular knowledge” or “secular learning”). T ­ hese include Isaac b. Ghiyyāth (Book of Tradition, 81), Isaac Ibn al-­Bālia (ibid., 80) and his son Baruch (ibid., 87), Moses Ibn Ezra (ibid., 102), and Samuel ha-­Nagid Ibn al-­Naghrīla (ibid., 72). 23. See Stroumsa, “Comparison as Multifocal Approach,” 135–38.

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the broader Islamicate culture often surpassed what is usually described as “symbiosis.” Jewish dhimmī phi­los­o­phers who lived a symbiotic existence during most of the day, and who might have felt oppressed or persecuted, could retire at times to the philosophical corner. ­There, they felt, and ­were temporarily treated as, equal to the Muslim members of the same minority group: the philosophical minority.24 Of course, some of the most prominent Jewish figures in this period ­were outstanding poets as well as phi­los­o­phers, and their poems expressed their philosophical ideas. Salomon Ibn Gabirol, for example, wrote a major philosophical opus, The Source of Life, the original Arabic of which is not extant. Judging from the remaining Hebrew and Arabic excerpts, as well as from its fully preserved Latin translation (the Fons Vitae), this work was squarely transcribed in the Neoplatonic tradition, and had nothing to mark it as Jewish (a fact that may have contributed to its elevated status in medieval Christian Eu­rope). Ibn Gabirol, however, was also a prolific Hebrew-­language poet, writing both secular and religious poems. His poetry, a remarkable corpus of its kind, includes a long Hebrew philosophical poem, “The Royal Crown.”25 Another speculative thinker cum poet, Judah Halevi, wrote Hebrew poetry that frequently pre­sents, in poetic garb, the very theological ideas developed in his Arabic Kuzari.26 Isaac Ibn Ghiyyāth (d. 1089), head of the Talmudic Acad­emy of Lucena and known for his poetry, composed a philosophical commentary on Ecclesiastes (Kitāb al-­Zuhd).27 His disciple Moses Ibn Ezra also composed poetry in Hebrew, while his literary works in Arabic include philosophy as well as adab.28 Although no Muslim phi­los­o­pher is known principally as a poet, some phi­los­o­phers also occasionally composed poetry. One may mention h ­ ere the verses attributed to Ibn Masarra, or the poem attributed to Ibn Bājja, imitated by Muslims as well as by Jews.29 Phi­los­o­phers like al-­Baṭalyawsī or Ibn Bājja w ­ ere also known as littérateurs who excelled in the domain of

24. See Stroumsa, “The Literary Genizot.” 25. See Schlanger, La philosophie de Salomon Ibn Gabirol, 18–20; Tanenbaum, The Contemplative Soul, 57–105. 26. See Tanenbaum, The Contemplative Soul, 174–94. 27. See Abramson, “On Isaac Ibn Ghayyat’s Commentary”; Mittelman, “A Commentary on Ecclesiastes.” 28. See Drory, Models and Contacts, 210–15; Eliyahu, “Muslim and Jewish Philosophy in al-­Andalus.” 29. See Stroumsa, “Ibn Masarra’s Third Book,” 88–89; Samuel Stern, “Studies on Ibn Quzmān.” 398.

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poetry and adab, and this, too, found its expression in their involvement at the court.30 Nevertheless (and especially regarding the so-­called Aristotelian phi­ los­o­phers, such as Averroes or Maimonides), one notes a distinct difference between the po­liti­cal commitment of the two social and cultural milieus—­that is, of poets and phi­los­o­phers. Poets, both Jewish and Muslim, sometimes used their pens not only to express their own individual emotions but also to voice communal aspirations. They did this for dif­ fer­ent reasons: as a continuation of an age-­old tradition, in response to solicitation, and as a way to earn a living. But their po­liti­cal engagement was a personal choice. For the phi­los­o­phers, by contrast, the philosophical, mainly Platonic ethos demanded that they involve themselves in the construction of a perfect state. We see this ethos in action in the high positions many of the phi­los­ o­phers, both Jewish and Muslim, occupied in the royal courts. To be sure, phi­los­o­phers, like poets, w ­ ere expected to put their talents at the ser­vice of the ruler, who, if pleased, would grant them material rewards. In addition to this social convention, however, the philosophical tradition required that phi­los­o­phers make an effort to influence the life of the polity. The attempt to gain influence had, however, its clear limits: despite their intensive involvement in m ­ atters of state and their high position at court, and notwithstanding their Platonic ideal that the king should be a phi­los­o­pher, none of t­ hese Muslim phi­los­o­phers seem to have aspired to replace the sovereign or w ­ ere suspected of harboring such aspirations. They served loyally in their role as courtiers.31 Thus, philosophy remained marginal to the courts of the medieval Islamicate world.32 The history of individual phi­los­op ­ hers, by contrast, often revolves around the court of Muslim magnates, and their biography is tightly tied to the politics of their time. Phi­los­o­phers, like other intellectuals, ­were talented and educated p ­ eople whom rulers, in al-­Andalus as elsewhere, ­were happy to employ. The phi­los­o­phers, on their part, needed the sinecure, and ­were also ­eager to be involved in affairs of state, contributing, so they hoped, to the shaping of a better polity. At the same time, 30. Genequand’s statement (in his introduction to Ibn Bāǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 5) that Ibn Bājja’s taste for poetry and more broadly for traditional Arabic adab distinguishes him from the other falāsifa, applies in al-­Andalus only if we understand falāsifa in the narrowest sense: Muslim Aristotelian philosophy in the second half of the twelfth c­ entury. 31. See Stroumsa, “Philosopher-­King.” 32. Puig Montada, “Ibn Bājja”: “philosophy was never central to the Islamic intellectual constellation and . . . ​it flourished in peripheral areas, geo­graph­i­cal as well as doctrinal.”

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t­ hese phi­los­o­phers, Jews as well as Muslims, w ­ ere plainly aware of the shortcomings of their socie­ties. They seem to have been painfully conscious of the fact that con­temporary regimes, including ­those they ­were serving, w ­ ere a far cry from Plato’s virtuous city.33 In such a city, f­ ree of illness and crime, physicians and judges would be superfluous—­yet ­these ­were precisely the positions held by many of the phi­los­o­phers.

The Philosophical Curriculum In Late Antiquity, a structured curriculum guided the advancement of students aspiring to become phi­los­o­phers. In Alexandria, for instance, the cursus represented a strict scholastic path that trained the students in the philosophical method, introducing them gradually, through readings in the books of the old masters, to more abstract philosophical ­matters.34 Allowing for some variation, mathe­matics, m ­ usic, and logic w ­ ere taught first, advancing from ­simple logic to more intricate syllogistic expressions, up to the end of Aristotle’s Organon, which came to include also the Poetics and Rhe­toric. Students ­were then introduced to astronomy, physics, and natu­ral philosophy, while only the more advanced students ­were allowed to study metaphysics. Arab phi­los­o­phers inherited the Late Antique Alexandrian curriculum of studies, and they unanimously and unquestioningly accepted its pedagogic wisdom.35 Students of philosophy in the early Islamicate world w ­ ere also expected to move gradually from one subject to the other, following a strict and structured curriculum, with a thorough study of logic at the early stages. In his entry on al-­Fārābī, for example, Ibn al-­Qifṭī tells us that in his book on the intentions of Plato and Aristotle, al-­Fārābī “discovered the secrets of the sciences . . . ​one science ­after the other; and he explained the way of gradually advancing [tadarruj] from one science to the other, step by step.”36 The terms “gradual advance” (tadarruj or bi-­tadrīj) and “ranks” or 33. See also chapter 5, pages 143–44. 34. See, for example, Hadot, “Les introductions,” 100–106; Alwishah and Hayes, Aristotle and the Arabic Tradition, 2. 35. On the role of al-­Fārābī in establishing the tradition of “correct thinking,” see Reisman, “Al-­Fārābī and the Philosophical Curriculum”; and see also d’Ancona, “ ‘Aristu ʿinda l-­ʿArab,’ ” 25–26, 28; Watt, “Why Did Ḥunain,” 371; idem, “The Syriac Translations,” 475. On its practice in al-­Andalus, see Abbès, “The Andalusian Philosophical Milieu,” 770–71. 36. “Wa-­bayyana kayfa al-­tadarruj min baʿḍihā ilā baʿḍin, shayʾan shayʾan” (Ibn al-­ Qifṭī, Taʾrīkh al-­ḥukamāʾ, 278). Ibn al-Qifṭī is prob­ably referring to On the Harmony of the Two Phi­los­o­phers; see Martini Bonadeo, Al-­Fārābī, l’armonía, 44; and see Rashed, “On the Authorship of the Treatise On the Harmonization.” In the pre­sent context, Ibn al-­Qifṭī’s

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“grades” (marātib) (i.e., the ranks through which one advances) became the shibboleth marking the phi­los­o­phers’ pedagogical ethos.37 It also seems that in their view, the hierarchical structure of learning was mirrored in the hierarchical pro­cess of intellection.38 The Andalusian Aristotelian school a­ dopted this rigid curriculum, which started with logic and led gradually to metaphysics. A rigorous adherence to this curriculum is evident in the writings of many Andalusian authors. Thus, we find Ṣāʿid Ibn Ṣāʿid describing, in the entry on the philosophy of the Jews in his Chronology of Nations (Ṭabaqāt al-­umam), the scholarly achievements of his young Jewish fellow-­Saragossan, Abūʾl-­ Faḍl Ḥasdāy ibn Yūsuf ibn Ḥasdāy. Ibn Ṣāʿid describes Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy as the scion of a noble Andalusian Jewish f­ amily, claiming descent from the prophet Moses.39 Ibn Ṣāʿid reports that Abūʾl-­Faḍl approached the sciences according to their order [ʿalā marātibihā] and acquired scientific disciplines in accordance with their proper methods [ʿalā ṭuruqihā]. He had a perfect knowledge of Arabic, and acquired good knowledge of [Arabic] poetry and rhe­toric. He excelled in arithmetic, geometry and astronomy. He was a connoisseur of ­music and was equipped to practice it. He had a thorough knowledge of logic . . . ​then moved on to physics and studied Aristotle’s Physics ­until he mastered it. He next studied Aristotle’s On the Heavens, and when I left him in 458[/1065], he was engaged in its most complex topics. If he continues to be well and to pursue his interest, he w ­ ill surely attain perfect knowledge of philosophy.40

pre­sen­ta­tion of this model of the course of study remains relevant, regardless of the book’s authorship. 37. See Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 72–73, and see further below. 38. See Altmann, “Ibn Bājja on Man’s Ultimate Felicity,” 55–56. 39. If, as I think is probable, Abūʾl-­Faḍl was a descendant of the above-­mentioned Ḥasdāy Ibn Shaprūṭ, Ibn Ṣāʿid’s omission of the closer, Andalusian august ancestry is somewhat surprising. As pointed out by Jonathan Vardi, one would expect the ­family name to be Ibn Shaprūṭ, and its absence calls into question the ­family connection between ­these individuals. One should note, though, that Ibn Ṣāʿid does not call the Cordoban statesman “Ibn Shaprūṭ,” and refers to him only by his patronym Ibn Isḥāq; it is the successive patronyms that allow us to establish the f­ amily connection with some degree of verisimilitude; see Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 205. On Abū al-­Faḍl, see also Ashtor, The Jews of Moslem Spain, 3:217–24; Vardi, “Some Notes on the Life of Joseph Ibn Ḥasday,” 293–96; and see chapter 3, note 6. 40. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 205–6; cf. Wasserstein’s translation, “The Muslims and the Golden Age of the Jews,” 191; Balty-­Guesdon, “Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 337; López y López, “Ibn Ḥasdāy, Abū l-­Faḍl”; and Abbès, “The Andalusian Philosophical

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­ hese lines exhibit crystal-­clear commitment to the traditional curricuT lum. In all likelihood, students did not read alone, but ­under the guidance of a teacher.41 For the members of the philosophical circle, this curriculum was carved in stone; a serious student would not dream of taking shortcuts, and as long as he had not completed the curriculum, up to and including metaphysics, he was not considered a true phi­los­o­pher. By the time Ibn Ṣāʿid left Saragossa, Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy was studying Aristotle’s Physics, having completed the study of On the Heavens, ­after he had achieved (at what must have been a still younger age) “a thorough knowledge of logic.”42 As noted by Miquel Forcada, it is hard to see Ibn Ḥasdāy’s training as an exception rather than the rule. It seems to have been an example of a system that was relatively common among the minority (quite a large minority in Saragossa) of the followers of the sciences of the ancients.43

A generation or two ­later, the Muslim phi­los­op ­ her Ibn Bājja wrote a letter to the Jewish scholar Abū Jaʿfar Yūsuf ibn Aḥmad ibn Ḥasdāy (prob­ably Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy’s grand­son) in which he specified the order he himself had followed in studying Aristotle’s works. Predictably, this order parallels the one adhered to by the grand­father of his addressee.44 A patently similar pedagogical approach appears in Maimonides’s dedicatory letter to the Guide. Maimonides reminds his disciple, Joseph Ibn Shimʿon (d. 1226), how he (Maimonides) had examined Joseph’s knowledge when they first met, ascertaining that Joseph had learned logic, mathe­matics, and astronomy before introducing him to the secrets of physics and metaphysics. Maimonides recalls how he continuously dissuaded Joseph from rushing forward in his studies, “enjoining upon you to approach ­matters in an orderly manner [ʿalā tartīb].” The reason for this caution, says Maimonides, was his wish that “the truth s­ hall be established in your mind according to its proper methods [an yaqaʿa

Milieu,” 765–66. This young man must have made a g ­ reat impression on Ibn Ṣāʿid, who returns to him in two other places in his Ṭabaqāt; see chapter 4, page 107, notes 22–23. 41. See Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 69–70. As rightly stressed by Wirmer (ibid., 69), this is a planned curriculum. See Stroumsa, “On Maimonides and on Logic.” 42. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 205. 43. Forcada, “Ibn Bājja and the Classification of the Sciences,” 295. 44. Ibn Bājja, Rasāʾil, 77–87; Forcada, “Ibn Bājja and the Classification of the Sciences,” 296; López y López, “Ibn Ḥasdāy, Abū Ŷaʿfar.” The importance of tartīb is marked also in Ibn Bājja’s Regimen of the Solitary, where the very notion of regimen (tadbīr) is defined as tartīb afʿāl naḥwa ghāya maqṣūda. See Ibn Bāǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 120.

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laka al-­ḥaqq bi-­ṭuruqihi], and that certainty should not come to you by accident.”45 In the Guide itself, Maimonides returns to the order of study as the proper frame for the training of the mind (irtiyāḍ or riyāḍat al-­dhihn): Whoever wishes to achieve h ­ uman perfection must necessarily train himself at first in the art of logic, then in the mathematical sciences according to the proper order [ʿalā tartīb], then in the natu­ral sciences, and ­after that in the divine sciences.46

Maimonides’s framework resembles that used in Toledo by the Muslim Ibn Ṣāʿid and, a ­century ­later, by the Saragossan Ibn Bājja. This terminological similitude attests to the ubiquity of the epistemological convention, which insists on the proper methods (ṭuruq) for the study of philosophy and the sciences as well as on the hierarchical structure (tartīb, marātib) of studying them.47 The same fixed philosophical curriculum seems to have been followed by Marc of Toledo in the twelfth ­century, and it was still maintained by Jews studying Arabic philosophy in the Iberian peninsula centuries ­after its disappearance from al-­Andalus.48 The hierarchical syllabus did not mean that a discipline, once mastered, was abandoned, but rather that it was integrated into the next stage of studying, with constant cross-references between the disciplines, as masterfully exemplified in Averroes’s commentaries.49 This hierarchical system of study conveys a conviction regarding the inherent order and hierarchy of the disciplines themselves,50 but its application is above all pedagogical; it was meant to sift out, at each stage, students who had reached the limits of their intellectual aptitude.51 The 45. Guide, Dedicatory Letter (Dalāla, 1; Pines, 4). 46. Guide, 1.34 (Dalāla, 50, lines 18, 23–25; cf. Pines, 74–75). 47. The correct order of teaching and study (taʿlīm aw taʿallum ʿalā tartīb) is also mentioned in Maimonides, Maqāla f ī ṣināʿat al-­manṭiq, chapter 14; see Brague, Maïmonide, Traité de logique, 32. Moses Ibn ʿEzra (Muḥādara, 48) says that Saadya had mentioned that the awliyāʾ used to discuss the sciences (al-­funūn) ʿalā tartībihā. 48. See d’Alverny and Vajda, “Marc de Tolède,” 106; Sirat, “3 Studia of Philosophy as Scribal Centers,” 4; Sirat and Geoffroy, L’original arabe, 74. 49. Endress, “Averroes’ De Caelo,” 18. 50. Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 73. 51. Naturally, a structured, graded system of learning is not a unique property of the Aristotelian phi­los­o­phers, but rather of all elitist intellectuals. See, for instance, the description of the curriculum of science according to Maslama al-­Qurṭubī in Rutbat al-­ ḥakīm; de Callataÿ, “Magia en al-­Andalus,” 321–22, where the students are held back from rushing to the elevated occult sciences, and required to study first mathe­matics, logic, and the natu­ral sciences.

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system assumed a pyramidal structure of the intellectual elite, at the top of which stood only a tiny group of p ­ eople deserving to be called phi­los­ o­phers. This is spelled out explic­itly by Maimonides, who distinguishes between the “many ­people whose mind stops short at one of ­these sciences” and “the few solitary individuals that are the remnant whom the Lord calls.”52 How small this elite group must indeed have been can be gauged from a wry remark in a con­temporary book on business administration. Abūʾl-­ Faḍl al-­Dimashqī (fl. 570/1175) warns his readers from investing in “the books of philosophy, in which only phi­los­o­phers and learned men are interested. Most of them are poor, and besides, they are few in number.”53

The Solitude of the Engaged Phi­los­o­pher Along with the medieval phi­los­o­phers’ assiduous involvement in court, their writings exhibit a strong pessimistic streak regarding ­human nature and h ­ uman rulers, and a deeply ingrained feeling of alienation from the society in which they lived. This holds true across the Islamicate world, and the Andalusian phi­los­o­phers are no exception.54 Pursuing a theme that is already pre­sent in Plato and developed by the tenth-­century phi­ los­o­pher Abū Naṣr al-­Fārābī, Andalusian phi­los­o­phers perceive themselves as strangers in their own society, h ­ umans among wild beasts. Using another, quite dif­fer­ent meta­phor, they compare themselves to the shy, undesired herb that grows unattended among the wheat.55 Emblematic in this re­spect is the title of Ibn Bājja’s book: The Regimen of the Solitary 52. “Al-­āḥād wa-­hum ha-­seridim asher Adonai qore”; Guide, 1.34 (Dalāla, 50, lines 26–51; Pines, 75). Note the combination in this sentence of an Arabic term common in ḥadīth criticism (al-­āḥād) with the Hebrew Biblical verse (Joel 3:5). 53. Al-­Dimashqī, Kitāb al-­ishāra, 6; cf. Constable, Trade and Traders in Muslim Spain, 194–95. In this context, what the Jew Ibn Abī Saʿīd b. ʿUthmān says in a letter to the Christian phi­los­o­pher Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī seems to be more than a mere introductory formula, and sounds rather like a firsthand observation of the situation in the Islamic East: “­today, scholars . . . ​—­I mean, ­those who can discuss and examine lofty t­ hings that pertain to philosophical sciences—­are very few, especially in our country” (al-­ʿulamāʾ f ī zamāninā hādha . . . ​ qalīlīn jiddan, wa-­khāṣṣatan f ī baladinā, aʿnī mi-­mman yufāwiḍu wa-­yubāḥithu f ī ashyāʾ jalīla min ʿulūm al-­falsafa). See Furlani, “Le ‘questioni filosofiche,’ ” 158; Pines, “A Tenth-­Century Philosophical Correspondence”; Khalīfāt, Yaḥyā Ibn ʿAdī, 314. 54. Stroumsa, “Philosopher-­King,” 434. 55. See Fierro, “Revolution and Tradition,” 11–12 (“the phi­los­o­phers as ghurabāʾ ”). Fierro regards this perception as typical of al-­Andalus, affecting Sufis and phi­los­o­phers as well as ʿulamāʾ; see also Fierro, “Spiritual Alienation”; eadem, “Revolución y tradición,” 143–44, suggesting a lost book by Ibn Bājja, where he discussed how the nawābit can be the cause for the initiation of a perfect state.

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(Tadbīr al-­mutawaḥḥid), but this solitary streak is also evident in the writings of other Andalusian phi­los­o­phers, both Jews and Muslims.56 We thus find Maimonides instructing the perfect man, ­whether ruler or recluse: He should rather regard all p ­ eople according to their vari­ous states with re­spect to which they are indubitably ­either like domestic animals or like beasts of prey. If the perfect man, who lives in solitude, thinks of them at all, he does so only with a view to saving himself from the harm that may be caused by t­ hose among them who are harmful if he happens to associate with them, or to obtaining an advantage that may be obtained from them if he is forced to it by some of his needs.57

Maimonides’s own experience of the consequences of contradicting the vox populi can be guessed from his description of the patriarch Abraham, a model figure for Maimonides in more than one way: I have no doubt [lā shakk ʿindī] that in view of the fact that he, may peace be upon him, disagreed with the doctrine of all men, ­these erring men reviled, blamed and belittled him.58

In his seminal essay Persecution and the Art of Writing, Leo Strauss argued that medieval phi­los­o­phers such as al-­Fārābī and Maimonides, living in a hostile society, took recourse in an esoteric way of writing that would be apparent to their fellow phi­los­op ­ hers without arousing the suspicion of the po­liti­cal authorities, the religious orthodoxy, or the uninitiated. Contrary to Strauss’s analy­sis, however, persecution does not seem to have been primarily the prob­lem of the Andalusian Aristotelian phi­los­o­phers. It was mainly t­ hose suspected of bāṭinī inclinations who w ­ ere targeted by the authorities. As we w ­ ill see in the last chapter of this book, using the art of writing wisely, philosophers usually managed to remain on good terms with the authorities, or at least, w ­ ere not worse off than non­ phi­los­op ­ hers in the same position. But their elitist education, their image of what an ideal society should be, and their high expectations regarding the role they o ­ ught to play in the affairs of the state combined to create a sure r­ ecipe for frustration, alienation, and an ever-­present sentiment of loneliness. The solitude of the engaged phi­los­o­pher, which may sound like an oxymoron, indeed represents a paradox, but it is a paradox inherent 56. For further discussions of nawābit, see al-­Qāḍī, “The Earliest nābita”; Steven Harvey, “The Place of the Phi­los­o­pher,” esp. 223. 57. Guide, 2.36 (Dalāla, 262; Pines, 371–72). 58. Guide, 3.29 (Dalāla, 375:14–15; Pines, 515). See also Stroumsa, “The ­Father of Many Nations,” 33–38; and chapter 1, page 55.

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to the phi­los­o­phers’ elitist po­liti­cal philosophy and to the irreconcilable tension between the phi­los­o­phers’ sense of civic duty and their reflexive, contemplative ethos.59

Philosophical Friendships The sense that phi­los­o­phers had in al-­Andalus, as everywhere ­else, of constituting a minuscule minority in society must have fostered their perception of their beleaguered loneliness. But phi­los­o­phers knew how to reach out to other phi­los­o­phers, often overstepping the borders that separated religious communities. They needed each other for intellectual stimulation, and they needed each other’s books. The above-mentioned commercial value of such volumes but also censorship made ­these books rare. One example of the phi­los­op ­ hers’ book network is provided by the Jewish phi­los­op ­ her and historian Abraham Ibn Daud (d. 1180). Ibn Daud tells us about his ­great ­uncle, the Cordoban Isaac Ibn al-­Balia, who was the court astrologer of al-­Muʿtamad of Seville. According to Ibn Daud, the Jewish statesman Samuel ha-­Nagid “was fond of Isaac ever since the latter’s youth and would send him books and [other] gifts, urging him strongly to pursue his studies diligently.” ­After Samuel ha-­Nagid’s death, his son Yehoseph ha-­Nagid continued to provide patronage to Ibn al-­Balia, but it was the f­ ather’s fondness for the young Ibn al-­Balia that gave him the headstart in books, in moral support, and in mentorship. In 1066, Ibn al-­Balia survived the massacre of Jews during the Muslim riots in Granada, in which his patron Yehoseph ha-­Nagid was killed. In l­ ater years, Isaac Ibn al-­Balia amassed a ­great fortune, which he used in order to acquire a huge library, recuperating also many books from the library of his late mentor Samuel ha-­Nagid, which had been scattered ­after the riots.60 Beyond the hunt for books, phi­los­o­phers also sought out kindred souls with whom they could discuss philosophical concerns. ­These they frequently found in a coreligionist disciple. Close relationships between phi­los­o­phers belonging to dif­fer­ent religious communities ­were less openly discussed than ­those between phi­los­op ­ hers belonging to the same religious community, and are therefore much harder to trace. The exceptional examples of clear testimony to this effect are therefore all the more 59. See also Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 49. 60. Ibn Daud, Book of Tradition, 79–80; and see Wasserstein, “A F ­ amily Story,” 499. On ­these riots, see also García-­Sanjuán, “Violencia contra los judíos.” On Ibn Daud, see Fontaine, “Abraham Ibn Daud”; and see further chapter 5. On Samuel ha-­Nagid’s library, see chapter 1, note 11.

In tellectua l Elites [ 97 ]

valuable. For Ibn Ṣāʿid, for example, the Jewish phi­los­o­phers and scientists, as phi­los­o­phers and scientists, w ­ ere his respected colleagues—so much so that they keep popping up throughout his book, not only in the section he devotes to them as Jews. Thus, the story of solitude within society is also the story of steadfast individual friendships that defied distance, po­liti­cal upheavals, age differences, and religious borders. We read of an emblematic literary example of such a friendship in Ibn Ṭufayl’s philosophical fable Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān. The protagonist of the fable, the recluse Ḥayy, had attained philosophical and mystical truth while growing up in complete isolation on a desert island. On a neighboring island, the sovereign’s minister Absāl had reached the same truth. A ­ fter fate brought them together, Ḥayy and Absāl attempted, in vain, to build a society in light of their knowledge. Ibn Ṭufayl’s fable, which was translated from Arabic into Latin by Edward Pococke in 1671, and then from the Latin version into En­glish by George Ashwell in 1686, may have been one of the sources of inspiration for Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (published in 1719). One should note, however, that unlike Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday, Ḥayy and Absāl are presented as equals. Moreover, again unlike Defoe’s story, which ends with the return to civilization, Ibn Ṭufayl’s fable ends with the two friends withdrawing from society and returning to Ḥayy’s island to share their contemplative solitude.61 The biographies of Andalusian phi­los­op ­ hers contain some real-­life examples of such philosophical friendships. Ibn Daud, for instance, recounts the affection between his u ­ ncle, Baruch Ibn al-­Balia, and the “wise and generous”62 Meir Ibn Megash. ­These two, says Ibn Daud, “loved each other as their own souls.” Ibn Daud further depicts the wider context of connections between t­ hese two members of the Jewish intellectual elite: a network of patronage, teaching, mutual help, and, of course, debate. As he elaborates on the practical sides of this network, the wording he chooses to describe their friendship stands out in its ­simple emotion, bespeaking the warmth of their attachment.63 For Moses Maimonides, a true friend was, first and foremost, an intellectual companion, and the cultivation of such relations was a religious commandment. Commenting on the Mishna in Sanhedrin: “and you 61. See Ibn Ṭufayl, Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān; and see the articles assembled in Conrad, The World of Ibn Ṭufayl. 62. “Ḥakham u-­meʾir panīm”; cf. Cohen, Book of Tradition, 85/63, who translates: “learned and influential.” 63. Ibn Daud, Book of Tradition, 86–87/64–65.

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should acquire a friend,” he lists three kinds of friendships: profitable friendships, as between business partners;64 pleas­ur­able friendships, as between men and ­women, or between trusted companions; and virtuous friendships, where the friends—­such as teacher and student—­encourage each other to achieve a common goal.65 Scholarship and intellectual pursuit was the suitable arena for true friendships (and the context leaves no doubt that, for Maimonides, such friends would be male). In the l­egal context of his Commentary on the Mishna, Maimonides speaks in wholly positive terms about the goal of such lofty camaraderie. But his personal correspondence discloses a darker and more emotional aspect: his sense of isolation in the midst of po­liti­cal strug­gles, his feelings of loneliness and the lack of an understanding public, as well as his dependence on the solace that the intimacy of friendship can provide. Maimonides was familiar with Averroes’s works and appreciated them, and the parallel lives of t­ hese two con­temporary Cordobans have tempted modern scholars to fantasize about friendly relations between them. Nothing in our texts, however, suggests the possibility that the two played together as ­children, or that they met or corresponded as adults.66 A warm and close friendship did exist, however, between Maimonides, who as a youth had been forced out of al-­Andalus, and his disciple Joseph, another refugee from Almohad persecution. It is to him that Maimonides dedicated the Guide of the Perplexed, and Maimonides prob­ably had him in mind when he passionately declared in the Guide, I am the man who . . . ​when he could find no other device by which to teach . . . ​other than by giving satisfaction to a single virtuous man while displeasing ten thousand ignoramuses—­I am he who prefers to address that single man by himself, and I do not heed the blame of ­those many creatures.67

Maimonides addresses Joseph as “[my] child” (al-­walad), a more intimate form of address than the formal “my son” (beni). Some of Maimonides’s

64. For which intimacy was not a prerequisite: see Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers, 192. 65. See Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishna, Neziqin, 411–12 (Commentary on Avot 1.6). 66. See Renan, Averroès et l’averroïsme, 36, 147 (referring to the story propounded by Leo Africanus; see also Davies, Trickster Travels, 85–86); Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 66, note 63; Gorlizki, Maïmonide-­Averroès: Une correspondence rêvée. 67. Guide, introduction (Dalāla, 11; Pines, 16).

In tellectua l Elites [ 99 ]

correspondence reveals his sense of total isolation apart from this one strong bond, and ­there is a note of despair in the way he encourages himself, clinging to this friendship: Even if I did not find in my generation anyone [who would listen to me] except you alone, it would be enough. 68

This last line was written during the fierce debate between Maimonides and the Gaon Samuel Ben ʿEli, when Maimonides could justifiably feel ­under attack. This very debate, however, painful as it must have been for Maimonides, also reflects the fact, well understood by Maimonides’s opponent in Baghdad, that at this point Maimonides was effectively taking over the leadership of the Jewish Diaspora. His authority in the Egyptian Jewish community was almost regal, foretelling a legacy that was passed on to his descendants, thus creating a dynasty of communal leaders. Maimonides was no doubt conscious of his elevated position, but the awareness of his power was not accompanied by the feeling of being understood. And thus we find him imploring his far-­away disciple Joseph to keep up their correspondence, “since I have no better friend than [your letters].”69 As we have seen above, the Muslim phi­los­o­pher Ibn Bājja had some strong po­liti­cal enemies who w ­ ere responsible for his repeated imprisonments and perhaps also for his assassination.70 Notwithstanding this adverse environment, he managed to forge a philosophical friendship with another Saragossan, his disciple the vizier Abū al-­Ḥasan Ibn al-­Imām, who, like Ibn Bājja, worked in the ser­vice of the Almoravids.71 Several epistles that Ibn Bājja wrote to him are extant, and testify to the constancy of their friendship, which survived the turbulent times and the difficulties of geo­graph­i­cal distance. Ibn Bājja’s Farewell Epistle (Risālat al-­Wadāʿ), written for Ibn al-­Imām, can be seen as complementing his Regimen of the Solitary, in the same way that the last chapters of Ibn Ṭufayl’s Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān, in which he introduces the friendship between Ḥayy and Absāl, complement Ḥayy’s complete solitude in the first part of the fable.72

68. Maimonides, Epistles, 1:293. 69. “Wa-­lā taqṭaʿ ʿannī kutubaka, fa-­laysa lī anīs [or: uns] aḥsan minhā” (Maimonides, Epistles, 299). 70. According to al-Maqqarī (Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 3:432–34), the physician Abū’l-­ʿAlāʾ Ibn Zuhr (d. 524/1130) was responsible for sending Ibn Bājja to prison in the Almoravid court; see chapter 3, page 85. 71. On him, see al-­Maʿṣūmī, “Ibn al-­Imām”; Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors”; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 77–78; Puig Montada, “Ibn Bājja.” 72. See Ibn Bājja, Opera Metaphysica, 37–104, 113–43.

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Perhaps even more remarkably, we observe Ibn Bājja’s friendship with the above-­mentioned Jewish physician Abū Jaʿfar Yūsuf Ibn Ḥasdāy.73 They, too, prob­ably met in their native Saragossa, but Yūsuf Ibn Ḥasdāy left al-­Andalus and settled in Egypt, where he served as physician and astronomer to the Fāṭimid vizier al-­Maʾmūn al-­Baṭāʾiḥī.74 In his entry on Ibn Ḥasdāy, the fourteenth-­century historian of medicine, Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa makes the following comment: Between him and Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā, known as Ibn Bājja, ­there was a friendship, and he was constantly writing to him from Cairo.75

Acquaintances and colleagues abound in Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa’s reports, but he is rather sparing in characterizing a relationship as “friendship.” Although his language is far less effusive than that of Ibn Daud, this restrained note stands out in its unambiguous wording. Of this intense philosophical correspondence between Ibn Bājja and Ibn Ḥasdāy, a sole epistle has survived. It is addressed by Ibn Bājja to Ibn Ḥasdāy and concerns, yet again, the all-­important issue of the philosophical curriculum. Ibn Bājja’s choice of friends, which disregards religious bound­aries, displays a conscious principled position that he formulated in his Farewell Epistle. The friends he sought w ­ ere ­those he describes as “­people whose plea­sure is learning,” who are recognizable as such, “despite their differences.” 76 Echoing a philosophical topos, which can be found from ­al-­Kindī to Maimonides, he says, ­Every person who has this kind of natu­ral disposition77 and in addition happens to hold this opinion—he is among our brethren, just as we are the brethren of our ancestors. By ancestors I do not mean the ­fathers who gave birth to our bodies, but rather I mean t­ hose who gave birth to our souls, or who could have done so.78

­ hese few anecdotal examples (to which ­others could be readily added) T illustrate the inherently elitist nature of the phi­los­o ­p hers’ life qua 73. See chapter 3, page 92; Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors,” 111. 74. Puig Montada, “Ibn Bājja,” 4; Forcada, “Ibn Bājja and the Classification of the Sciences,” 296. 75. IAU, 499–500; Ibn Bājja, Rasāʾil, 77, note 1. 76. Ibn Bājja, Risālat al-­Wadāʿ, in Opera Metaphysica, 120; Ibn Bāǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 95–96. 77. Fiṭra, scil. the disposition preparing that person for eternal life. 78. Risālat al-­Wadāʿ, 114–15; Ibn Bāǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 90. On the topos, see Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 11–12.

In tellectua l Elites [ 101 ]

phi­los­op ­ hers. It was a life of isolation regardless of how well integrated into the po­liti­cal real­ity they ­were other­wise. The rigorous, hierarchical curriculum constituted a built-in se­lection pro­cess, at the end of which hardly a handful could answer to the name “phi­los­o­pher.” The close friendships between Muslim phi­los­o­phers and phi­los­o­phers from the tolerated religious minorities indicate that Muslim and Jewish phi­los­o­phers alike ­were conscious of constituting, together, yet another kind of minority.

ch a p t er  4

Neoplatonist Inroads

the sociopo­l iti­c a l setting in which systematic interest in philosophy and science emerged in al-­Andalus in the fourth/tenth c­ entury determined their development in the next c­ entury. As we saw in the previous chapters, phi­los­o­phers w ­ ere well integrated into their dif­fer­ent communities as well as into the larger intellectual milieu. Despite this integration, however, as we just saw, they remained a tiny, often beleaguered elite. Neoplatonist thought patterns ­were spreading in this period across the Islamicate world, largely through the Ismāʿīlīs. They also reached al-­Andalus, but the tenth-­century contestation with the neighboring Fāṭimids set the po­liti­cal and religious authorities in al-­Andalus against them. The pres­ ent chapter ­will analyze the ways in which the attraction to Neoplatonism unfolded in al-­Andalus in the fifth/eleventh and sixth/twelfth centuries.

The Two-­Pronged Philosophical Trajectory in al-­Andalus Reporting about al-­Manṣūr’s literary censorship, Ibn Ṣāʿid refers in general terms to “the books of the ancient sciences, which ­were composed on logic and astronomy and the other ancient sciences.” When he comes to the subsequent silencing of scholars, his terminology becomes even vaguer, and he speaks about “­those who ­were moved to study philosophy [man kāna taḥarraka liʾl-­ḥikma],” without specifying which kind of philosophy was meant.1 As the major philosophical luminaries in twelfth-­ century al-­Andalus are identified as Aristotelians, one’s instinct is to identify the censored philosophical activity in the tenth c­ entury with 1. Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 163–64 (Salem and Kumar, 61–62); and see chapter 1, pages 31–32.

[ 102 ]

Neopl atonist Inroa ds [ 103 ]

Aristotelianism, in par­tic­u­lar since Ibn Ṣāʿid mentions specifically logic. It is of course plausible, and to some extent proven, that translations of Aristotle’s works w ­ ere among the books imported to al-­Andalus at an early stage, but the profile of the con­temporary Andalusian phi­los­o­phers does not allow us to identify the censored philosophical works as primarily Aristotelian. We have already seen that the first prominent Andalusian thinker known to us was the tenth-­century Muslim Ibn Masarra. His own writings, as well as outside information, bear witness to the Neoplatonist nature of his mystical philosophy. As argued above, Ibn Masarra’s Neoplatonism, and its association with the Ismāʿīlī Fāṭimids, constituted the main reason for the persecution of the so-­called Masarrīs long ­after Ibn Masarra’s death.2 The adoption of Neoplatonism by the Persian, Karmathian school of the Ismāīʿlīs, in par­tic­u­lar since Abūʾl-­Ḥasan al-­Nasafi (d. 332/943), the head of the daʿwā of Nishapur, is well attested, but the identification of Ismāʿīli Fāṭimids with Neoplatonism and their adoption of the Rasāʾil at this early stage remains debated.3 The fourth Fāṭimid caliph al-­Muʿizz (d. 365/975) is recorded expressing his irritation about an eastern dāʿī who brought in the madhhab al-­falāsifa.4 The Western Ismāʿīlī daʿwā—­Qāḍī al-­Nuʿmān (d. 363/974), and Ibn al-­Haytham (writing in 334/945)—do not exhibit an explicit commitment to a Neoplatonist doctrine, although Ibn al-­Haytham’s proud mention of Plato and Aristotle’s works having been part of his education and featuring in his own library, as well as his reference to Empedocles and Apollonius, suggests a synthesis of the kind commonplace in Neoplatonist circles.5 ­There ­were no doubt dissenting voices in early Ismāʿīlī circles, and ­there must have been competing doctrinal tendencies among the early Fāṭimids. The presently available evidence suggests that the Epistles did not play any formal, official role in the early Fāṭimid daʿwā.6 Nevertheless, t­ here is enough evidence to indicate that some version of the Epistles, with their telltale formulas and their under­lying Neoplatonist philosophy, was circulating in North Africa in the first half of the tenth ­century. Nor are the Epistles the sole testimony for the presence of highly developed 2. See chapter 1, pages 57–60. 3. See Samuel Stern, “The Authorship,” 368; Walker, Early Philosophical Shiism, 9, 31–33, 47–49, and 166, note 20; idem, The Wellsprings of Wisdom, 14; De Smet, “Les bibliothèques,” 485–88. 4. Samuel Stern, “Heterodox Ismāʿīlism,” 265, 284–85. 5. See Ibn al-­Haytham, Kitāb al-­munāẓarāt, 111 (En­glish) and 60 (Arabic); De Smet, “Les bibliothèques,” 487. 6. See Daftary, The Ismailis, 236; de Callataÿ, “Who ­Were the Readers,” 281–82.

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Neoplatonism in the Fāṭimid milieu, as the writings of Isaac Israeli, the Jewish physician of the first Fāṭimid caliph, make plain.7 Furthermore, across the Strait of Gibraltar, in al-­Andalus, bāṭinī teachings inspired by this Neoplatonism, in its philosophical, mystical, or theurgical guise, came to be associated with Fāṭimid propaganda. Determining the date of the official adoption of Neoplatonism by the Fāṭimids is therefore somewhat irrelevant to the questions that concern us ­here, namely, the propagation of this Neoplatonism in al-­Andalus and the way that this propagation was perceived by the Andalusian rulers. In all probability, then, the philosophical books censored around this time ­were first and foremost ­those suspected of connections to Neoplatonism. Moreover, Aristotle’s works (in par­tic­u­lar the Organon) had been considered since Late Antiquity to be an integral part of the Neoplatonist cursus.8 When Neoplatonist books ­were censored, works of logic ­were thus included in this category, and it is quite likely that anything e­ lse associated with Aristotelian philosophy was also deemed suspect. But the Umayyad rulers ­were less worried about the rationalism of Aristotelian philosophy than about its use by Ismāʿīlī propaganda. Aristotle’s works seem, therefore, to have become suspect largely by association. Indeed, we have no evidence of an Aristotelian school in the purview of the Umayyads in this period. ­After Ibn Masarra, philosophy in al-­Andalus among Muslims kept a low profile, and no prominent Muslim names appear during the first half of the eleventh c­ entury.9 Up to the first half of the twelfth c­ entury, the names of Muslim authors that do surface are associated ­either with Neoplatonism or with mystical philosophy. Ibn Ṣāʿid mentions a few of the phi­los­op ­ hers who had to flee al-­Manṣūr’s persecution, among them Abū ʿUthmān Saʿīd b. Fatḥūn Ibn Makram, nicknamed “al-­ḥammār (or: al-­ḥimār) from Saragossa.” 10 Ibn Ṣāʿid notes approvingly that this Saʿīd b. Fatḥūn had a solid knowledge (kāna mutaḥaqqiqan) in geometry, logic, and ­music, and that he was versed (mutaṣarrifan) in the other philosophical sciences. But as Saʿīd b. Fatḥūn’s introductory book to t­ hese philosophical sciences, The Tree of Wisdom (Shajarat al-­ḥikma), has not

7. On the widespread Neoplatonism among the Ismāʿīlīs of North Africa from the tenth ­century onward, see also Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 6–8. 8. Hadot, “Les introductions.” 9. See also Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 211. 10. See Fierro, “Al-­ḥammār al-­saraqusṭī”; and see chapter 1, note 21; see also Forcada, “Books from Abroad,” esp. 64–68.

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come down to us, his philosophical profile is hard to guess.11 Ibn Ṣāʿid also mentions Muḥammad b. Ḥasan al-­Madhḥījī, known as Ibn al-­Kattānī (d. ca. 420/1029), as a scholar who knew logic, astronomy, and many of the philosophical sciences.12 Neither of ­these two seems to have had an abiding affect on the subsequent development of philosophy, but the impressive list of Ibn al-­Kattānī’s teachers in logic exhibits the existence of a network of p ­ eople who tended the philosophic flame.13 Ibn Ḥazm, a towering figure in Andalusī intellectual history, was no phi­los­o­pher, despite his flirtation with logic (mostly as a tool for ­legal theory).14 Ibn Ṣāʿid speaks admiringly about Ibn Ḥazm’s erudition in Islamic law, in which he achieved a level that “none before him had attained in al-­Andalus.” He also re­spects his literary productivity, “unparalleled by anyone before him in the Islamic realm, except by . . . ​ Abū Jaʿfar . . . ​al-­Ṭabarī.”15 Seen against the background of this praise, Ibn Ṣāʿid’s statement that “of all the branches of philosophy, [Ibn Ḥazm] dealt only with logic” may therefore appear a neutral, factual report, but this is clearly not the case; for someone as committed to the philosophical curriculum as Ibn Ṣāʿid was, drawing attention to this point is in itself quite critical, even if Ibn Ḥazm’s knowledge in this domain had been solid. It is all the more so in view of Ibn Ṣāʿid’s devastating evaluation of Ibn Ḥazm’s understanding of logic. According to him, Ibn Ḥazm contradicted Aristotle, the founder of this science [scil. logic] . . . ​in a way that demonstrates that he did not understand Aristotle’s purpose, and that he was not trained in his books; his book is therefore full of ­mistakes and obviously wrong.16 11. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 167 (cf. Salem and Kumar, 63–64); Ibn Ḥazm, Risāla f ī faḍl al-­andalus, 185. 12. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 193; and see Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors,” 105. 13. One of the nine ­people in this list, Aḥmad b. Ḥafṣūn, is described as “the phi­los­o­ pher” (al-­faylasūf ). Two ­others are connected to the Christian community: Muḥammad b. Maymūn, known as Marcus, was prob­ably a convert from Chris­tian­ity; and the bishop (usquf ) Abūʾl-­Ḥārith had studied with Rabīʿ b. Zaid “al-­usquf al-­faylasūf.” Muḥammad b. ʿAbdūn al-­Jabalī and ʿUmar al-­Ḥarrānī had both studied in the East, the former with the phi­los­o­pher Abū Sulaymān al-­Sijistānī, the latter with Thābit b. Sinān. The astronomer Maslama al-­Majrīṭī also appears in this list. See Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 192–93; Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors,” 105–8. 14. See Soravia, “A Portrait,” 37. 15. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 182–83 (cf. Salem and Kumar, 70). 16. Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 182 (cf. Salem and Kumar, 70); and see Puerta Vílchez, “Abū Muḥammad ʿAlī Ibn Ḥazm,” 13; Ramón Guerrero, “Aristotle and Ibn Ḥazm.” See also Abū Ḥayyān (d. 469/1076), quoted by Ibn Bassām (Dhakhīra, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās

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The state of philosophy in al-­Andalus in this period is further attested by the figure of Abūʾl-­Ḥakam al-­Kirmānī (d. 458/1066), a native of Cordoba. Ibn Ṣāʿid speaks highly about his knowledge of mathe­matics, saying that “he was among t­ hose deeply grounded in the knowledge of mathe­matics and geometry.”17 He also cites al-­Kirmānī’s student al-­Tujībī, who praises his master in nearly ecstatic tones: No one came close to him in the science of geometry, no one could hold a candle to him18 when it came to his ability to solve its most obscure prob­lems.19

According to Ibn Ṣāʿid, al-­Kirmānī had traveled to the East, and in par­ tic­u­lar to Ḥarrān, where he studied medicine and geometry. Ibn Ṣāʿid clearly regards al-­Kirmānī as a respectable authority in the applied aspects of “Oriental wisdom” (geometry, medicine, and surgery), but he does not count him as a phi­los­o­pher. He further reports that when al-­ Kirmānī returned to Saragossa, he brought with him the Epistles of the Pure Brethren, which (Ibn Ṣāʿid ­here hastens to add a caveat of “as far as I have heard”) he was the first to introduce to al-­Andalus. This claim (which has been disputed by Maribel Fierro) shows that Ibn Ṣāʿid associated al-­Kirmānī with an unspecified whiff of Neoplatonism.20 Regarding al-­Kirmānī’s scientific and philosophical shortcomings, however, Ibn Ṣāʿid

1978, 1i: 167–71), who recognizes Ibn Ḥazm’s erudition “in diverse fields, ḥadīth and fiqh and polemics [jadal] and genealogy, and ­things marginally connected to general culture [mā yataʿallaqu bi-­adhyāl al-­adab], and [his] share in many kinds of ancient disciplines, such as logic and philosophy, and in some of ­these fields he wrote many books.” But, he hastens to add, ­these books are riddled with ­mistakes ­because of his temerity to assume knowledge of ­these fields, especially logic. “They said that he erred and blundered in his attempt to take ­these roads, and that he contradicted Aristotle, the founder of this science [scil. logic] . . . ​in a way that demonstrates that he did not understand Aristotle’s purpose, and that he was not trained in his books.” The language of the last sentence suggests dependence on Ibn Ṣāʿid. Ibn Bājja’s disciple, too, offers praise of Ibn Ḥazm alongside an identification of his m ­ istakes; see IAU, 515; al-­Maʿṣūmī, “Ibn al-­Imām,” 103–4. 17. “Min al-­rāsikhīn f ī ʿilm al-­ʿadad waʾl-­handasa,” alluding to Q. 3:7. 18. Literally: “was worthy of touching the dust of his s­ oles.” 19. “Lā aḥad yujārī-hi f ī ʿilm al-­handasa wa-­lā yashukku ghibāra-hu f ī fakk ghāmiḍi-­hā” (Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 172 [cf. Salem and Kumar, 65]). 20. See Fierro, “Bāṭinism in al-­Andalus”; and see further below. De Smet (“Les bibliothèques ismaéliennes,” 481, note 2) notes that the Rasāʾil, although originating in an intellectual milieu close to Ismāʿīlism, ­were a­ dopted by the Ismāʿīlī daʿwā only at the end of the eleventh c­ entury. For outsiders, however, also in Andalus, the Rasāʾil ­were perceived as smacking of connection to Ismāʿīlī doctrine, bāṭinism, and therefore also associated with the Fāṭimids.

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makes himself devastatingly clear: “He had no understanding of mathematical astronomy21 nor of the art of logic.” Ibn Ṣāʿid continues, indicating his source for this severe assessment: This I learnt about him from the Jew Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy. He knew [al-­Kirmānī] well, and his [own] level in the theoretical sciences was unequalled in al-­Andalus.22

In Ibn Ṣāʿid’s eyes, then, al-­Kirmānī was not a phi­los­o­pher in the Aristotelian tradition. He seems to have leaned ­toward Neoplatonism, but no significant philosophical work of his is known to us. Further on, Ibn Ṣāʿid admits that both physics and metaphysics ­were not studied intensively in al-­Andalus, and adds that he knew only three ­people who dealt with t­ hese topics: Ibn al-­Nabbāsh, Abū ʿĀmir Ibn Hūd, and the Jew Abū al-­Faḍl b. Ḥasdāy.23 Two works of major importance that belong to this period are The Phi­ los­o­pher’s Aim (Ghāyat al-­ḥakīm, composed, as the manuscript evidence shows, in the ­middle of the fourth/tenth ­century) and The Phi­los­o­pher’s Rank (Rutbat al-­ḥakīm). The mistakenness of their attribution to the mathematician Maslama b. Aḥmad al-­Faraḍī al-­Majrītī (d. 398/1007) has long been recognized, but their real author remained unidentified. Maribel Fierro has suggested identifying this writer as Maslama b. Qāsim al-­ Qurṭubī (d. 353/964), and her suggestion is now widely accepted.24 ­These twin works, dedicated respectively to magic and alchemy, belong to the realm of the occult sciences cultivated by the Ismāʿīlīs. They incorporate 21. This seems to place into question Ibn Ṣāʿid’s previous statement that al-­Kirmānī had travelled to Ḥarrān. See also van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes, 101–3. 22. “Maḥalluhu min al-­ʿulūm al-­naẓariyya al-­maḥall alladhī lā yujārī ʿindanā f īʾl-­ andalus”—­which, using the same superlative formula (lā yujārī) sounds as a riposte to al-­Tujībī’s praise of al-­Kirmānī (chapter 4, note 19); see Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 172. Blachère (Livre des catégories des nations, 132) understands this last sentence as referring to al-­Kirmānī, and translates: “Par contre, dans les sciences spéculatives il n’avait point d’égal en Andalousie.” A similar understanding is reflected in the En­glish translation of Salem and Kumar, Science in the Medieval World, 65: “He knew him [scil. al-­Kirmānī] well and he knew his level as a theoretical scientist.” Both translations thus assume al-­ Kirmānī’s superior knowledge. But as Ibn Ṣāʿid’s states explic­itly, al-­Kirmānī’s forte was in the applied sciences, such as geometry and surgery, and not in the theoretical sciences, such as logic and mathematical astronomy. Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy, on the other hand, is one of the only three Andalusians mentioned by Ibn Ṣāʿid as students of physics and metaphysics. 23. See Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 185; Stroumsa, “Between Acculturation and Conversion,” 25; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 67–69. 24. See Fierro, “Bāṭinism in al-­Andalus”; eadem, “Plants,” 127–32; de Callataÿ and Moureau, “­Towards the Critical Edition of Rutbat al-­ḥakīm”; Madelung, “Maslama al-­ Qurṭubī’s Kitāb Rutbat al-­ḥakīm.”

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material the equivalent of which can be found in a plethora of sources in the Islamic East, such as the corpus attributed to Jābir Ibn Ḥayyān, The Nabatean Agriculture (al-­Filāḥa al-­nabaṭiyya), or Arabic Hermetic lit­er­a­ture.25 More significant in our context is the way they pursue the discourse of the Epistles of Ikhwān al-­Ṣafāʾ, and in par­tic­u­lar the last epistle, dedicated to magic.26 Furthermore, the Rutbat al-­ḥakīm actually pre­sents its author as one of the Epistles’ authors. According to Fierro, the author of the Rutba and the Ghāya, Maslama al-­Qurṭubī, was also the first to import the Epistles to al-­Andalus (rather than al-­Kirmānī, as cautiously suggested by Ibn Ṣāʿid). Like the Epistles, which classify the sciences according to an ascending order, Ghāyat al-­ḥakīm and Rutbat al-­ḥakīm pre­sent their content—­magic, alchemy, and theurgy—as the pinnacle of the phi­los­op ­ her’s achievement. As such, t­ hese books belong to the sphere of Neoplatonist philosophy, just as the Chaldean Oracles belonged to the world of Late Antique Neoplatonism. ­T hese twin books w ­ ere widely disseminated in al-­Andalus; their influence is plainly evident in the works of Jewish phi­los­op ­ hers, and the Latin translation of the Ghāyat al-­ḥakīm, known as Picatrix, had a further impact in Christian Spain.27 If we recall Ibn Ṣāʿid’s description of the state of science in the peninsula before the Muslim conquest and shortly thereafter, we can understand that their content—­from talismans and magic to divination—­must have found fertile ground in al-­Andalus.28 But the thick fog that enveloped their author’s identity may not have been entirely incidental. For a Mālikī jurist like Abū Bakr Ibn al-­ʿArabī (d. 543/1148), Maslama b. Qāsim is associated with Ibn Masarra.29 Indeed, for Mālikī orthodoxy, and even more so for the rulers, both Umayyads and party kings, this kind of lit­er­a­ture, ranging from Ibn Masarra’s philosophical mysticism to Maslama’s expansion on the occult, was associated with the Ismāʿīlīs and with the Fāṭimids, and therefore remained highly suspect. The ­middle of the eleventh ­century saw a comprehensive Neoplatonic system expounded by Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī (444/1052–523/1127). In his philosophical work The Book of Circles (Kitāb al-­dawāʾir), he draws on a 25. See van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes, 100–104. 26. See de Callataÿ, “Magia en al-­Andalus”; de Callataÿ and Moureau, “Again on Maslama Ibn Qāsim al-­Qurṭubī.” 27. See, for example, Pingree, “Between the Ghāya and Picatrix”; van Bladel, The Arabic Hermes, 100 and note 157; de Callataÿ, “Magia en al-­Andalus.” 28. See chapter 1, page 27, note 1. 29. Ibn al-­ʿArabī, al-­ʿAwāṣim min al-­qawāṣim, 493; Fierro, “Plants,” 132.

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variety of philosophical sources.30 As is common in Neoplatonist philosophy, he also makes recourse to Aristotelian logic, but it would be a ­mistake to judge him by the standards of Aristotelian philosophy.31 His most notable sources are the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-­Ṣafāʾ, but his philosophical work is far from being a mere epitome of them.32 Although the notion of an imaginary circle appears in the Rasāʾil, al-­Baṭalyawsī develops it as a key concept for understanding the w ­ hole cosmic order, where both the physical and spiritual realms of the universe are governed by patterns of imaginary circles (dawāʾir wahmiyya). The basic Neoplatonic cosmogonic and soteriological scheme, where a downward emanation, from the One to the coarser lower levels of existence, is followed by the return ascent of the soul to its origin, is ­here translated into a complex system of imaginary circles.33 That the originality of al-­Baṭalyawsī’s systematic thought remains somewhat disputed in modern scholarship on Islamic philosophy primarily bespeaks the identification of philosophy in al-­Andalus with falsafa, namely, the Aristotelian affiliation of the twelfth-­century philosophical g ­ iants. It also reflects his reputation among his contemporaries.34 In the con­temporary atmosphere, so unsympathetic to philosophy, al-­ Baṭalyawsī’s Neoplatonism was not well received. He defends al-­Waqqāshī against charges of heresy in one of the short treatises in his Book of Questions and Answers (Kitāb al-­masāʾil waʾl-­ajwiba). His argument that philosophy and religion should not be construed as contradictory might be 30. On the sources of The Book of Circles, see Eliyahu, “From Kitāb al-­ḥadāʾiq to Kitāb al-­dawāʾir,” 186–89. 31. Compare, for example, Dunlop’s dismissal of al-­Baṭalyawsī as having had “no special interest in philosophy” (“Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors,” 111, a striking example of the scholarly debate [discussed in the introduction, pages 20–21] regarding what merits being called philosophy in Andalusian lit­er­a­ture); or Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 66, for whom al-­Baṭalyawsī’s work is “­limited to a summary appropriation of Aristotelian logic, and a more literary than systematic h ­ andling of philosophical sources of vari­ous colors.” See also Eliyahu, “Between Popularity and Marginality,” apud note 39. 32. His pre­sen­ta­tion as offering “a compendium of the Pure Brethren” or “as what would be called in the 18th ­century ‘popu­lar philosophy’ ” is also valid only if one judges him by Aristotelian standards: cf. Zonta, “Influence of Arabic and Islamic Philosophy”; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 82–83. 33. On the circles, see Asín Palacios, “Ibn al-­Sīd de Badajoz”; Eliyahu, “From Kitāb al-­ ḥadāʾiq to Kitāb al-­dawāʾir.” A dif­fer­ent elaboration of the notion of circles in the emanation pro­cess is offered by Ibn Qasī in his Khalʿ al-­naʿlayn; see Michael Ebstein, “Was Ibn Qasī a Ṣūf ī?,” 205. 34. For Ibn Saʿīd (Mughrib, 385), for example, he is “one of the scholars of Arabic linguistics in whom al-­Andalus takes pride,” whereas for Ibn Khāqān (Qalāʾid, 192) he is a faqīh. On al-­Baṭalyawsī and his works, see Peña Martín, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī”; Serrano, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī”; Eliyahu, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī.”

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understood as a stance of self-­defense.35 In al-­Andalus, indeed, even in the intellectually open Saragossa of the Banū Hūd, the position of a phi­los­o­ pher was always delicate. This atmosphere is reflected in the judgment of subsequent generations. Among Muslims, al-­Baṭalyawsī was mostly known as an adīb, respected for his work in the fields of Arabic linguistics and lexicography, fiqh and poetry, whereas his philosophical work remained largely ignored. The situation was quite dif­fer­ent among Jews. In that religious community, his clearly Neoplatonist work became highly influential; its popularity is attested by five dif­fer­ent medieval translations (full or partial) into Hebrew, as well as by numerous citations by Jewish authors.36 Significantly, even the original title of this philosophical book was more accurately preserved in its Hebrew guise, The Spiritual Circles (Ha-­ʿagulot ha-­raʿayoniyyot). In Arabic, it circulated as The Book of Gardens (Kitāb al-­ḥadāʾiq), a typical florid and nondescript first part of an Arabic book title that discloses nothing of the book’s content.37 The atmosphere of distrust concerning philosophy, and in par­tic­u­lar about anything that smacked of bāṭinism, also affected the development of mysticism in al-­Andalus.38 In recent scholarship, the line that leads from Ibn Masarra to Ibn al-­ʿArabī has received renewed attention, for example in the studies of Michael Ebstein and Yousef Casewit.39 Although the thought of both Ibn Masarra and Ibn al-­ʿArabī can indeed be described as “philosophical mysticism,” in retracing the development from the tenth to the twelfth ­century, t­ hese studies focus more on the development of Andalusī mysticism than on philosophy. As noted by Casewit, Andalusian mysticism espoused a distinct “symbiosis of Qurʾānic teachings and Sunnī Ḥadīth with the Neoplatonizing treatises of the Brethren of Purity, . . . ​the writings of Ibn Masarra, and . . . ​Fāṭimī Ismāʿīlī cosmological doctrines circulating in the intellectual milieu of al-­Andalus.”40 Ascetic and mystical trends never completely dis­appeared in al-­Andalus, but a­ fter Ibn Masarra and the persecution of the Masarrīs, they went under­ground or 35. See Tornero, “Cuestiones filosóficas”; Elamrani-­Jamal, “Les rapports.” See also Eliyahu, “From Kitāb al-­ḥadāʾiq to Kitāb al-­dawāʾir,” 169–74, who sees The Book of Circles as belonging to the genre of Questions and Answers; and eadem, “Between Popularity and Marginality,” apud note 23. 36. See Kaufmann, Die Spuren; Eliyahu, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī,” 31–38. 37. See Eliyahu, “From Kitāb al-­ḥadāʾiq to Kitāb al-­dawāʾir.” 38. See Marín, “Abū Saʿīd Ibn al-­Aʿrābī,” 32–33; eadem, “The Early Development of Zuhd in al-­Andalus”; Fierro, “Opposition to Sufism.” 39. See Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy; Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus. 40. Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus, 2.

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­ ere carefully kept within the bounds of orthodoxy.41 In the first half of w the twelfth ­century, Andalusian mysticism finds eloquent representatives in Ibn Barrajān (d. 536/1141), Ibn al-­ʿArīf (d. 536/1141), and Ibn Qāsī (d. 546/1151). The first half of the twelfth c­ entury is therefore rightly recognized as “the formative period of Andalusi mysticism.”42 It is, however, noteworthy that this decisive formative period occurred a ­century and a half ­after the launching of this indigenous symbiosis by Ibn Masarra. As historiographers such as Ibn Ṣāʿid and Ibn Ṭumlūs testify, the small number of Muslim phi­los­o­phers in this period is not accidental. Although ­after the disintegration of the Umayyad Caliphate the courts of the party kings granted some space to basic preoccupation in philosophy (mostly in logic) and in science, the Muslim rulers remained, in general, suspicious of philosophy. As we have seen, this mistrust did not apply to Jewish thinkers. And thus, al-­Andalus in this period (the eleventh ­century and the first half of the twelfth ­century) witnessed a flourishing of philosophy among Jews that was marked by a series of prominent thinkers. Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda drew on eastern Sufi lit­er­a­ture, such as the works of al-­Muḥāsibi, and reworked it to build a new model of Jewish piety.43 Baḥyā endeavored to fill what he perceived as a gap in Jewish lit­er­a­ture, writing what he considered the first book dedicated to the ethical, devotional meaning and purpose of Jewish law. The ten chapters of the book guide the reader through the stages of purifying the heart, moving from the conceptual aspect of true understanding of God’s unity (ikhlāṣ al-­tawḥīd li-­ʾllāh) to the highest spiritual level, that of the love of God (al-­maḥabba li-­ʾllāh). L ­ ittle is known about Baḥyā’s biography, and t­ here is no specific evidence that he read Ibn Masarra’s work. His integration within the nascent Andalusian tradition of philosophical mysticism is, however, evident, for example, in the second chapter of his Direction to the Duties of the Heart (al-­Hidāya ilā farāʾiḍ al-­qulūb) dedicated to contemplation (iʿtibār). In his Arabic work The Source of Life (Yanbūʿ al-­ḥayāt), Salomon Ibn Gabirol developed a coherent Neoplatonic system.44 Only excerpts from its 41. See Marín, “Zuhhād de al-­Andalus,” 467; Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus, 1–2, 4. 42. See Asín Palacios, Obras escogidas, 1:219–42; Lomba Fuentes, La filosofía islamica en Zaragoza, 177–89; Böwering and Casewit, A Qurʾān Commentary by Ibn Barrajān; Ebstein, “Was Ibn Qasī a Sufi?,” esp. 203; Casewit, The Mystics of al-­Andalus, passim. 43. See Goldreich, “On Pos­si­ble Arabic Sources”; Sviri, “Spiritual Trends”; Lobel, A Sufi-­ Jewish Dialog. 44. The title of the book alludes to Ps. 36:10, but see also page 116, note 59. For Puig

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Arabic original are extant, but its Latin translation, Fons Vitae, allows us to appreciate the originality of his thought, as well as its enormous influence in medieval Eu­rope.45 Structured as a dialogue between a master and his disciple, the book is presented as leading to “the most impor­tant question”—­namely, the purpose of the creation of h ­ uman beings. Focusing on the concepts of universal ­matter and universal form, this book seems to distill the theoretical questions that came to be identified with Andalusian Neoplatonism.46 The Commentary on Ecclesiastes composed by Isaac Ibn Ghiyyāth, too, was inspired by Neoplatonic teaching, as testified by some telltale passages from the so-­called “Ibn Ḥasdāy’s Neoplatonist,” which he could have accessed through Isaac Israeli, or, more likely, directly.47 In the twelfth ­century, one can add Moses Ibn Ezra’s Treatise of the Garden, on the Meaning of Meta­phor and Plain Sense (Maqālat al-­ḥadīqa, f ī maʿnā al-­majāz waʾl-­ḥaqīqa).48 While the above-­mentioned eclipse of al-­Baṭalyawsī’s Arabic Book of Circles suggests the precarious position of such works among con­temporary Muslims, the loss of the original Arabic of Ibn Gabirol’s Fons Vitae, and the paucity of manuscripts of the Arabic original of Moses Ibn Ezra’s Maqālat al-­ḥadīqa reflect mostly the transfer of the Jewish philosophical center to Christian Eu­rope, where Arabic was no longer the cultural language. Nevertheless, the multiplicity of medieval Hebrew translations of al-­Baṭalyawsī’s Circles, the translation of Moses Ibn Ezra’s Maqālat al-­ḥadīqa (named in Hebrew, prob­ably already by its author, ʿArūgat ha-­Bosem), and to some extent also the Hebrew excerpts—in fact an epitome—of Ibn Gabirol’s Source of Life collected by Shem Tov Ibn Falaqera (d. 1290) all attest to an unbroken Jewish Neoplatonic tradition in the cultural orbit of al-­Andalus.49 Montada (“Ibn Bājja”), it is with him that “philosophy in the proper sense” is first found in al-­Andalus. 45. On Ibn Gabirol’s philosophy, see, for example, Kaufmann, Studien über Salomon Ibn Gabirol; Munk, Mélanges, 1–306; Schlanger, La philosophie; idem, Salomon Ibn Gabirol, Livre de la Source de vie; Pessin, Ibn Gabirol’s Theology of Desire; Di Giovanni, “Andalusian Philosophy,” 212–13. 46. See further in chapter 4, pages 115–20. 47. See Mittelman, “A Commentary on Ecclesiastes,” chapter 3; Pines, “On Abū al-­ Barakāt al-­Baghdādī’s Commentary,” 82–83; and see Altmann and Stern, Isaac Israeli, 110–11; Samuel Stern, “Ibn Ḥasdāy’s Neoplatonist,” 105–7. 48. On Moses Ibn Ezra’s philosophy, see Samuel Stern, “Isaac Israeli and Moses Ibn Ezra”; Fenton, “Gleanings”; idem, Philosophie & exégèse, 63–236; Eliyahu, “Muslim and Jewish Philosophy in al-­Andalus.” 49. On Falaqera’s Hebrew epitome of The Source of Life, see Gatti, Shelomoh ibn Gabirol. Contrary to my previous suggestion (Stroumsa, “The Muslim Context,” 55), the

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Other notable examples of Jewish thinkers in this tradition in the twelfth c­ entury include Abraham Ibn Ezra and Joseph Ibn Ṣaddīq, whose Small World (ʿOlam qaṭan, prob­ably al-­ʿĀlam al-­ṣaghīr in the original Arabic) develops the widespread Neoplatonic idea of the h ­ uman being as a microcosm. All of ­these thinkers show strong Neoplatonist leanings, some of them with palpable borrowings from the Shīʿī Ismāʿīlī brand of Neoplatonism.50 Judah Halevi is a particularly in­ter­est­ing case. On the one hand, he polemicizes sharply with Greek-­inspired philosophy, and his model phi­los­o­pher is possessed not only of Aristotelian but also of distinct Neoplatonic traits.51 On the other hand, his own thought is thoroughly imbued with Shīʿī-­Ismāʿīlī Neoplatonism, heavi­ly influenced by its understanding of religion and religious practices and by its authoritative interpretation of the role of prophecy.52 The censorship that was applied to Ibn Masarra’s philosophy ­after his death, and more specifically the persecution associated with his name, checked the development of Muslim mysticism in Iberia for de­cades. But the legacy of Ibn Masarra, including the books that constituted his probable “library”—­that is to say, the books that s­ haped his thought and that of his milieu—­remained freely accessible to Jews. In both Halevi’s Kuzari and Ibn Gabirol’s Source of Life, we find ­whole sentences that seem like exact quotations from Ibn Masarra.53 Obviously, Ibn Masarra was not necessarily their proximate source for ­these sentences: they are more likely disappearance of the original Arabic of the Fons Vitae has prob­ably ­little to do with the fact that it pre­sents no Jewish identifiers. The works of non-­Jews ­were translated into Hebrew with gusto, and t­ here is no indication of an attempt to obliterate Ibn Gabirol’s name as a phi­los­o­pher, even among ­those who criticized his philosophy, let alone as a religious contemplative poet; see Pines, “Did Ibn Gabirol Speak Ill of the Jewish Nation?”; and see conclusion, pages 163–66. 50. Maimonides dismisses Ibn Ṣaddīq’s philosophy, ­because “he followed the ways of the Pure Brethren”; see Stroumsa, “A Note on Maimonides’ Attitude to Josef Ibn Ṣadiq”; Forte, “Back to the Sources,” 68. 51. For Leo Strauss (Persecution and the Art of Writing, 103), the Kuzari is first and foremost an apologia of Judaism against philosophy (but see Pines, “On the Term Ruḥaniyyot,” 531–32). Strauss seems to identify philosophy with the falāsifa’s blend of Aristotelian and Platonic philosophy, disregarding the more Neoplatonic versions of this blend, as well as vari­ous blends of kalām and falsafa that ­were ­adopted by Jewish thinkers, certainly up to Maimonides. He therefore classifies Halevi as a mutakallim, albeit an aty­pi­cal one (Persecution and the Art of Writing, 128). 52. See Pines, “Shīʿite Terms”; Krinis, God’s Chosen ­People. 53. See chapter 1, pages 53–54. For Ibn Gabirol, see the original Arabic text of his Fons Vitae I, 5, preserved in Moses ibn Ezra’s Maqālat al-­ḥadīqa (Fenton, Philosophie et exégèse, 394); Jaʿfar, Min qaḍāyā al-­fikr al-­islāmī, 327, 342; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 237.

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to go back to Ibn Masarra’s own source (a commentary on Sefer Yeṣira in the first case, an Arabic Neoplatonic work in the other). But their presence in Jewish writings in the eleventh and first half of the twelfth ­century shows the perpetuation of a line of thought (not to say a “school”) that Ibn Masarra shared with Jewish thinkers. An in­ter­est­ing ­angle to the above comparison of the spread of Neoplatonism among Muslims and Jews in the Islamicate world is provided by the Jewish genizot, which sometimes hold philosophical material not preserved elsewhere. In par­tic­u­lar, the Firkovitch collection in the Rus­ sian National Library in Saint Petersburg holds unique manuscripts of impor­tant Neoplatonist works, such as the Arabic original (in Hebrew characters) of the long version of the Theology of Aristotle. As in the case of Muslim Muʿtazilī material in this collection, ­these unique Neoplatonist manuscripts tell a double story.54 On the one hand, they reflect the wide dissemination of Neoplatonism across the Mediterranean Islamicate world, and show how quickly Jews ­adopted con­temporary philosophical trends and actively participated in shaping and disseminating them. On the other hand, they reveal a pattern of time lag between the Jews and their neighbors: once Jews ­adopted ­these philosophical trends, they held on to them long a­ fter they had lost their popularity among Muslims. As we have seen in this short overview, ­until the ­middle of the twelfth ­century, philosophy in al-­Andalus was almost entirely dominated by Neoplatonism.55 It ranged from mystical philosophy (like Ibn Masarra’s) and Sufi-­inspired pietism (like Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda’s), via compositions dedicated to the occult (like the Ghāyat al-­ḥakīm and its twin volume, the Rutbat al-­ḥakīm), to comprehensive, sometimes highly abstract Neoplatonist systems (like that of Ibn Gabirol or al-­Baṭalyawsī). It also impacted on mystical-­ascetic trends (like that of Ibn Barrajān) as well as literary-­ exegetical milieus (like ­those of Moses Ibn ʿEzra and al-­Baṭalyawsī). In itself, this Neoplatonist near-­monopoly in al-­Andalus is hardly surprising: dif­fer­ent shades of Neoplatonism ­were also prevalent in the Islamic East in this period. Remarkable, however, are the relative parts played by Muslims and Jews in Andalusian philosophy. Within the 54. On the Muslim Muʿtazilite material in the Firkovitch collection, see the editors’ introduction to Adang, Schmidtke, and Sklare, A Common Rationality, 17–18; on the manuscripts of the Theology, see Fenton, “The Arabic and Hebrew Versions”; and see also Krinis, “Al-­Risāla al-­jāmiʿa and Its Judaeo-­Arabic Manuscript.” 55. “Almost” b ­ ecause of what transpires regarding philosophical education in Saragossa: see chapter 5, pages 125–26, notes 5–8.

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overarching Andalusian Neoplatonism, one can clearly detect a two-­ pronged development, the two branches of which pro­gress in the same direction. They do so, however, at a drastically dif­fer­ent pace and with dif­fer­ent levels of self-­confidence. Thus, beginning with Isaac Israeli in the tenth ­century, Jewish philosophy emerged in an uninterrupted vigorous tradition. In contrast, since Ibn Masarra in the first half of the tenth ­century, Muslim al-­Andalus witnessed a decidedly sporadic growth of Neoplatonism, one that alternately ducked and surfaced. It was the po­liti­ cal map of al-­Andalus, and the dif­fer­ent ways it impacted on Muslims and Jews, that determined this difference.

Pseudo-­Empedoclean Neoplatonism The origins of the theory of an Andalusian “school of Pseudo-­Empedocles” go back to the nineteenth ­century, when Salomon Munk and David Kaufmann believed they had found in three late (fourteenth-­and fifteenth-­century) Hebrew Kabbalistic texts fragments of the Book of Five Substances. This book was first attributed to Empedocles by Shem Tov Ibn Falaqera in his introduction to the Hebrew epitome of Ibn Gabirol’s Source of Life. Falaqera also suggested that in his book, Ibn Gabirol followed “opinions of the ancient phi­los­o­phers that are similar to t­ hose mentioned by Empedocles in the book he composed on the five substances.”56 The theory, which originated with the discovery of t­hese late Jewish texts, received its fuller development by Asín Palacios, who, relying on the information of al-­Shahrastānī and al-­Shahrazūrī, thought that he detected the Pseudo-­Empedoclean tradition in a variety of Arabic Jewish and Muslim texts, continuing all the way to Hebrew Kabbalah and Latin scholasticism.57 The Pseudo-­Empedoclean system, as analyzed by Munk, Kaufmann, and Asín Palacios, involved a complex reconstruction from fragments of many dif­fer­ent texts. It presented a Neoplatonist doctrine in which the emanation of the pure, spiritual prime ele­ment (al-­ʿunṣur al-­ awwal) by the Creator’s ­will is followed by the emanation of the intellect, the universal soul (al-­nafs al-­kulliyya), nature (al-­ṭabīʿa), and secondary ­matter. Voluntarist creationism and the existence of a prime ele­ment prior to the universal intellect w ­ ere perceived as distinctive hallmarks that 56. Kaufmann, “Pseudo-­Empedokles als Quelle Salomon ibn Gabirols,” in Kaufmann, Studien über Salomon Ibn Gabirol, 1–63; Munk, Mélanges, 3; Gatti, Shelomoh ibn Gabirol, 201. See also Brague and Freudenthal, “Ni Empédocle, ni Plotin.” 57. Asín Palacios, Obras escogidas, 1. On the history of the theory, see De Smet, “The Influence.”

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set this doctrine, supposedly typical of the Iberian peninsula, apart from classical Neoplatonism.58 Characteristic (but not exclusive) imagery and vocabulary, such as the imagery of the ladder, the distinction between the kernel or core and the outer shells, and the image of the source (yanbūʿ), ­were also identified in the cosmogony and soteriology of this doctrine.59 With few exceptions, most specifically a critical article by Samuel Miklós Stern, the existence of Pseudo-­Empedocles has been taken for granted for almost a ­century.60 This near-­consensus was reversed in 1997 when Daniel De Smet published his Empedocles Arabus, arguing persuasively that Pseudo-­Empedocles did not constitute a distinct philosophical system. T ­ here is, hence, no single coherent “Pseudo-­Empedoclean system” identifiable in the vari­ous texts that have been associated with Pseudo-­ Empedocles. De Smet distinguishes between the so-­called Pseudo-­ Empedoclean doctrine and what he calls the Arab Empedocles. Both represent for him but two of the many f­ aces of Arabic Neoplatonism. Treating ­either of them as a separate school is neither correct nor helpful. As a main source for what has evolved into the so-­called Pseudo-­Empedocles, De Smet, following Ulrich Rudolph, pointed to the Pseudo-­Ammonius.61 It is pos­si­ble that Falaqera had in mind this doxology when he alluded to the ancient phi­los­o­phers whose system Ibn Gabirol may have been following. De Smet was not alone in his skepticism. Josef van Ess, for example, has described the Pseudo-­Empedocles doctrine as yet another phantom of the scholarship regarding al-­Andalus.62 Nevertheless, it seems to me imperative to ensure that, as we chase away the phantom, we do not at the same time disperse the insights that it brought to the fore. 58. Schlanger, La philosophie, 84–100; Pessin, Ibn Gabirol’s Theology of Desire, 47–52. Pessin (ibid., 22–26) rightly distinguishes between m ­ atter (mādda or hayūlā) and ele­ment (ʿunṣur), a distinction that was blurred in Ibn Gabirol’s Latin translation. On the Divine ­will (irāda, “Divine desire,” in Pessin’s translation), see ibid., 20–22. 59. See, for example, Altmann, “The Ladder of Ascension”; De Smet, “La doxographie,” 495, 501. 60. S. M. Stern, “Ibn Masarra”; and see, for example, Hyman, “Jewish Philosophy,” 683; Altmann and Stern, Isaac Israeli, 155–56; Schlanger, La philosophie, 84–101; Fenton, “Gleanings,” 286; Kingsley, Ancient Philosophy, 376–91; Pessin, Ibn Gabirol’s Theology of Desire, esp. 46–52; and see the following note. 61. Rudolph, Die Doxographie des Pseudo-­Ammonios, 131; De Smet, Empedocles Arabus; idem, “La doxographie du Pseudo-­Ammonius.” Pessin’s other­wise excellent study of Ibn Gabirol’s philosophy remains oblivious to the import of De Smet’s work, as well as of Ibn Masarra’s texts—­a poignant example of the adverse effect of the artificial disciplinary distantiation between Jewish and Islamic Studies. 62. Van Ess, TG, 4:273. See also Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 3, note 4, and 19; Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 94; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 209–10.

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According to De Smet, two ele­ments of the Pseudo-­Empedocles myth proved highly tenacious: the supposed connections between Pseudo-­ Empedocles and Ibn Masarra, and its influence on Spanish Jewish philosophy. When the fallacies of ­these claims are exposed, says De Smet, the ­whole “impressive edifice constructed by Asín . . . ​crumbles.”63 Particularly noteworthy in this context is Ibn Masarra, whose system differs on substantial points from the typical Pseudo-­Empedocles outlined by Asín Palacios.64 Let us recall, in this context, that none of Ibn Masarra’s works ­were available to Asín Palacios. His argument started from the information given by Ibn Ṣāʿid, which depended, in turn, on al-­ʿĀmiri. De Smet found no ground for attributing to Ibn Masarra any of the Pseudo-­Empedoclean traditions, ­either in the information given by Ibn Ḥazm or in the works of Ibn Masarra himself. Nevertheless, Ibn Ṣāʿid’s claims, wrong as they w ­ ere, may not have been entirely fortuitous. As noted above, it is quite pos­si­ble that it was Ibn Masarra’s preoccupation with divine attributes, noticed by Ibn Ṣāʿid himself or by someone in his milieu, that led him to associate Ibn Masarra with Empedocles on the one hand, and with Abū al-­Hudhayl on the other.65 Alexander Altmann aptly described what emerges from the dif­fer­ent texts associated with the Pseudo-­Empedocles doctrine as “the spell of the Neoplatonic ethos.” 66 Asín Palacios, on his side, saw the Neoplatonism cum Neo-­Pythagorean mysticism of Ibn Masarra as the result of the “ethnic psy­chol­ogy [psicología étnica]” that preserved, albeit unconsciously, the “profound Neo-­Platonic imprint of Christian theology and the Neo-­ Pythagorean and gnostic traditions of Priscillianism.”67 In a note, Asín Palacios goes further to explain that one must not depreciate ­either the Priscillian tradition . . . ​or the Neo-­Pythagorean of Moderatus of Gades which, together with that of 63. De Smet, Empedocles Arabus, 17–18. 64. For example, the Sibboleth of the Pseudo-­Empedoclean system, the first ele­ment (al-­ʿunṣur al-­a wwal), does not appear in Ibn Masarra’s extant works. See also Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 94–99; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 209–10. 65. Ibn Masarra’s unitarian view of the divine attributes is attested not only by hostile sources like Ibn al-­Marʾa, but also by his own texts; see chapter 1, and cf. Vahid Brown, “Muḥammad b. Masarra,” 101–2. On the other hand, Vahid Brown (ibid., note 214) is prob­ ably right in rejecting the possibility that Ibn Ṣāʿid may have had access to additional information; cf. Tornero, “Nota,” 503–6; idem, “Noticia,” 63; and Stroumsa, “Review,” 95. 66. Altmann and Stern, Isaac Israeli, 149. 67. Asín Palacios, Abenmasarra y su escuela, 38 (The Mystical Philosophy of Ibn Masarra, 30); and see Monroe, Islam and the Arabs in Spanish Scholarship, 180–81.

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Seneca, can explain that tendency to mystical idealism and to austere ethics as characteristics of the race.

This belief in racial or ethnic psy­chol­ogy not only colored Asín Palacios’s reading of the sources related to Ibn Masarra; it also prompted him to look for the continuation of this same inherent Andalusian profile beyond Ibn Masarra. As much of the Pseudo-­Empedoclean material was identified in texts redacted in the Iberian peninsula, the possibility of a local tradition, an Andalusian (or a Maghrebine) brand of Arabic Neoplatonism, cannot be ruled out.68 But some of the key texts that ­shaped Iberian Neoplatonism, such as the long version of The Theology of Aristotle and The Epistles of the Pure Brethren, emerged from Ismāʿīlī or proto-­Ismāʿīlī circles.69 Other key texts, like the Pseudo-­Ammonius, also circulated very early in the Ismāʿīlī milieu.70 In the Islamicate world, the main adaptations of classical Neoplatonism to mono­the­istic, scriptural religious systems prob­ably occurred already at ­these early stages. Plotinus’s One was thus replaced with the Creator, and emanation determined by nature with creation by divine ­will.71 The soteriology originating in Gnosticism, with its grim view of unredeemable, murky m ­ atter, evolved into a more optimistic worldview in which the ­whole of creation, and especially the soul (or its more elevated part), was perceived as endowed with divine light.72 ­Whether or not it can be argued that this w ­ hole brand (or brands) of Neoplatonism originated in Ismāʿīlī circles, upon reaching al-­Andalus it had unquestionably been filtered already through Ismāʿīlī territory and influence. This would have taken place e­ ither in encounters like Ibn

68. Ironically, Asín Palacios begins his book on Ibn Masarra with the statement that all Spanish philosophy comes from the Orient, whereas “Pseudo Empedocles” is perhaps the most Spanish story in his history of Islamic philosophy. 69. On the milieu in which the long version of the Theology of Aristotle originated, see Pines, “La longue recension”; Adamson, The Arabic Plotinus, 11–12, 23–26; Treiger, “Palestinian Origenism.” On the questions regarding the Jewish connections with this milieu, see Fenton, “The Arabic and Hebrew Versions.” On the origin of the Epistles, see Samuel Stern, “The Authorship”; idem, “New Information.” 70. De Smet, Empedocles Arabus, 30; idem, “La doxographie,” 493–94; Walker, “The Ismāʿīlīs,” 76. 71. Pessin rejects this view, and sees “Jewish Neoplatonic ‘creation’ as entirely consistent with Plotinian Emanation”; see Ibn Gabirol’s Theology of Desire, 196, note 18, and bibliography ­there. 72. This last change is not systematic, and one can often distinguish in Ismāʿīlī or “Pseudo-­Empedoclean” texts the marks of the grimmer outlook; cf. Scheindlin, “Ibn Gabirol’s Religious Poetry,” 129; De Smet, “La doxographie,” 495.

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Masarra must have had in Kairouan or by the importation of the Rasāʿil Ikhwān al-­Ṣafāʾ.73 It was mainly Jewish phi­los­op ­ hers who transmitted this version of Arabic Neoplatonism in al-­Andalus, and it is Jewish texts that offer its fullest testimony. It seems that, through the Ismāʿīlī grapevine, pseudepigrapha, including books attributed to Empedocles, reached Jews and w ­ ere kept by them. Ibn Ṣaddiq, for example, refers the reader to Empedocles’s book (Sefer Banduqlīs) regarding the divine w ­ ill (ḥefetz).74 The Books of Empedocles (sifrei Banduqlos) are also mentioned by Maimonides, who regards them as “ancient philosophy, on which no time should be wasted.” 75 In the thirteenth ­century, Abraham Ibn Ḥasdāy adapted into Hebrew Bilawhar wa-­Yūdasaf, the Arabic version of the legend of the Buddha, integrating into his Hebrew text a translation of a Neoplatonic text attributed to Aristotle. Samuel Miklós Stern, who analyzed this pseudepigraphic text, showed that its Arabic original was also available to Isaac Israeli and to the compiler of the long version of the Theology of Aristotle.76 Isaac Ibn Ghiyyāth, too, used it in his Commentary on Ecclesiastes.77 In the version preserved by Ibn Ḥasdāy, this text carries the stamp of the so-­called Pseudo-­Empedoclean school: two s­ imple subtances, the first hylic ­matter and the first form, as the first created t­ hings in the chain of emanation.78 The Arabic original of this pseudepigraphic Neoplatonic text is now lost, but its preservation by Ibn Ḥasdāy further attests to the hold that Neoplatonism, in this par­tic­u­lar version, had on Iberian Jews. Although the prevalence of Jewish sources among ­those listed as belonging to the Pseudo-­Empedoclean school has not escaped the attention of scholars, its full implications have not been clearly spelled out. Focusing on the vari­ous fragments that attest to “Pseudo-­Empedocles,” the broader, complex historical context from which they sprang seems to have been overlooked. In this way, a major, striking trait of Andalusian intellectual history has been reduced to a curious but marginal phenomenon. It is not only that, as pointed out by De Smet, this kind of “deviant Neoplatonism . . . ​seems to have exercised a par­tic­u­lar attraction to 73. Cf. De Smet, Empedocles Arabus, 30–31; and see Stroumsa, “Review,” 96; De Smet, “Les bibliothèques ismāéliennes,” 487 and note 30. See also Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy, 12–13. 74. Ibn Ṣaddiq, Der Mikrokosmos, 56. 75. See Maimonides, Epistles, 2:553. 76. Samuel Stern, “Ibn Ḥasdāy’s Neoplatonist.” 77. See chapter 4, note 47. 78. Samuel Stern, “Ibn Ḥasdāy’s Neoplatonist,” 66; see also Scholem, “Iqevotav shel Gevirol ba-­Qabbala,” 166.

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Jewish phi­los­o­phers.”79 The so-­called Pseudo-­Empedocles highlights the paramount importance of Jewish thinkers in Andalusian Neoplatonism, to a degree utterly disproportionate to the size of the Jewish community. The flourishing of this “deviant Neoplatonism” in al-­Andalus is thus closely linked to the historical context discussed above, namely the impact of Ismāʿīlī Neoplatonism on con­temporary philosophy, and the po­liti­cal and religious rivalry with the Fāṭimids. As we have seen, the two-­pronged development of Neoplatonism in al-­Andalus stems directly from ­these two ­factors.

Hybrid Phi­los­o­phers ­ ntil this point in our story, I have referred to thinkers as ­either NeoU platonists or Aristotelians and have used the terms “Aristotelian” and “Neoplatonist” to indicate two distinct schools, whose sources, canonical texts, and doctrines can be neatly differentiated. As we turn to consider the development of Arabic philosophy, however, ­these borders start to seem fuzzy. Already in Late Antiquity, as we have seen, the “enlarged” Aristotelian Organon (to which the Isagoge of Porphyry, Plotinus’s disciple, was added) was integrated into the Neoplatonic curriculum. When Greek philosophical texts w ­ ere translated into Arabic, Arabic-­speaking thinkers ­were si­mul­ta­neously exposed to the Aristotelian corpus and to the works of Plotinus and Proclus, as well as to other Hellenistic philosophical schools. Moreover, t­ hese texts reached them through similar channels. Together, the dif­fer­ent sources molded the thought of Muslim phi­los­o­phers in the Islamic East, generating a variety of doctrinal syntheses based on the texts and their interpretations.80 One notes a con­spic­u­ous example of this synthesizing pro­ cess in the title of the Arabic paraphrase of Plotinus’s Enneads IV–­VI, which came to be known as The Theology of Aristotle.81 This paraphrase was produced by the circle of al-­Kindī, faylasūf al-­ʿarab, a thinker typically taken by modern scholarship to be a Neoplatonist. It might seem, then, that the term faylasūf indicates a Neoplatonist phi­los­o­pher. In other contexts, however, 79. “Fait remarquable: ce néoplatonisme déviant, bien qu’il soit sorti d’un milieu musulman, semble avoir exercé une attraction particulière sur les philosophes juifs” (De Smet, Empedocles Arabus, 105). 80. See Endress, “Philosophie,” 25–26; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 71–72. 81. See D’Ancona, “The Theology Attributed to Aristotle,” 10–11; Vahid Brown, “Andalusi Mysticism,” 73–74. For pos­si­ble explanations for this title, and the pro­cess that brought it about, see Zimmermann, “The Origins”; and see Treiger, “Palestinian Origenism.” Whichever explanation one adopts, however, the title remains a testimony to the Neoplatonists’ self-­perception as heirs to Aristotle as well as to Plato.

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especially when juxtaposed with kalām, this word is associated with what we call Aristotelian philosophy, or with the name of al-­Fārābī. The philo­ sophical stance of individual authors appears to be more nuanced than what our oversimplified scholastic labels show.82 If, however, we imagine ­these authors placed on a spectrum based on the weight they grant to dif­fer­ ent features of their thought, their philosophical affiliation becomes rather apparent. While they all trained in Aristotelian logic, t­ here is a clear difference between t­ hose whose main emphasis rests on the Aristotelian corpus and ­those who start from the Organon only to then move t­ oward Plotinian or Pseudo-­Pythagorean theology (and even their approach to logic is differently managed). The authors of the Epistles of the Pure Brethren, for example, espoused Aristotelian logic, although their emanation cosmogony and soteriology placed them firmly on the Neoplatonist side of the spectrum. By comparison, al-­Fārābī’s thought, which also contains evident Neoplatonist ele­ments, is closely tied to the Aristotelian corpus. As stated above, the affiliation of Jewish thinkers with philosophical schools turns out to be even more ambiguous.83 Jews did not identify with the Muslim schools of kalām and ­were not counted in their number. Although some Jews are known to have frequented philosophical circles, biographical histories do not generally list them in ways that indicate close master-­disciple relations. On the w ­ hole, their commitment to scholastic traditions seems to have been looser than ­those of their Muslim counter­ parts. We thus find that the works of Jewish thinkers in the East, like the ninth-­century al-­Muqammaṣ or the tenth-­century Saʿadya, feature an admixture of kalāmic, Aristotelian, and Neoplatonic ele­ments that defy a neat categorization. A parallel phenomenon occurs in Jewish thought in al-­Andalus. Works like Baḥyā’s Duties of the Heart, Ibn Ṣaddiq’s Microcosmos, and Halevi’s Kuzari, all of which I have classified h ­ ere as Neoplatonic, contain substantial parts that draw on what they could find in kalāmic works; and The Lofty Faith by Ibn Daud, an author who w ­ ill be discussed in chapter 5 as an Aristotelian thinker, exhibits the influence of al-­Baṭalyawsī’s Circles. Even Maimonides, who, unlike most Jewish thinkers, explic­itly and forcefully identifies with the Aristotelian Andalusian school, slides in his metaphysics t­ oward what has been described as a mystical-­Neoplatonist interpretation of the highest level of ­human cognition.84 82. On al-­Kindī’s eclecticism, see Gannagé, “The Rise of Falsafa,” 33–34. 83. See introduction, pages 3–4 and page 21. 84. See Blumenthal, “Maimonides”; Ivry, “Maimonides and Neoplatonism”; Lorberbaum, Dazzled by Beauty, 3, 32.

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Of course, the proper appraisal of any of our thinkers would entail an examination of his entire oeuvre, from propaedeutic logic to metaphysics. When only part of his corpus is extant, as is too often the case, we can attempt to compensate for the missing parts by taking recourse in historiographical or other outside information. Nevertheless, we remain at risk of wrongly gauging the balance between the vari­ous philosophical ele­ments in his thought. Abū Bakr ibn Ṭufayl, to whom we ­will return in chapter 5, exemplifies this difficulty among Andalusian Muslims. His only surviving work, the philosophic fable Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān, attaches itself, by title and in its introduction, to Avicenna’s short philosophical “stories” as well as to his Eastern Wisdom. Ibn Ṭufayl’s introduction to the fable also refers to the ecstatic mysticism of al-­Ḥallāj and Abū Yazīd al-­Bistāmī. Ibn Bājja’s Regimen of the Solitary (Tadbīr al-­mutawaḥḥid) is likely a further, unacknowledged source of influence. The first part of the fable tells, in elegant Arabic prose, of an infant who grew up on an island in complete seclusion. Through observation and reflection, he gradually discovers all the sciences and philosophy, including physics and metaphysics. Eventually, he attains a mystical experience of the Creator. Central to this part of the fable is the hierarchical progression of Ḥayy’s learning, crowned by an experience that surpasses rational, discursive philosophy. The course of Ḥayy’s progression accords with the structured Aristotelian curriculum so strictly adhered to by Andalusian phi­los­op ­ hers, but the pro­cess of learning recalls Ibn Masarra’s iʿtibār. Like the language and argumentation of the introduction, the terminology and culmination of the first part display a strong Neoplatonist orientation. The Neoplatonist-­mystical orientation evident in this sole surviving work of Ibn Ṭufayl’s is somewhat corroborated by what we hear from al-­ Tādilī (d. 627/1229–30) about Ibn Ṭufayl’s association with Sufis, at least in the l­ater part of his life. Another source, ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī (b. 581/1185), identifies him as “one of the phi­los­o­phers of the Muslims who had a true knowledge, and who had studied with some of t­ hose who have a true knowledge of philosophy, one of whom was . . . ​Ibn Bājja.”85 Al-­Marrākushī’s claim that Ibn Ṭufayl had studied with Ibn Bājja, gainsaid by Ibn Ṭufayl himself, is a glaring example of his poor reliability. It is nevertheless in­ter­est­ing to note al-­Marrākushī’s vocabulary h ­ ere, which sends a mixed message—­identifying Ibn Ṭufayl on the one hand with the 85. Cornell, “Ḥayy in the Land of Absāl,” 134–36; Radtke, “How Can Man Reach the Mystical Union?”

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Andalusian Aristotelians ( falāsifa) and on the other with the trend of philosophical mysticism (mutaḥaqqiqīn).86 In the case of Ibn Ṭufayl, we are left with a less-­than-­complete picture of his philosophical persona; we can only say that he is manifestly more of a Neoplatonist than Averroes, and perhaps less so than al-­Baṭalyawsī or Maslama al-­Qurṭubī. The correct appraisal of a phi­los­op ­ her in this milieu is also of concern when we possess a fuller corpus of his writings. This question, for example, was at the core of a debate between Alexander Altmann on one side, and Charles Genequand and David Wirmer on the other. For Altmann, both Ibn Bājja and Averroes represent a synthesis of Aristotelian and Neoplatonic ele­ments, a view vigorously rejected by Genequand and Wirmer.87 Rather than referring to “schools,” Altmann prefers to speak of “orientations.” In the attempt to map the vari­ous philosophical shades in al-­Andalus, Altmann’s approach seems to me in general quite helpful.88 However, as we s­ hall see in the next chapter, the picture changes in twelfth-­century al-­Andalus. ­There, the distinctions between schools become much starker, supporting the view, taken by Altmann’s critics, on the par­tic­u­lar Aristotelian characteristics of the Andalusian falāsifa.

86. “Aḥad falāsifat al-­muslimīn, kāna mutaḥaqqiqan bi-­jamīʿ ajzāʾ al-­falsafa, wa-­qaraʾa ʿalā jamāʿa min al-­mutaḥaqqiqīn bi-­ʿilm al-­falsafa, minhum Abū Bakr Ibn al-­Ṣāʾigh al-­ maʿrūf ʿindanā bi-­ʾbni Bājja wa-­ghayruhu” (Marrākushī, Muʿjib, ed. Dozy, 172 [ed. Cairo, 201]); but see Ibn Ṭufayl, Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān, 112; Cornell, “Ḥayy in the Land of Absāl,” 133–34; and see chapter 5, page 128. On the influence of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-­ṣafāʾ as reflected in Ḥayy, see de Callataÿ, “Who ­Were the Readers,” 293–94. 87. Altmann, “Ibn Bājja on Man’s Ultimate Felicity,” 48–54; Genequand, introduction to Ibn Bāğğa, La conduite de l’isolé, 66; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 35–40. 88. Altmann, “Ibn Bājja on Man’s Ultimate Felicity,” 48–49.

ch a p t er  5

Aristotelian Neo-­Orthodoxy and Andalusian Revolts

in the e a r ly twelfth ­century, the philosophical map of al-­Andalus was dramatically redrawn. Along with what can only be described as the blossoming of Islamic philosophy a­ fter its constrained state in the previous ­century, one notices a significant shift to an orthodox version of Aristotelian philosophy.1 The thought of the Eastern Aristotelians (al-­Fārābī, Yaḥyā Ibn ʿAdī, Avicenna, or Abū al-­Barakāt al-­Baghdādī) was sprinkled with un-­Aristotelian ele­ments.2 Largely in response to Platonizing authors (especially Avicenna) as well as to the challenges presented by Abū Ḥāmid al-­Ghazālī, Andalusian falāsifa explic­itly identified with the Peripatetic tradition, and strove to strengthen the authority of Aristotle and his commentators. This stricter version of Aristotelianism, which makes its debut with Ibn Bājja u ­ nder the Almoravids, was further crystalized ­under the Almohads by phi­los­o­phers such as Averroes and Maimonides. The pre­sent chapter ­will explore this complex shift.

Aristotelian Shift Books by Oriental phi­los­o­phers like al-­Fārābī and Avicenna had already reached al-­Andalus in the eleventh c­ entury.3 At this stage of the transmission of philosophy from the Islamic East, Saragossa served as an impor­tant 1. Or, as it has been called, Neo-­Aristotelianism; see Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 45 and note 29. 2. By way of example, see Pines, “Studies in Abuʾl-­Barakāt,” 146–48. 3. See Rudolph, “Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī,” 543. On the designation of t­ hese Oriental phi­ los­o­phers as Aristotelians, see introduction, page 20. The first Andalusian phi­los­o­phers to

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gateway.4 ­Under the Hūdids, who cultivated philosophy and the sciences, and especially during the long reign of al-­Muqtadir b. Hūd (r. 438/1046– 484/1081) and his son al-­Muʾtamin (d. 488/1085), Saragossa became a vibrant intellectual center that attracted scholars from less hospitable places.5 Ibn Ṣāʿid, who is our main source on the Saragossan philosophical scene and himself one of the heralds of the impending shift, describes Aristotle as “the seal of [Greece’s] phi­los­op ­ hers” (khātimat ḥukamāʾihā), thus comparing him implicitly to Muḥammad, the Seal of the Prophets.6 ­There is some evidence to suggest that one could receive rigorous Aristotelian training in Saragossa already in the eleventh ­century. Ibn Ṣāʿid himself is an advocate of such training, but the only explicit testimony he provides regards the Jewish youngster Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy, who had reached an advanced level in the study of the Aristotelian corpus and was reading both the Physics and the De Caelo. As far as we know, the hopes expressed by Ibn Ṣāʿid regarding Abūʾl-­Faḍl’s ­future as an accomplished explic­itly cite al-­Fārābī are al-­Baṭalyawsī and Moses Ibn Ezra; see Fenton, Philosophie & exégèse, 101; Eliyahu, “Between Popularity and Marginality,” apud note 10. Scholars seeking explicit references to Avicenna’s works delay the date of Avicenna’s introduction to al-­Andalus; see, for example, Zonta, “Maimonides’ Knowledge of Avicenna”; Freudenthal and Zonta, “Avicenna among Medieval Jews,” 225–26; Genequand, introduction to Ibn Bāǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 10. Davidson’s statement (“Maimonides and the Almohads,” 10) that “­there is . . . ​no grounds for concluding that Maimonides read anything written by Avicenna . . . ​at any point of his philosophic ­career” is gainsaid not only by the explicit mention of Avicenna in Maimonides’s letter to Ibn Tibbon, but also by the reference to Avicenna’s Risālat al-­maʿād in his Epistle on Resurrection; see Maimonides, Epistles, 325, 553–54; and cf. Dobbs-­Weinstein, “Maimonides’ Reticence t­ oward Ibn Sīnā,” 281–82. Hard evidence is indeed meager, but the contemporaneous citation culture did not oblige authors to list their sources (see introduction, note 31). It is hardly pos­si­ble that a well-­ read phi­los­o­pher in twelfth-­century Andalus could have avoided reading Avicenna; see Steven Harvey, “Avicenna’s Influence on Jewish Thought,” 328–29; idem, “Some Notes,” esp. 254. Furthermore, it is quite likely that, along with Avicenna’s Qānūn, his philosophical writings and short commentaries on the Qurʾān could have reached Saragossa already in the eleventh c­ entury, and yet not be quoted explic­itly. See Pines, “ ‘And He Called Out to Nothingness,’ ” 345. 4. See Lomba Fuentes, La filosofía islamica en Zaragoza; Beech, The Brief Eminence and Doomed Fall of Islamic Saragossa, 139–59. Wasserstein (“The Muslims and the Golden Age,” 192–95) remarks that intellectual activity in Saragossa stands out only b ­ ecause we happen to have Ibn Ṣāʿid’s reports. This, indeed, leaves open the possibility that similar activity also existed in other cities, where no such rec­ords have survived. As noted by Wirmer (Vom Denken der Natur, 65), however, Wasserstein’s judicious observation does not diminish the importance of the philosophical activity in Saragossa. 5. Al-­Kattānī, for example, immigrated to Saragossa during the fiṭna; see Ibn Ṣāʿid, Ṭabaqāt al-­umam, 192; see also Beech, The Brief Eminence and Doomed Fall of Islamic Saragossa, 102. 6. See also chapter 5, page 153 and note 119.

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phi­los­o­pher did not materialize.7 At this early stage, therefore, the available evidence does not amount to what can fairly be called a coherent Saragossan philosophical school.8 It is only in the first half of the twelfth ­century that prominent in­de­ pen­dent thinkers in the Aristotelian line appear in al-­Andalus, and the change in mood is not abrupt. Al-­Baṭalyawsī’s student, Abū al-­Ṣalt of Denia (460/1067–529/1134), for instance, did not espouse (or at least did not publicly espouse) his teacher’s Neoplatonist thought patterns, but neither can he be considered an Aristotelian. Most of his extant works are dedicated to mathe­matics, medicine, and astronomy, and his only philosophical work is an introduction to logic.9 Ibn al-­Imām mentions Mālik Ibn Wuhayb (d. 525/1130) as the only person besides Ibn Bājja to have adhered to the correct scientific methods of investigation (subul al-­naẓar). Mālik was nicknamed “The Phi­los­o­pher of the West,” and although ­there is no ground for the suggestion that he was Ibn Bājja’s teacher, the two had a warm relationship. Mālik held a prominent position at the Almoravid court, and it is prob­ably his desire to hold onto this position that prompted him to keep his philosophical interests close to his chest. Ibn al-­Imām further reports that Ibn Wuhayb s­ topped discussing philosophy openly ­after having received death threats for d ­ oing so.10 Al-­Marrākushī describes him as having thorough knowledge of “many parts of philosophy,” and lists Ptolemy’s works on astronomy, which Mālik had copied and annotated.11 But the sole philosophical book that he is said to have composed is also an introduction to logic.12 Stopping at logic was, apparently, a relatively safe way to do philosophy in the unpropitious Almoravid environment. 7. See chapter 3, notes 39–40; and see Stroumsa, “Between Acculturation and Conversion,” 25–26; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 64–70. 8. Cf. Lomba Fuentes, La filosofía islamica en Zaragoza, 13; Sviri, “Spiritual Trends,” 79. The thinkers listed by Lomba Fuentes as belonging to this Saragossan school, like Ibn Gabirol and Ibn Bājja, actually follow dif­fer­ent philosophical traditions. 9. See Abū l-­Ṣalt al-­Dānī, Kitab taqwīm al-­dhihn. On his life and works, see Samuel Stern, “Abū’l-­Ṣalt.” Puig Montada (“Ibn Bājja”) counts him, along with Ibn Bājja, as one of the first Muslim phi­los­o­phers in al-­Andalus, a title that his writings hardly justify; see also Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 234–35. 10. “Wa-­aḍraba al-­rajul ʿan al-­naẓar ẓāhiran f ī hādhihi al-­ʿulūm wa-­ʿan al-­takallum f īhā li-­mā laḥiqahu min al-­muṭālabāt f ī dammihi li-­sababihā” (IAU, 515). 11. A copy of his annotated Almagest is said to have been kept by the Almohads; see Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 87. 12. See IAU, 515; and see al-­Maʿṣūmī, “Ibn al-­Imām,” 103; Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­ de­ces­sors,” 100–104; al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, ed. ʿAzb, 161; Serrano Ruano and Forcada, “Ibn Wuhayb.” See also al-­Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-­ṭīb, 3:434, 479. The desire for ghalba, which Ibn al-­Imām attributes to Mālik, prob­ably does not designate merely his craving for victory in disputations, as translated by both Dunlop and al-­Maʿṣūmī, but more generally the wish

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And yet it is u ­ nder the Almoravids, with Ibn Bājja, that Aristotelian philosophy enters its golden age in al-­Andalus. Although the study of philosophy remained private, with no institutional structure, one can identify a coherent school of thought. This Spanish Aristotelian School shared a common Aristotelian matrix. . . . ​It shared a system of ideas, similar source material and terminology, a common set of definitions and prob­lems, and a shared method of discussing ­these prob­lems. 13

The characteristic method of t­ hese Spanish Aristotelians—­writing systematic commentaries on the entire Aristotelian corpus and on t­ hose of Aristotle’s Alexandrian commentators—­was introduced by Ibn Bājja. In this, they differ from Neoplatonist phi­los­op ­ hers with a penchant for adab, such as al-­Baṭalyawsī, Moses Ibn Ezra, or even Ibn Gabirol, whose work mixed philosophical sources more freely, and was frequently based on a secondary line of philosophical texts rather than on the originals.14 The influence of al-­Fārābī and of Alexander of Aphrodisias, which is evident in Ibn Bājja’s works, also becomes a characteristic trait of the Andalusian school.15 Ibn Bājja seems to have had a knack for making enemies: the physician Abū’l-­ʿAlāʾ Ibn Zuhr (d. 524/1130) is said to have been responsible for sending him to prison in the Almoravid court. Ibn Khāqān treats Ibn Bājja with contempt in his anthology of poetry, and al-­Baṭalyawsī derided him as (only) a littérateur (adīb).16 His contemporaries may have responded to what they perceived as his personality, whereas modern scholars interpret his difficulties as reflecting the po­liti­cal situation ­under the Almoravids. Ibn Bājja himself perceived ­these as prob­lems endemic to a phi­los­o­pher living in society, an insight he developed in his Regimen of the Solitary.17 to use his rhetorical and intellectual brilliance for po­liti­cal power. The observation that the achievements of the early generations in al-­Andalus ­were at first ­limited to mathe­matics, to which they then added some logic, is made by Ibn Ṭufayl, Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān, 111. 13. Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 45; and see also ibid., 49; and see chapter 2, note 2. 14. On this, see Eliyahu, “Between Popularity and Marginality.” 15. See Lettinck, “Ibn Bāğğa as a Commentator of Aristotle”; Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 2–3; Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 45; Rudolph, “Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī,” 543. 16. See al-­Baṭalyawsī, Kitāb al-masā ʾil waʾl-­ajwiba, in Asín Palacios, “Ibn al-­Sīd de Badajoz,” 47; Leaman, “Ibn Bājja on Society and Philosophy,” 109; Elamrani-­Jamal, “Les rapports,” 77–78; Serrano, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī,” 88–89; Eliyahu, “Ibn al-­Sīd al-­ Baṭalyawsī,” 23–24. 17. See chapter 3, pages 94–95.

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This last work was prob­ably (along with Avicenna’s philosophical “stories” and his Eastern Wisdom) among the sources that inspired Abū Bakr Ibn Ṭufayl’s Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān. The extended report of the historian ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī paints Ibn Ṭufayl as a well-­rounded scholar with a penchant for poetry and a passion for ­music. Al-­Marrākushī lists several of his compositions, including an Epistle on the Soul, an autograph of which he himself had seen. Ibn Ṭufayl’s only extant work, however, the Epistle of Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān, is a philosophical fable that shows Ibn Ṭufayl to be firmly rooted in al-­Andalus’s Neoplatonist tradition.18 According to al-­Marrākushī, Ibn Ṭufayl surrounded himself with men of letters and scholars, thus furnishing the caliph with a cultured ambiance.19 Al-­Marrākushī’s depiction of this scholarly entourage also sets the stage for the currently preponderant portrayal of the Almohads as patrons of Aristotelian philosophy in twelfth-­century al-­Andalus. While po­liti­cal and social history is indeed essential for understanding the history of philosophy in al-­Andalus, it is the development of speculative thought that is at the core of the pre­sent book. The vicissitudes of the Almohad dynasty, then, are relevant to our inquiry only insofar as they are associated with the development of philosophy in this region. In this regard, we ­will now turn to consider the Almohads themselves, taking par­tic­ul­ar interest in their educational system.

Almohads and Almohad Education The Muwaḥḥidūn—­Almohads in their Latinized name—­were a Berber dynasty that emerged from the High Atlas Mountains. Having toppled another Berber Muslim dynasty, the Murābiṭūn or Almoravids, they ruled over northwest Africa (over a territory that corresponds mostly to present-­ day Morocco, northern Algeria, and some parts of Tunisia) and the southern part of the Iberian peninsula for more than a ­century (from 514/1121 ­until the official demise of the Almohad doctrine in 668/1269). The Almohads denounced the Almoravids’ corruption as well as their ineptitude in the wars against the Christians in the north of the Iberian peninsula. But beyond this, as a justification for waging war on other Muslims, Almohad propaganda stressed that, in contrast to their own identity as ­those 18. See Kukkonen, Ibn Tufayl; and see chapter 4, page 123, note 86. 19. For an En­glish translation of this account, see Cornell, “Ḥayy in the Land of Absāl,” 133–34. Despite the colorful information it furnishes, this account is clearly part of the author’s hagiographic pre­sen­ta­tion of the Almohads, and must be read with a due amount of skepticism; see chapter 5, page 135.

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upholding God’s unity (muwaḥḥidūn), the Almoravids’ version of mono­ the­ism was fundamentally flawed: they did not reject anthropomorphic conceptions of God. For the Almohads, anthropomorphism in general and the concomitant hermeneutics of anthropomorphic Qurʾānic verses w ­ ere incompatible with God’s unity. If God is truly one, He cannot have a body, since this would entail a plurality of bodily members, a duality of body and soul, and a multiplicity of corporeal attributes. Therefore, t­ hose Qurʾānic verses that seem to attribute to Him a body must be interpreted so as to cleanse Him of any suspicion of corporeality. Theology was thus impor­tant in establishing Almohad legitimacy. Indeed, theology—­reflecting on it, teaching it, building an educational system to support it, and drawing from it practical (and sometimes idiosyncratic) conclusions that affect l­egal questions as well as inner and outer policy—­occupied a much more central place in Almohad history than it did in most other Andalusian dynasties. Although the story (told by al-­Marrākushī and o ­ thers) that Ibn Tūmart had met al-­Ghazālī and had been somehow encouraged by him in his anti-­Almoravid mission is unfounded, the theology ­adopted by the Almohads was mostly Ashʿarite, inspired by al-­Ghazālī. The Almohads w ­ ere Sunnī Muslims, close to the locally dominant Mālikī school of law. Their ­legal system, however, was rather idiosyncratic, and it complemented the theological approach on which it was based. They rejected the traditional legitimacy of dif­fer­ent ­legal schools (ikhtilāf ), arguing that, as the truth is one, it cannot change according to how it is interpreted. True reformers, they sought to base their jurisdiction directly on the foundational sources of Islam (mostly Qurʾān and ḥadīth), drawing their rulings directly from the princi­ples of jurisdiction (uṣūl) rather than from derivatives thereof ( furūʿ).20 In stark contrast with the voluminous Mālikī ­legal lit­er­a­ture, which recorded pre­ce­dents, disagreements, and the chains of transmission from which each opinion drew its authority, Ibn Tūmart composed concise l­egal compendia on dif­fer­ent subjects. Conceptually, the Almohads’ peculiarities can be traced to their reaching out to the ­earlier authoritative texts, and the rejection of casuistry can be seen as resulting from this move. The jurist who turns directly to the divine and prophetic sources has ­little need for case law. In this context, the Almohads’ attitude ­toward religious minorities ­under their rule is telling. As is well known, Muslim law, Sunnī (in all the 20. This is a good example of what Michael Cook calls “upstream fundamentalism”; see Cook, Ancient Religions, Modern Politics, 373.

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recognized ­legal schools) as well as Shīʿī, considers the Jews and Christians to be “­People of the Book” and grants them a legitimate (if inferior) ­legal status. Taking an unusual stand, however, the Almohads defined both Jews and Christians as infidels. T ­ hose who refused to convert w ­ ere threatened with immediate expulsion and confiscation of their property.21 This policy practically brought North African Chris­tian­ity to an end; the Jewish communities in Almohad territories, for their parts, managed to weather out the storm living as crypto-­Jews.22 Nonetheless, the trauma of forced conversion left its mark on con­temporary Jewish communities, as is evident in the writings of con­temporary authors. Almohad rule relied on a broad support organ­ization to give it legitimacy and to maintain its administrative grip over a large territory. The hard core of this organ­ization was based on ­family and tribal connections, which was then broadened into a proper imperial infrastructure. ­Toward this end, a dynamic and hierarchical cadre, the ṭalaba—­cadets of the public administration—­was formed. Already during their training the ṭalaba ­were divided into two groups: the caliph’s entourage, called “the intimate ṭalaba” (ṭalabat al-­ḥaḍar), and “the Almohad ṭalaba” (ṭalabat al-­Muwaḥḥidīn), designated to hold the regional, local administration. It seems that the ṭalaba ­were selected at a young age, and entered a well-­organized training system. Their education included sessions (mudhākarāt) that prepared them for theological and other discussions, and a period of practical training in which they ­were sent to participate in meetings, war expeditions, and diplomatic errands. This system was headed by an overseer (called shaykh, raʿīs, or mizwār al-­ṭalaba).23 Notwithstanding several modifications to the institution of the ṭalaba during their long rule, the interest in promoting learning and education remained a characteristic trait of the Almohads. The founder of the Almohad revolution, Muḥammad Ibn Tūmart, was himself an educated person, 21. See Fierro, “Revolution and Tradition,” 3; eadem, “A Muslim Land”; Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 57 and note 18; Bennison and Angeles Gallego, “Religious Minorities.” 22. See al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 252; Corcos, Studies, 136–60; Teissier, “La desaparición de la antigua iglesia de África,” esp. 42–44; Dufourcq, “Le christianisme dans les pays de l’Occident musulman,” esp. 239–40; Molénat, “Sur le rôle des Almohades dans la fin du christianisme local”; Fierro, “The ­Legal Policies,” 227; Hopkins, Medieval Muslim Government in Barbary, 61; Hirschberg, A History of the Jews in North Africa, 136; Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 56–61; and cf. Chérif, “Encore sur le statut de ḏimmīs.” 23. On the hierarchy and strict discipline of the ṭalaba, see, for example, Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 81–83; and see Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade.” On the structure of Almohad administration, see also Fromherz, The Almohads, 87–133; Fricaud, “Le problème de la disgrâce,” 156–57.

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versed in the Qurʾān and theology, interested in astronomy, astrology, and the occult sciences. Theologically, his teaching closely followed Ashʿarite theology (except in what concerns the anthropomorphic Qurʾānic language, where he was closer to the Muʿtazila).24 From the start, Ibn Tūmart promoted a puritan policy. His fiery sermons against the corrupt Almoravids stressed the loose mores of the royal females as well as their outrageous expenditures. He presented himself as a religious reformer, carry­ing out the Qurʾānic requirement (Q. 3:104) “to command right and to forbid wrong.”25 He is said to have personally smashed wine amphorae as well as musical instruments. He is described as beating the adorned camel that carried the s­ ister of the Almoravid caliph, and swinging his stick at men and ­women who mingled on market days. One often reads of such puritanical be­hav­ior in the portrayal of Muslim reformists, and elaborate descriptions thereof in the texts that support the movement would come as no surprise. Ibn Tūmart’s proclamation as the anticipated Mahdī, who would fill the earth with justice as it had been filled with inequity, also follows familiar patterns in the history of the Islamic West.26 Against the backdrop of this expectable pre­sen­ta­tion, the unexpected, unconventional intellectual and academic portrayal of the Almohads’ interests, from Ibn Tūmart to the last of his successors, stands out. Beyond preaching, Ibn Tūmart initiated a systematic educational effort among the Berbers. Like many a theologian before him, Ibn Tūmart formulated a creed (ʿaqīda) that contained the main princi­ples of faith. Unlike other theologians and rulers, however, Ibn Tūmart and his successors compelled their subjects—­young and old, male and female, educated and unlettered—to memorize and recite this creed.27 Almohad ceremonies included the singing of hymns, among which was apparently a rhymed form of their creed—an effective way to indoctrinate a wide public.28 In line with Ibn Tūmart’s hierarchical conception of education, he ordained not one but two versions of the creed (the ʿAqīda and the Murshida); one 24. Al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 159, 162. Goldziher, Le livre, passim. In this sense, Aʿazz mā yuṭlabu, known as Ibn Tūmart’s Book (although prob­ably compiled and edited ­later) reflects his theological choices. 25. Al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 155; Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 92–94. See also Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong, 458. 26. See, for example, Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 124–25; Fierro, “The Almohads,” 67–68; eadem, “Le mahdi Ibn Tûmart,” 113–16. 27. A similar educational move is reported to have been carried out in the eigh­teenth ­century in the Arabian peninsula, involving the Epistle of Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-­Wahhāb; see Cook, Ancient Religions, Modern Politics, 212, note 275. 28. See Fromherz, The Almohads, 181.

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was geared ­toward the multitudes, while the other, a more sophisticated version, was intended for the ṭalaba. Furthermore, Ibn Tūmart had early on prepared a version of the princi­ples of faith for his Berber followers in the Berber language, thus gaining their trust and loyalty.29 The Almohad administration was strictly and hierarchically or­ga­nized. ­There ­were fourteen ranks below the caliph, arranged in a pyramidal structure. A tight hierarchy was kept also in the highest rank, closest to the caliph. At least for some time, the caliph’s entourage was the Group of Seventy; among them, the Fifty ­were closer to him, and among the latter ­were the Group of the Ten, the caliph’s most trusted companions. In all three groups, the caliph took care to include ­people stemming from dif­fer­ ent tribes. Harnessing thus the tribal confederative system to his own hierarchical administration, Ibn Tūmart achieved a degree of centralization that allowed him to rule despite his reliance on the chronically rebellious tribal system. His successor, ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin, modified the system, further improving it.30 We have no data regarding the exact correspondence between the system of the Seventy, the Fifty, and the Ten, on the one hand, and between the ṭalaba, on the other. We know, at least, that it was from among the latter that the caliph’s entourage was chosen, and it was the ṭalaba system that sustained and supported the caliph and his entourage. The scholarly and administrative pyramidal structures, though not exactly identical to each other, overlapped on many points. Ibn Tūmart’s heir, the caliph ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin (who was also the true founder of the dynasty), established in Marrakesh a proper school for the ṭalaba’s training: a school with a fixed curriculum and set syllabi, equipped with a racing course and a large pond for swimming and rowing. The Almohad regime, then, went to ­great pains to build up a disciplined and educated ruling elite.31 Unsurprisingly, this education began with instruction in religious subjects: the study of the Qurʾān, Prophetic traditions (ḥadīth), and religious law ( fiqh)—­and of course the Almohad creed. Supervising the teaching of ­these subjects was the ḥāfiẓ (lit. guardian or retainer).32 Beyond such subjects, however, some of the ṭalaba also studied medicine, logic, astronomy, 29. See, for example, Ibn Abī Zarʿ, Al-­Qirṭās, quoted by Goldziher, Le livre, 44; Al-­ Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 161; Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 129; Fierro, “The Almohads,” 70. 30. See Fierro, “The Almohads,” 83–84; Fromherz, The Almohads, 100–128. 31. See, for example, Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 178–79. Further on Almohad education, see Fierro, “The Islamic West,” 29–31. 32. This term was used in the Almohad administration for young students who had memorized the Qurʾān (al-­ṣibyān al-­ḥuffāẓ) as well as for the politruk, the official in charge of their theologico-­political indoctrination; see, for instance, Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 178–79; Fromherz, The Almohads, 93, 126–27.

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and astrology, and it seems that such additional breadth of education was considered, to some extent and in some circumstances, a plus in the criteria for promotion to higher ranks. The texts describing the ṭalaba single out this latter group as the most advanced or prominent (jillat al-­ṭalaba, akābir al-­ṭalaba), in contrast to the beginners or common students (aṣāghir al-­ṭalaba). The study of ­these less-­anticipated subjects, and even the exposure to them, was not left to chance. Their instruction was closely monitored, and the supervisor or teacher was expected to use censorship in order to block access to t­ hese fields from t­ hose he deemed unsuitable or not yet ready for them. A vivid example of such monitoring is recounted by Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, who cites the physician Abū Bakr Ibn Zuhr, a prominent figure in the Almohad educational revolution: Two students [ṭalaba]33 approached Abū Bakr Ibn Zuhr “the grand­son”

in order to practice with him medicine.34 . . . ​They stayed with him for

some time, and read u ­ nder his guidance some medical works. One day they came to him, and one of them was holding a small book of logic. Also pre­sent was Abū al-­Ḥusayn al-­Maṣdūm, and their purpose was to study this book. Ibn Zuhr glanced at the book, and said: “What is this?” Then he took it and looked at it, and seeing that it dealt with the science of logic, he sent the book flying, and got up, barefoot, to beat them up.35 They fled from him, and he was chasing them just as he was (i.e., barefoot), cursing them with all his might while they w ­ ere ­running ahead of him. Fi­nally, a­ fter chasing them thus for a quite long way, he let them go. Thereafter, they kept their distance for a few days, not daring to appear before him. When they summoned their courage to come to him, they made excuses for their be­hav­ior, saying that that book—it did not belong to them, and it did not interest them in the least. They only saw it in the hands of another young man whom they met on their way 33. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa pointedly keeps the term ṭalaba (. . . ​min al-­ṭalaba ithnān, instead of using the dual form), thus underlining the fact that t­ hese two belonged to the Almohad class of cadets. As the ensuing anecdote suggests, they must have been beginners, in the very first stages of their education. 34. Li-­yashtaghilā ʿalay-­hi; prob­ably as apprentices, as the practice of medicine was taught. On Abū Bakr Ibn Zuhr al-­ḥaf īḍ, see Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 317–18. 35. Prob­ably with his own shoe, then as now a rather common way to express righ­ teous indignation (thus, in the 2011 presidential elections in Egypt, shoes ­were hurled on the in­de­pen­dent candidate Aḥmed Shaf īq Zākī during his campaign). See also al-­Malaṭī, al-­Tanbīh waʾl-­radd ʿalā ahl al-­bidaʿ waʾl-­ahwāʾ, 29–30.

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to Ibn Zuhr. They, in fact, ridiculed the owner of the book, harassed him and seized the book from him by force. This is how the book was left with them when they came to Ibn Zuhr, but they loathe it. Ibn Zuhr deigned to accept their apologies, and they stayed with him, continuing to learn the medical profession. He ordered them to memorize the Qurʾān well, to study Qurʾānic commentaries, prophetic traditions [ḥadīth] and religious law [fiqh], and to be very par­tic­u­lar in keeping the precepts. They took ­great care to do so, obeyed him, acquired a good knowledge of the materials he indicated to them that they should study, and became accustomed to keeping religious precepts. Then, as they ­were sitting with him one day, he suddenly took out the book of logic that he had seen in their possession, and told them: “Now you are ready to study this book, as well as similar ones, with me.”36

Ibn Zuhr, like other expert physicians since Galen, must have considered logic to be an indispensable component of the physician’s education.37 But for philosophically literate ­people like himself, the dangers of disseminating philosophy ­were obvious. Hence, they ­limited this dissemination to propaedeutic disciplines like logic; and even so, they remained anxious about the outcome of such dissemination.

The Almohads and Philosophy Philosophy, and certainly philosophy beyond logic, was thus not included in the ṭalaba’s curriculum. Nevertheless, the pre­sen­ta­tion of philosophy as an item on the Almohads’ educational agenda, with Averroes starring in this program—­a pre­sen­ta­tion that relies on the Almohad sources themselves—­has become common in modern scholarship.38 The Almohad effort to add a philosophical appeal to the image of the Almohad caliphs began quite early. The poet Abū Ḥabūs (d. 570/1175) thus praised the engagement of the Almohad caliph ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin in scientific education, saying that the schools he had built for the sciences would have been admired and envied by Socrates.39 Another good example is an adulating 36. IAU, 523–24 (italics added). 37. See Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 44. 38. See, for instance, Geoffroy, “L’almohadisme théologique d’Averroès,” 47. 39. “Madārisa tasiʿu al-­riyāḍa, law raʾa Suqrāṭ sīratahā la-­dhamma al-­haykala” (Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 174).

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epistle addressed to ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin by Abū ʿAbd al-­Raḥmām b. Ṭāhir (d. 574/1178) and preserved by the Almohad historian Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān (d. 628/1230). The epistle, entitled The Sufficient [Treatise] on the Rational and Textual Proofs for the Imām, the Mahdī . . . (al-­Kāf īya f ī barāhīn al-­ imām al-­mahdī . . . ​ʿaqlan wa-­naqlan), is structured as a debate between two aspects of the soul mentioned in the Qurʾān, the one that incites to evil (al-­nafs al-­ammāra biʾl-­sūʾ, Q. 12:53) and the serene one (al-­nafs al-­ muṭmaʾinna, Q. 89:27). This description draws heavi­ly from the Qurʾān and ḥadīth, but Ibn Ṭāhir peppers it with terminology that echoes philosophical language. He describes the pre-­Almohad regimes as “jāhilī cities and corrupt regimes” (mudun jāhiliyya wa-­siyar fāsida), or “erring, jāhilī cities” (al-­mudun al-­ḍālla al-­jāhiliyya). The Almoravid cities in par­tic­u­ lar are, for him, “erring, impious, reprehensible” (ḍālla, fāsiqa, khabītha), and he contrasts them with the virtuous city (madīna fāḍila) and with the “ultimate felicity” (al-­saʿāda al-­quṣwā) that he found realized in the Almohad state.40 Ibn Ṭāhir, however, was not versed in philosophy: even his reference to al-­Ghazālī indicates that the name meant ­little to him, except what had reached him through the Almohad filter.41 Rather than an informed or conscious allusion to philosophical works, such as al-­Fārābī’s Opinions of the ­People of the Virtuous City, this semiphilosophical terminology prob­ably reflects the popularization of some central themes of ­these works, perhaps particularly in Almohad propaganda.42 The main culprit for the philosophical pre­sen­ta­tion of the Almohads, however, seems to be ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī, whose flattering history of the Almohads was written, prob­ably in Baghdād, in 621/1224.43 Al-­Marrākushī consistently portrays the Almohads as enlightened rulers, even divinely inspired ones, and their pre­sen­ta­tion as patrons of philosophy is part of this image.44 Despite the relatively late date of his work, al-­Marrākushī is well informed. However, to his account, built on solid information, he adds his interpretations and embellishments. Regarding philosophy, al-­Marrākushī’s hyperbole revolves around Ibn Ṭufayl’s position at the Almohad court. He attempts to relate other prominent 40. See Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 101–22, esp. 102–4. 41. See Ibn al-­Qaṭṭān, Naẓm al-­Jumān, 105, where he mentions the encounter of Ibn Tūmart with “the man known as al-­Ghazālī.” 42. Cf. Fierro, “Heraclius,” 181. 43. On the date of the compilation of the Muʿjib, preserved in a single manuscript, see Lévi-­Provençal, “ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī.” One should note al-­Marrākushī’s admission that he had no previous historical account to rely on, and that all his information is derived from hearsay; see Muʿjib, 8. 44. On the “inside accounts” of the Almohads, see Fromherz, The Almohads, 12.

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phi­los­o­phers to Ibn Ṭufayl, thus forging a spiritual genealogy of phi­los­ o­phers associated with the Almohads. Al-­Marrākushī is the only source describing Ibn Ṭufayl as a disciple of Ibn Bājja, and the only source presenting Averroes’s philosophical proj­ect as prompted by the caliph and initiated by Ibn Ṭufayl. The Aristotelian silsila, or chain of transmission, he thus fashions, g ­ oing from Ibn Bājja to Ibn Ṭufayl and from Ibn Ṭufayl to Averroes, is part of the philosophical veneer he attributes to the Almohads. Al-­Marrākushī’s narrative begins with clear warning bells: his first claim, which pre­sents Ibn Ṭufayl as a disciple of Ibn Bājja, is belied by Ibn Ṭufayl’s own testimony. Nevertheless, his second claim (presenting the caliph as the instigator of Averroes’s commentaries) has been widely accepted and further elaborated, and it merits close examination. In an oft-­cited text, al-­Marrākushī recounts (on the authority of Averroes’s student, the faqīh Abū Bakr Bundūd) how Ibn Ṭufayl introduced Averroes to the caliph Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf (r. 558–80/1163–84). In this interview, the perceptive caliph, sensing Averroes’s anxiety, put him at ease and engaged him in a conversation about the thorny question of the phi­ los­o­phers’ position regarding the creation of the world. In d ­ oing so, he was demonstrating his own erudition on this ­matter. Relying on the same Ibn Bundūd, who quotes his teacher Averroes, al-­Marrākushī further reports another, apparently unrelated conversation. The short text, which has been taken by modern scholars to say much more than it actually does, deserves to be quoted in full: One day Abū Bakr Ibn Ṭufayl called me and said: “I heard t­ oday the Prince of the Faithful complaining about Aristotle’s difficult way of expressing himself, or the way the translators express his views. Mentioning the abstruseness of [Aristotle’s] intentions, [the Prince of the Faithful] said: ‘Would that ­these books find someone to summarize them [yulakhkhiṣuhā] and make their intentions more accessible, ­after having first understood them well, so that their relevance to ­people may be made clear!’ So if your strength is equal to this task—go ahead and do it. 45 I want you to carry it out b ­ ecause of what I know about you, namely your fine mind and pure disposition, and how motivated you are in what concerns this art. What prevents me from ­doing it [myself] is what you know: [my] old age, as well as being occupied

45. See the translation of Renan, Averroès et l’Averroïsme, 34; and cf. Puig Montada (“El proyecto vital,” 16), whose punctuation includes this sentence in the quotation of the Prince’s words.

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in the [ruler’s] ser­vice and distracted by ­things that I consider more impor­tant.” Abūʾl Walīd [Ibn Rushd] said: This was what brought me to write epitomes [talkhīṣ mā lakhkhaṣtuhu] of the books of the phi­los­o­pher Aristotle. 46

This text is frequently adduced as a proof for the claim that Averroes wrote his Commentaries (or, more precisely, his M ­ iddle Commentaries) at the behest of the Almohad caliph.47 Yet, even if we trust al-­Marrākushī and his source, our text stops short of saying that the prince actively commissioned the Commentaries from Ibn Ṭufayl, let alone from Averroes. Moreover, ­there is no indication whatsoever that ­either the caliph or Averroes intended ­these commentaries to become part of the curriculum of the ṭalaba. Furthermore, as stated above, al-­Marrākushī’s testimony regarding the development of philosophy u ­ nder the Almohads is far from trustworthy. In the early thirteenth c­ entury, when he compiled his Muʿjib, Averroes’s Commentaries ­were already well known.48 By linking the Almohad caliph with Averroes’s Commentaries, al-­Marrākushī credited the Almohads with the flowering of philosophy in this period, just as he did by associating Ibn Bājja with Ibn Ṭufayl.49 Al-­Marrākushī does not date ­either Averroes’s meeting with the caliph or his conversation with Ibn Ṭufayl. Theoretically, they could have taken place already in 558/1163, immediately a­ fter Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf succeeded 46. Al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 203–4. 47. See, for example, Renan, Averroès et l’Averroïsme, 33–34; Munk, Des principaux philosophes arabes, 411; Griffel, Apostasie, 421; idem, “Ibn Tūmart’s Rational Proof,” 794 and the sources cited in note 126; Dominique Urvoy, “Les professions de foi d’Ibn Tūmart,” 742; idem, Averroès, 85; Hourani, “Averroes’ The Decisive Treatise,” 164; Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 381–82; idem, “Le problème de la disgrâce,” 158; Ivry, Averroës, ­Middle Commentary, xiv, xviii; idem, “The Utilization of Allegory,” 171 (although, without questioning the validity of the anecdote, Ivry also notes that the caliph could hardly have been expected to read ­these commentaries, or even to express interest in reading them); Cornell, “Ḥayy in the Land of Absāl,” 135; Steven Harvey, “Averroes’ Use of Examples,” 94; Puig Montada, “El proyecto vital,” 18; Fierro, “The ­Legal Policies,” 228. Benmakhlouf (Pourquoi lire les philosophes arabes, 39–40) rightly treats this anecdote as “une mise en scène philosophique.” 48. In the late twelfth ­century, while Averroes was still alive, Maimonides, then living in Egypt, wrote that he received “every­thing that Ibn Rushd had composed [kull mā allafahu] on Aristotle’s books, except the On Sense and Sensibilia”; see Maimonides, Epistles, 291, 299. For a list of Averroes’s commentaries, see IAU, 532–33; Wolfson, “Revised Plan,” 90–91; al-­ʿAlawī, al-­Matn al-­Rushdī, 14–45; Puig Montada, “El proyecto vital.” 49. Dominique Urvoy (Averroès, 85) supports the suggestion of Morata (“La presentación de Averroes”) that, seeking to show his proj­ect as enjoying the regime’s support, Averroes himself was responsible for retroactively spreading this story.

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ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin, but the date more commonly suggested is 562/1166 or slightly thereafter, once his position as amīr al-­muʿminīn was firmly established.50 We do have, however, some notion of the chronology of Averroes’s writings, and we know that several of his short commentaries (variously referred to as jāmiʿ, mukhtaṣar, and al-­ḍarūrī), or a first version thereof, ­were already written by that date.51 Some of his ­Middle Commentaries on the Organon ­were also already written.52 The careful structuring of the vari­ous commentaries strongly suggests that in some way, Averroes’s ternary proj­ect of commentaries on the Aristotelian corpus was coherently thought out from its inception, and that his short commentaries, the 50. See Dominique Urvoy, Averroès, 89 and 231. Cruz Hernández (Abū-­l-­Walīd Muḥammad Ibn Rušd, 58) suggests the date 564–65/1168; see also Fricaud, “Le problème de la disgrâce,” 158 and note 6. Morata (“La presentación de Averroes,” 104–12) suggests that the meeting must have taken place during the reign of ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin, during Averroes’s trip to North Africa in 548/1153, and that the story was structured so as to highlight Ibn Ṭufayl’s influence at the court. Somewhat circuitously, Morata argues that the commentary on On the Generations of Animals, dated 565/1169, would not have been a suitable choice to begin a proj­ect instigated by a caliph interested in metaphysics. The first commentaries must therefore have been written considerably ­earlier, and if we assume that they ensued from a caliphal request, the crucial meeting with the caliph must also have been ­earlier. This suggestion is followed by Fierro (“The Almohads and the Fatimids,” 168–69), who dates the meeting between 548/1153 and 554/1157 and can thus argue that “only then did Averroes start to write his commentaries on Aristotle”; see Fierro, “The Islamic West,” 27; eadem, “The Almohads,” 74; eadem, “Ibn Rushd’s (Averroes) ‘Disgrace’,” 77 and 107 (where the meeting is dated in 550–58/1155–63). One should note, however, that although in al-­Marrākushī’s report Ibn Ṭufayl does not name the “Prince of the Faithful” whose wish he expresses, the story is presented as a sequel to Ibn Ṭufayl’s introduction of Averroes to ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin’s successor Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf, in whose court Ibn Ṭufayl is indeed said to have been held in high esteem; see al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 202–3. The supposed meeting is thus squarely staged a­ fter 558/1163, by which time Averroes had already begun writing his commentaries; see also the following note. 51. ­These include the short commentary on the Organon, written already in 552/1157; the short commentary on the de Anima; the jawāmiʿ on Aristotle’s Physics, Meteorology, On Generation and Corruption, and On the Heavens, written in 555/1159; and on the Metaphysics, written perhaps in 556/1161. See al-­ʿAlawī, al-­Matn al-­Rushdī, 49–58; Cruz Hernández, Abū-­l-­Walīd Muḥammad Ibn Rušd, 58, 64. 52. The M ­ iddle Commentary on the Topics (Talkhīṣ kitāb al-­jadal) is dated to 563/1168; see al-­ʿAlawī, al-­Matn al-­Rushdī, 68. Al-­ʿAlawī (ibid., 61–66) suggests dating the M ­ iddle Commentary on the Categories as early as 560/1164, followed by the talkhīṣ al-­ʿibāra (561/1165) and talkhīṣ al-­qiyās (562/1166). Al-­ʿAlawī (ibid., 219–20) nevertheless accepts the veracity of al-­Marrākushī’s report, hence his suggestion that the conversation led Averroes to a renewed examination of his previous commentaries. According to the fahrasa of Averroes’s writings, however, the first ­Middle Commentary, on the Parva Naturalia, was written only ­later, in Sevilla in 565/1170; see Cruz Hernández, Abū-­l-­Walīd Muḥammad Ibn Rušd, 58. That some summas ­were already written before the meeting is admitted also by Morata, “La presentación de Averroes,” 108–9.

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jawāmiʿ, ­were not conceived as a finite endeavor.53 Although he worked on this proj­ect throughout his life, when he started the jawāmiʿ he was prob­ ably already contemplating the next levels of commentaries. At the supposed date of the meeting, Averroes had already embarked on this proj­ect, and was prob­ably already known for having done so. If we accepted the frame story as valid, Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf would turn out in this anecdote to be like Saint-­Exupéry’s King of Asteroid 325, who o ­ rders the L ­ ittle Prince to do exactly what he is already d ­ oing. The tale would imply that Averroes’s ongoing intellectual activity received the blessing, or at least the consent, of the state. Hence, one ­ought to seek an explanation for Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf ’s showing his ­favor to Averroes in the court’s constellation, just as it was prob­ably this constellation that l­ater brought his successor Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb al-­Manṣūr (580–95/1184–99) to exile Averroes to Lucena and confiscate his books (including, in all probability, the “commissioned” Commentaries).54 Averroes was a talented young man with both juridical and medical credentials, and he was willing to cooperate with the Almohads. The Almohad administration must have recognized his promise, and thus, like Ibn Ṭufayl before him, like his friend Abū Jaʿfar al-­Dhahābī ­after him,55 and like Avicenna in the East, Averroes was recruited for high administrative positions of the state. At most, the “commissioned Commentaries”

53. On the cohesiveness of the proj­ect, reworked and rethought throughout Averroes’s life, see Puig Montada, “El proyecto vital.” In layering the level of the commentaries, Averroes seems to have tried to create for the Aristotelian corpus, as three separate subgenres, the tripartite system of adressing dif­fer­ent publics that he sees unified in the Qurʾān; see chapter 5, note 70; and see Stroumsa, “The Literary Corpus,” 227–28. 54. With his flair for colorful anecdotes, al-­Marrākushī (Muʿjib, 252–53) suggests two versions for a faux pas that Averroes had made precisely in one of his commentaries. The reasons for Averroes’s exile are variously given as his philosophical ideas or some trivial offense he may have committed; see, for example, IAU, 532; Munk, Des principaux philosophes arabes, 424; Makkī, “Contribución,” 16; Tornero, “La filosofía,” 595; Geoffroy, “L’almohadisme théologique d’Averroès,” 12; Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 376–78; idem, “Le problème de la disgrâce.” See also Fierro, “Ibn Rushd’s (Averroes) ‘Disgrace’.” According to Ibn ʿAbd al-­Mālik al-Marrakushī (Dhayl, 4:25–26), and to Ibn ʿIdhārī (Bayān, 5:226), both of whom rely upon the authority of Abū al-­Ḥajjāj Yūsuf (cf. Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 376–78), Averroes was accused of having abandoned in his book the accepted traditions of the sharīʿa and having given pre­ce­dence to the judgment of Nature. Even in t­ hese reports, however, the dynamics of pressures at court are evident; the caliph is said to have had no choice but to take up the defense of the sharīʿa, once the accusation was made in public and agreed upon (ijtimāʿ al-­mala’, not ijmāʿ, una­nim­i­ty; cf. Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 378; idem, “Le problème de la disgrâce,” 169; see also Ibn ʿIdhārī, Bayān, 5:226, who reads ittifāq al-­ṭalaba). 55. On al-­Dhahābī’s trial, see Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 379–83; idem, “Le problème de la disgrâce,” 179–80; and see further below, page 142.

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­ ere a sign of the ruler’s ­favor to one he is about to promote, his indulgence w of Averroes’s tastes rather than an indication of his own. Alfred Ivry has argued that the M ­ iddle Commentaries, written as a po­liti­cal act at the request of the caliph, w ­ ere actually composed a­ fter the Long Commentaries, as abridgments thereof.56 If so, one could suggest reading al-­Marrākushī more narrowly: Averroes was indeed already known for his Aristotelian proj­ect, but was asked specifically to write an additional kind of commentary, the talkhīṣ.57 This idea, however, like the previous one, is difficult to accept: it seems that some of the ­Middle Commentaries ­were written already before the meeting. Furthermore, if indeed not only the Short but also the Long Commentaries w ­ ere already written, the likelihood is greater that Averroes was contemplating a multilevel proj­ect from an early stage. The real difficulty with this suggestion, however, as with the previous one, remains the credibility of al-­Marrākushī’s semihagiographic report. His interest in philosophy is incidental, and he does not show much understanding of its nuances.58 Furthermore, although al-­Marrākushī prides himself on having seen some of Averroes’s Commentaries, his description of ­these books shows that he had only a vague notion of which kind of commentaries he actually saw: I myself 59 saw the epitome [talkhīṣ] which the said Abūʾl-­Walīd wrote on the books of the Phi­los­o­pher [Aristotle], about a hundred and fifty pages in one volume. He titled it “The book of compendia” [Kitāb al-­ jawāmiʿ], and in it he summarized [lakhkhaṣa] Aristotle’s Physics, On the Heavens, On Generation and Corruption, and the Sense and Sensibilia. Thereafter he summarized it [lakhkhaṣahā] and explained [sharaḥa] its intentions in a detailed book, in four volumes.60

Al-­Marrākushī does not seem to distinguish between a short commentary (mukhtaṣar or jāmiʿ), a ­middle commentary (talkhīṣ), and a long 56. Ivry, Averroës, ­Middle Commentary, xxiv–­xxvi; idem, “Averroes’ Three Commentaries on De anima.” 57. See, for example, Steven Harvey, “Similarities and Differences,” 84–85. 58. It is at least odd that in a conversation between the two phi­los­o­phers, Ibn Ṭufayl would call philosophy “an art” (ṣināʿa), a term that phi­los­o­phers usually reserved for the more technical branches of science, such as logic or medicine. The use of this term h ­ ere may be due to the faqīh Bundūd, who, although described as Averroes’s disciple, cannot be counted as a phi­los­o­pher. It is more likely, however, to be an incriminating fingerprint, betraying al-­Marrākushī’s heavy-­handed involvement in the redaction of this text. 59. The speaker h ­ ere is al-­Marrākushī, and not the above-­mentioned Bundūd; cf. Puig Montada, “El proyecto vital,” 16. 60. Al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 204.

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commentary (sharḥ). He uses lakhkhaṣa/talkhīṣ for all three, and it would be difficult to deduce from this fuzzy report the inception of any specific kind of commentary. In reporting Ibn Ṭufayl’s conversation with Averroes, al-­Marrākushī likely places the term talkhīṣ in his protagonists’ mouth not b ­ ecause they discussed this par­tic­u­lar kind of commentary but rather ­because he was vaguely familiar with this term and considered it appropriate. The meeting and conversation, supposedly so decisive for launching Averroes’s c­ areer as “the Commentator,” prob­ably never took place as told. Nevertheless, the two charming anecdotes are significant in that they disclose the use of philosophy in Almohad propaganda and the cooperation of intellectuals like Averroes with the Almohad regime.

The Phi­los­o­phers and the Almohads The flowering of Islamic philosophy in the twelfth ­century ­under the Almohads that gave rise to the major Andalusian phi­los­o­phers, Ibn Bājja, Ibn Ṭufayl, and Averroes, was neither wholly serendipitous nor strategically planned. This phenomenon has its roots in the gradual development of philosophy beforehand, ­under the Almoravids. Goldziher regarded the fierce polemics between Mālikism and Ashʿarism as the main intellectual/religious battleground in al-­Andalus of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. U ­ nder the Almohads, this b ­ attle continued, although with a dif­fer­ent balance of power. Unlike the Almoravids, the Almohads did not usually view the phi­los­o­phers as a threat to their ruling doctrine. They therefore gave philosophy some breathing space in which it could develop. Moreover, their interest in astrology and magic led them to recognize the importance of astronomy and physics, and of the sciences in general.61 Philosophy thus enjoyed a somewhat protected place at the Almohad court. The rulers w ­ ere inconsistent in this re­spect, however, and one can see occasional abrupt changes in their stance t­ oward philosophy, sometimes in correlation with the vagaries of the campaigns against the Christians in the north (and consequently with the rulers’ dependence on the good w ­ ill of the Mālikī clergy, whose support was needed to preserve po­liti­cal stability). This ambivalent and somewhat capricious stance was nonetheless much more lenient than the treatment phi­los­o­phers and 61. Goldziher, Le livre, 70. Goldziher’s view, however, that the Maghrebi Mālikism up to the sixth Hijri c­ entury (that is, including the Almoravids) “left Aristotelianism and other philosophies to develop freely” goes too far.

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scientists received in many places during the ­Middle Ages, and it certainly constituted a marked improvement compared to the situation ­under the Almoravids. The overall intellectual curiosity of the Almohads is undeniable, and Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf, specifically, seems to have taken an interest in speculation and the speculative arts. The Muʿjib praises his insatiable desire for knowledge. The caliph’s erudition, duly admired by the author of the Muʿjib, pertains mostly to domains of religious studies, broadly defined—­ Qurʾān, ḥadīth, grammar, and ayyām al-­ʿArab—­but he is also said to have turned his mind to philosophy and medicine. Competing with the legacy of the Andalusian Umayyads, he is said to have collected books on philosophy, thus establishing a huge library, similar to that of al-­Ḥakam II.62 In the debates (mudhākarāt) held at his assembly (majlis), he is said to have himself offered the opening question to the debate.63 From the surviving descriptions of t­ hese “debates,” however, it appears that they typically took up the theological topics contained in Ibn Tūmart’s ʿaqīda.64 Apart from the above-­mentioned tale regarding Averroes’s interview, ­there is no indication that philosophical topics featured prominently in t­ hese discussions.65 In this context, the case of Abū Jaʿfar al-­Dhahābī merits special mention. Perhaps like Averroes, al-­Dhahābī belonged to the ṭalaba and was a physician who was also interested in philosophy. A ­ fter they had both been demoted, only to be l­ater rehabilitated, al-­Dhahābī was appointed, like Averroes before him, to be head physician (mizwār al-­aṭibbā’). He also ­rose to become mizwār al-­ṭalaba, a higher position in this hierarchy than the one Averroes ever reached. Yet it has been further suggested in modern scholarship that, in making ­these appointments, Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb was attempting to reconcile sharīʿa and philosophy in the wake of Averroes, and that al-­Dhahābī was also appointed to be the “head of the phi­ los­o­phers.”66 Nothing in the available texts suggests such an appointment or such intentions, nor is ­there any sign that a “philosophical party” ever participated in the Almohad administration.67 62. Al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 199. 63. Ibn Ṣāḥib al-­ṣalāt, al-­Mann bi’l-­imāma, 407–8; Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 361, citing al-­Marrākushī’s Muʿjib (484, lines 17–19; and Ibn Ṣāḥib al-­ṣalāt, al-­ Mann bi’l-­imāma, 285:14–286:1). 64. Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 362, citing Ibn Ṣāḥib al-­ṣalāt, al-­ Mann bi’l-­imāma, 228–30. 65. Cf. Steven Harvey, “Averroes’ Use of Examples,” 105–8. 66. Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 381–83; idem, “Le problème de la disgrâce,” 187; see also Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 318. 67. Cf. Fricaud, “Les Ṭalaba dans la société almohade,” 381 and note 87.

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In recent years, this erroneous notion has been further developed, fashioning Averroes as both the product and the key figure of a state system designed to offer philosophical training to the cadre of the Almohad administration.68 What­ever interest Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf may have had in philosophy, however, it is evident that his main concern was not attaining true felicity, but rather po­liti­cal survival. As for Averroes—­who was indeed a feather in the Almohads’ cap—he was part of the Almohad administration and may have even served as an advisor in building their educational system. But his pedagogical philosophy was grounded in a hierarchical view of ­human society. He insisted on the paramount importance of addressing each person according to his or her capacity of understanding and on keeping philosophical truth hidden from ­those who ­were incapable of grasping it. Accordingly, he was opposed to the Almohad imposition of nonanthropomorphic theology on all classes of the population. In his Decisive Treatise (Faṣl al-­maqāl), Averroes endeavored to establish the use of rational reflection (iʿtibār) as a ­legal obligation, using Q. 59 [al-­ Ḥashr]:2 as his proof text. For him, however, this obligation is not equally incumbent on all levels of society. Concluding this treatise, he praises the Almohads for “following the path of reflection” and for “calling the multitudes to the knowledge of God through a m ­ iddle way.”69 The treatise itself lays bare Averroes’s own strug­gle to navigate the ­middle way, between toeing the Almohad line and preserving an elitist esotericism.70 As the two extant versions of his Kashf manāhij al-­adilla show, when he stepped out of line he was censored, even before being punished more severely by banishment and the confiscation of his library.71 Averroes’s reserved appraisal of the Almohad regime also emerges in his Epitome of Plato’s Republic, preserved only in the medieval Hebrew and Latin translations.72 ­There, he distinguishes between the phi­los­o­phers’ 68. Conrad, “Through a Thin Veil,” 264; Fierro, “Spiritual Alienation,” 231–32; eadem, “The Islamic West,” 27–28. 69. Averroës, Decisive Treatise, 33. On the Faṣl al-­maqāl as a response to al-­Ghazālī’s Fayṣal al-­tafriqa, see Bello, The Medieval Islamic Controversy, passim; Stroumsa, “Philosophes almohades?,” 1147. 70. In the Latin world, Averroes’s distinction between the ẓāhir of the revealed text, intended for the masses, and its bāṭin, reserved for the elite, led to charges that he upheld a theory of “double truth.” Averroes himself, however, adheres to the Almohad dogma that the truth is one, and states so explic­itly in the Decisive Treatise; see Wirmer, Averroes. Über den Intellekt, 10–12; and see also Marenbon, “Latin Averroism.” In fact, it is precisely Averroes’s three-­tiered hermeneutics that enable him to preserve the integrity of the revelead text as the source of truth; and see chapter 5, note 53. 71. See Geoffroy, “Ibn Rušd et la théologie almohadiste,” 346–50. 72. See Ibn Rushd, Commentary on Plato’s “Republic”; Steven Harvey, “Similarities and

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excellent or virtuous state and the Muslim one, founded on the sharīʿa. The Muslim state of early Islam succeeded in replicating the perfect state.73 Since the days of Muʿāwiya, however, the Islamic empire deteriorated to become a timocratic state, comparable to “the pre­sent rule in our peninsula,” that is, the Almohads.74 Initially, the Almohad state was “similar to the state of the nomos,” the excellent state, but its elites, typical of ­those in a timocratic state, w ­ ere diminished with time.75 Unlike an excellent state, which must teach both excellent acts and excellent doctrines, the Almohad state is close to the ideal state only in terms of the practice (“acts”) it requires, but the doctrines it teaches are further away from this goal.76 This critique is about as explicit as one could expect from an official serving in a regime. The depiction of the Almohads as proponents of philosophy, and of the phi­los­o­phers as enthusiastic and unambivalent representatives of Almohad ideology, is not l­imited to Averroes. Some of the same scholars who pre­sent the Almohads as the motive force b ­ ehind Averroes’s Aristotelian initiative also pre­sent Ibn Ṭufayl’s Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān as “the first work of clearly Almohad character written in al-­Andalus.”77 But Ibn Ṭufayl’s distinctly Neoplatonic streak, which shows him picking up the Masarrian tradition, is of a rather dif­fer­ent hue than the strict Aristotelianism that characterizes other so-­called Almohad phi­los­o­phers like Averroes. The fact that the Almohads employed them both patently shows that it was not philosophy qua philosophy that interested them. As Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān was never used, taught, or quoted by the Almohads, one won­ders what would justify seeing it as “one of the fundamental texts of Almohad thought.”78 Arguably, this work, in its attempt to reconcile the teachings of religion and rationality, does reflect the Almohad mode of thought. As already Differences,” 81. For Shaḥlān’s reconstruction of the Arabic text, see Ibn Rushd, Al-­Ḍarūrī f īʾl-­siyāsa. 73. That is, aspired to be like it, which also implies that even this early state was inferior to the phi­los­o­phers’ ideal; see Pines, “On the Study of Averroes’s Po­liti­cal Philosophy,” 100, note 41. 74. Averroes, Commentary on Plato’s “Republic,” 89:28 ff.; Pines, “On the Study of Averroes’s Po­liti­cal Philosophy,” 86. 75. Averroes, Commentary on Plato’s “Republic,” 89:28 ff., and 103:8 ff.; Pines, “On the Study of Averroes’s Po­liti­cal Philosophy,” 87 and note 7. 76. Averroes, Commentary on Plato’s “Laws,” 77:26–79:4; Pines, “On the Study of Averroes’s Po­liti­cal Philosophy,” 89–91 and note 14. 77. Fierro, “The ­Legal Policies,” 228. 78. Fierro, “Conversion,” 164.

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mentioned, however, Ibn Ṭufayl, who on the individual level considered both religion and reason as paths to truth, pre­sents their reconciliation as doomed to fail on the po­liti­cal level. Nor does Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān suggest that the highest truth is universally attainable. While this parable shows the inborn ­human potentiality to reach truth, it does not imply that every­one can achieve this potential. Quite to the contrary: the parable ends with the statement that this level is beyond the reach of most individuals.79 The Almohads’ impact on contemporaneous phi­los­o ­p hers was unquestionably enormous, but this impact should not be confused with identification. In this re­spect, let us consider Maimonides, a Jewish phi­ los­o­pher who spent his youth and early adulthood ­under the Almohads. While Maimonides was profoundly influenced by the Almohads, this recognition must be factored into what we already know about his philosophical thought, and in par­tic­u­lar his insistence on the cardinal importance of adapting one’s discourse to one’s audience.80 His paternal, condescending attitude to the philosophically uninitiated, and his distinction between religious doctrine (“faith”) and philosophical truth is perhaps clearest in his response to Joseph Ibn Jābir, a merchant who presented himself as unlettered (ʿam ha-­aretz). As befits a community leader, Maimonides responded to Ibn Jābir with warm encouragement. Taking into account his correspondent’s level of understanding, he makes allowances for beliefs that he himself obviously considers absurd, saying, Do not trou­ble yourself with anything except that which you can understand. It w ­ ill not be detrimental for your religion to think that the inhabitants of the world-­to-­come are bodies . . . ​or even to think that they eat and drink and copulate.81

Maimonides’s true intellectualist views regarding salvation (or, in philosophical parlance, “felicity”), which he saw as requiring much more than s­ imple faith, w ­ ere disclosed only to t­hose he considered philosophically prepared—­and even then they ­were shared with the utmost discretion. Interpreting his correspondence with one of the vulgus as a

79. See chapter 3, page 97. 80. See chapter 3, page 94. Maimonides states his position regarding the “secrets of the Torah,” in both physics and metaphysics, repeatedly. See, for example, the introduction to the Guide (Dalāla, 3; Pines, 6–7) and Guide, 1. 17 (Dalāla, 29; Pines, 42–43). 81. Maimonides’s Epistles, 414; see Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 112.

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faithful reflection of his philosophical thought engenders an imaginary Maimonides, one for whom “basic faith is enough to save.”82 The “fideist” image of Maimonides also relies on his thirteen princi­ples of faith, included in his Commentary on the Mishna, and thus intended for moderately educated readers who are not necessarily phi­los­o­phers. The idea of formulating universally binding princi­ples of faith (uṣūl) indeed illustrates the deep influence of Almohad ideology on Maimonides. Furthermore, unlike Averroes, Maimonides passionately embraced the Almohad policy of imposing a nonanthropomorphic pre­sen­ta­tion of God on all levels of society, and therefore included it among the princi­ples of the Jewish faith.83 For Maimonides, t­ hese princi­ples define the bound­aries of the Jewish nation and safeguard its cohesion.84 The admission of princi­ples, however, is not to be confused with the comprehension of rational truths, a sine qua non for the attainment of utmost felicity. As both his philosophical Guide and his correspondence with Joseph Ibn Shimʿon make abundantly clear, Maimonides identified true felicity with the attainment of ­human perfection. By necessity, ­human perfection includes a full understanding of the philosophical truth “as much as ­human beings are capable of,” a level to which only the happy few can aspire.85

The Almohad Impact on Philosophy The portrayal of Averroes, Maimonides, and Ibn Ṭufayl as the philosophical arm of the Almohad regime is thus untenable from the point of view of the regime as well as from that of the phi­los­o­phers themselves. Both Ibn Ṭufayl and Averroes w ­ ere recruited to serve the Almohads, but their 82. Cf. Fierro, “Conversion,” 167; eadem, “The Islamic West,” 26. Fierro refers to a letter to Hasdai Ha-­Levi, translated in Twersky, A Maimonides Reader, 477–78 (cf. Maimonides, Epistles, 681). This par­tic­u­lar letter, incidentally, is in all likelihood a literary invention, falsely attributed to Maimonides; see Maimonides, Epistles, 673–76; and see further below, page 149. 83. Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 70–79; eadem, “The Literary Corpus,” 237–39. 84. Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 177–83. While the princi­ples themselves, as well as the term used for them (“roots”), can certainly be traced back to Jewish tradition, in Maimonides’s thought they receive a significantly more prominent place than ever before, and their systematic formulation is couched in Arabic terminology that betrays Almohad impact; cf. Davidson, “Maimonides and the Almohads,” 12–20. 85. See, for example, Ravitzky, “As Much as Is Humanly Pos­si­ble”; idem, “Maimonides: Esotericism and Educational Philosophy”; Warren Harvey, “Maimonides on H ­ uman Perfection”; Joseph Stern, The ­Matter and Form of Maimonides’ “Guide,” 140–48; Ivry, Maimonides’ “Guide,” 216. On the attainability of the utmost felicity, see also further below, pages 157–58.

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thought—­whether Neoplatonic or Aristotelian in character—­did not replace the Almohads’ mostly Ashʿarite doctrine. Moreover, both of them disagreed with the Almohads on fundamental points of dogma. As for Maimonides, as a (crypto-)Jew, he was of course not part of the Almohad administration, and escaped from their territory in 1165, apparently as soon as he had the ability to do so.86 The attempts to pre­sent the Almohad regime as a philosophical state in the making are nothing short of fantastic, and I believe that they would have been regarded as such by the protagonists themselves. Almohad ideology, however, did exert tremendous influence in both clear and covert ways on thinkers living u ­ nder Almohad rule, including on the phi­los­op ­ hers. In what follows, I w ­ ill examine how this influence asserted itself.

Princi­ples and Fundamentals The Almohad l­egal approach, we have noted, favored concise pre­sen­ta­ tions of elementary princi­ples over the reliance on extensive case discussions to which the Mālikīs w ­ ere inclined. To the phi­los­o­phers’ analytical mind, the appeal of this approach must have been considerable, and indeed we find it applied not only in the ­legal writings of Averroes, but, more surprisingly, also in ­those of Maimonides. The method ­adopted by Averroes in his only extant ­legal work, The Initiation of the Juriconsult (Bidāyat al-­mujtahid), reflects the Almohad juridical doctrine.87 Adopting a rational argumentation, Averroes opts for an eclectic l­ egal approach.88 But this work’s most con­spic­uo ­ us Almohad trait is its declared preference for fundamental princi­ples (al-­uṣūl waʾl-­qawāʿid), leaving aside derivative specific rulings ( furūʿ). Averroes proposes to provide the jurist with the tools to become an in­de­pen­dently acting jurisconsult (mujtahid). Taking uncharacteristic recourse to parabolic writing, he compares the accomplished mujtahid to the master shoemaker, who, rather than attempting to stock up on ­every imaginable shoe, applies the princi­ples of his profession to fit any foot.89 86. See chapter 5, notes 22, 90, and 103. 87. Dominique Urvoy, Pensers d’al-­Andalus, 86, quoted in Geoffroy, “L’almohadisme théologique,” 12. A book on uṣūl al-­fiqh that he may have written is not extant; see Ibn Rushd, Bidāya, 2; idem, The Distinguished Jurist’s Primer, 112, as well as xxix and note 8. 88. Fierro, “The ­Legal Policies,” 240–47; Dominique Urvoy, Pensers d’al-­Andalus, 86; Geoffroy, “L’almohadisme théologique,” 12; Makkī, “Contribución,” 33. 89. Ibn Rushd, Bidāya, 2:191 (Kitāb al-­ṣarf ); Averroes, The Distinguished Jurist’s

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Maimonides, a Jew who wrote his most philosophical book outside Almohad territory, is perhaps the most con­spic­u­ous example of the Almohad impact on phi­los­o­phers. Al-­Marrākushī testifies that Jews living ­under the Almohads w ­ ere required to participate in Muslim prayers and to teach their sons the Qurʾān.90 Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, speaking specifically about Maimonides, says that when living as a crypto-­Jew, he “memorized the Qurʾān and was engaged in [the study of] Muslim law.”91 In the Guide as well as in his epistles and correspondence, Maimonides writes of the pains he took to read every­thing of interest, including texts that ­were considered pagan or heretical.92 One can assume that this reading encompassed Almohad lit­er­a­ture, including, as Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa says, ­legal tracts, and the fingerprints of Almohad doctrine are indeed evident in all his works. As we have mentioned, it is mainly Averroes’s methodology that discloses his Almohad influence; he rejected their policy on the indoctrination of the multitudes. Maimonides, by contrast, adopts their doctrinal stance on tawḥīd: The negation of the doctrine of the corporeality of God and the denial of His having a likeness to created t­ hings and of His being subject to affections are ­matters that ­ought to be made clear and explained to every­one according to his capacity, and o ­ ught to be inculcated in virtue of traditional authority upon c­ hildren, ­women, stupid ones, and t­ hose of defective natu­ral disposition, just as they adopt the notion that God is one.93

Primer, xxvii. See also Ibn Rushd, Bidāya, 2:320–21 (end of Kitāb al-­kitāba); Averroes, The Distinguished Jurist’s Primer, xxviii. 90. “The Jews among us . . . ​are outwardly Muslims: they pray in the mosque and teach their sons the Qurʾān, behaving according to our religion and customs. But God knows what it is they hide in their hearts and what goes on in their h ­ ouses” (al-­Marrākushī, Muʿjib, 252). 91. “Wa-­qīla inna al-­rāʾīs Mūsā qad aslama biʾl-­Maghrib wa-­ḥafiẓa al-­qurʾān wa-­ ʾshtaghala biʾl-­fiqh” (IAU, 582). Maimonides’s forced conversion is mentioned also by Ibn al-­Qifṭī, Taʾrīkh, 317–19. Maimonides’s acquaintance with the Qurʾān is attested only once in the Guide, and t­ here, too, it is unacknowledged, and prob­ably echoes Averroes’s use of the same verse in the Faṣl; see Warren Harvey, “Averroes and Maimonides on the Duty of Philosophical Contemplation”; Stroumsa, “The Literary Corpus,” 234–37; eadem, Maimonides in His World, 73. 92. See Maimonides, Guide, 3.29 (Dalāla, 374, 380; Pines, 514, 521); idem, Epistles, 481; “Letter on Astrology,” in Lerner and Mahdi, Medieval Po­liti­cal Philosophy, 229; Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 99. 93. Guide, 1.35 (Dalāla, 54–55; Pines, 81).

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This categorical statement in the Guide echoes Maimonides’s e­ arlier l­ egal ruling, including the mandatory rejection of anthropomorphism in his thirteen princi­ples of faith (uṣūl), which he deemed incumbent on all levels of Jewish society.94 In his Guide of the Perplexed, however, Maimonides identifies faith as knowledge, using a formula that is also used by Ibn Tūmart.95 He is fully aware that when ­children or ­simple ­people say that God has no body, they do not grasp the meaning of what they say, and their s­ imple faith, which does not amount to knowledge, is therefore far from adequate.96 But as this is the closest they can get to “true opinion,” he insists that this is what they must be taught to repeat “in virtue of traditional authority” (taqlīduhu) just as they are taught to repeat that God is one. Maimonides redacted his l­egal code, the Mishne Torah, around 1178, already in Ayyūbid Egypt. This major halakhic composition begins with The Book of Knowledge (Sefer ha-­madaʿ), just as Ibn Tūmart’s “book” begins with a Kitāb al-­ʿilm. A “Book of Knowledge” also opens al-­Ghazālī’s Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-­dīn, and a chapter of dogmatics, entitled Kitāb al-­tawḥīd, opens Ibn Ḥazm’s al-­Muḥallā f īʾl-­āthār. Ibn Tūmart prob­ably followed the model of t­ hese two venerable pre­de­ces­sors, and it is quite pos­si­ble that Maimonides was also acquainted with at least the former of the two.97 But Maimonides’s explanation of his methodology and purpose in composing his ­legal work and his general style point to Ibn Tūmart as his proximate source of inspiration. For Ibn Tūmart, true worship is valid only when it is accompanied with faith based on knowledge.98 Maimonides’s inclusion of faith and true knowledge of God as ­actual precepts has its equivalent in Ibn Tūmart’s definition of taklīf as composed of faith, fear of God, and piety, and expressed in acts.99 94. See Heinemann, “Maimuni und die arabischen Einheitslehrer”; Pines, “Translator’s Introduction,” cxviii–­cxx. 95. Maimonides, Guide, 1.50 (Dalāla, 75; Pines, 110): “Lā iʿtiqād illā baʿda taṣawwur, li-­ anna al-­iʿtiqād huwa al-­taṣdīq bi-­mā taṣawwara annahu khārij al-­dhihn ʿalā mā taṣawwara f ī’l-­dhihn”; cf. “Al-­kalām ʿalā al-­ʿibāda,” in Luciani, Le livre, 221. Maimonides’s interpretation of this formula is closer to the Almohads than to al-­Ghazālī’s Iḥyāʾ, where it prob­ably originated; see al-­Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, Kitāb qawāʿid al-­ʿaqāʾid, 150–54, esp. 154; Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 70 and note 77. 96. Cf. chapter 5, page 146. 97. See al-­Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ, 1:4–66; Steven Harvey, “Alghazali and Maimonides,” 102–20; Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 25–26. 98. See Lazarus-­Yaffeh, “Was Maimonides Influenced by Alghazali?”; Eran, “Al-­Ghazālī and Maimonides”; Steven Harvey, “Alghazali and Maimonides.” 99. See Al-­kalām f ī’l-­ʿilm, in Luciani, Le livre, 193:3: “wa’l-­taklīf ʿalā thalātha aʿyān: al-­īmān waʾl-­taqwā wa’l-­warʿ.” Ibn Tūmart further defines taklīf as that which necessarily

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Maimonides’s Code has no pre­ce­dent in Rabbinic lit­er­a­ture, and Maimonides himself repeatedly describes it as an innovative, audacious step aimed at assembling all laws in one compendium (dīwān). He clarifies his purpose in writing the Mishne Torah, as well as his awareness of the uniqueness of the book, “simplifying, explicating and compiling, something that none of our pre­de­ces­sors had ever done.”100 Ignoring all previous discussions and disagreements, and refraining from mentioning the vari­ous authorities on which each opinion rests, he cuts through the Jewish lit­er­a­ture of generations and pre­sents only his own rulings. In so ­doing, he emulates Ibn Tūmart’s move, and he justifies it with typical Almohad terminology.101 He uses the term uṣūl not only to denote basic theological dogmas, but also the juridical princi­ples, as opposed to the derivative rulings: We mentioned in the Introduction to our Commentary on the Mishna princi­ples that should be believed concerning prophecy and princi­ples of transmission [uṣūl tuʿtaqadu f īʾl-­nubuwwa wa-­uṣūl al-­naql]. . . . ​ We have also stated therein all the religious and juridical princi­ples, and we have intended thereby that t­ hose who are called disciples of the sages [i.e., scholars] . . . ​should build their branches [i.e., details of the laws] on juridical roots [an yabnū furūʿahum ʿalā uṣūl fiqhiyya].102

Maimonides’s Mishne Torah remains to this day a highly authoritative text of Jewish law. It is an irony of history that it owes its very composition as well as its shape to the ­legal method of the Almohads, whose religious policies ­were prob­ably the main cause for Maimonides’s description of Islam as the most harmful religion ­toward Jews.103

follows from the (divine) command and prohibition, namely: to carry out what is commanded and to avoid what is prohibited (ibid., 193:5–6). 100. Finkel, Maimonides’ Treatise on Resurrection, 2–4; Twersky, “The Mishneh Torah of Maimonides,” 265–66. 101. Twersky (“The Mishneh Torah of Maimonides,” 289) assesses Islamic influence on Maimonides’s ­legal endeavor as of secondary importance for understanding his innovative endeavor. On contacts between Jewish and Muslim law in this period, see Libson, “Interaction between Islamic Law and Jewish Law during the M ­ iddle Ages,” esp. 96. 102. Finkel, Maimonides’ Treatise on Resurrection, 2–4; Twersky, “The Mishneh Torah of Maimonides,” 265–66. 103. “innahu lā yaqūm ʿalā Ysraʾel milla ashaddu ḍarr minhā wa-­lā man bālagha f ī dhillinā wa-­iṣghārinā wa-­tamkīn baghḍatinā mithlahum” (“Epistle to Yemen,” in Maimonides, Epistles, 108–9).

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Andalusian Revolts Almohad fundamentalism, focused as it was on broad princi­ples and on foundational texts, may have first been conceived as a ­legal methodology, but it was also applied to other fields.104 Perhaps even more than Averroes’s Bidāya, his medical treatise, al-­Kulliyyāt f ī ʾl-ṭibb, reflects the Almohad preference for general princi­ples (uṣūl, which in this case he calls kulliyyāt). As a physician who knows that the medical art requires its prac­ti­tion­ers to go into specifics (aqāwīl juzʾiyya), he refers his readers, for this purpose, to the Kitāb al-­Taysīr of his friend Abū Marwān Ibn Zuhr—­a book written at Averroes’s request. His own book, however, treats only the general categories of medicine.105 The impact of the Almohads’ approach, and their preference for princi­ ples over specific cases and for foundational texts over l­ ater commentaries, can also explain Averroes’s joining what has become known as “the Andalusian revolt against Ptolemaic astronomy.” The term “Andalusian Revolt” was first coined in 1984 by Abdelhamid Sabra in his discussion of astronomical theories that attempted to dethrone Ptolemy’s astronomy from its almost unquestioned authority.106 Already in Late Antiquity, astronomers noted that the perfect movement of the celestial bodies, a uniform circular motion around a single immobile center as described in Aristotle’s Physics, is not confirmed by astronomical observations. In order “to save the phenomena,” Ptolemy offered solutions that w ­ ere based on postulating epicycles and eccentrics, and Arab phi­los­op ­ hers continued to uphold, in an awkward coexistence, both Aristotle’s physics and Ptolemy’s astronomy. Some criticism of Ptolemy’s system had already been voiced e­ arlier, in al-­Andalus as well as in the Islamic Orient.107 In the twelfth ­century, however, the malaise no longer seemed ­viable. Abandoning Ptolemy’s princi­ ples of eccentrics and epicycles, Nūr al-­Dīn al-­Biṭrūjī (d. ca. 600/1204) strove to explain the planets’ motions by means of concentric spheres. The full title of his only extant work, al-­Murtaʿish f ī ʾl-hayʾa (which can loosely be rendered as The Revolutionary Book on Astronomy), testifies

104. See, for example, the introduction to Ibn Maḍāʾ al-­Qurṭubī, Kitāb al-­Radd ʿalā al-­nuḥā, 17–18. 105. Ibn Rushd, Kulliyyāt, 583. This passage is reproduced also in IAU, 531; see also Dominique Urvoy, Averroès, 105–6; Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 333–34; Langermann, “Another Andalusian Revolt?,” 366–67. 106. Sabra, “The Andalusian Revolt.” 107. For example, Ibn al-­Haytham (d. 1039), al-­shukūk ʿalā Baṭlamyūs; and an anonymous Al-­Istidrāk ʿalā Baṭlamyūs. See Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 207–8.

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to his awareness of the magnitude of his innovation.108 This drastic development is partly due to the pro­gress of astronomy, and to the growing discomfort with the unsolved contradiction between accepted theories. As noted by Endress, “the more precise the astronomical observation and the more intricate the mathematical calculus of the celestial revolutions, the more difficult it became to reduce all the phenomena of the heavens to a coherent system of uniform, circular motion.”109 Increased readiness to reconsider astronomy began before the Almohads: Ibn Bājja, for instance, says that he heard “demonstrations of a mathematical kind” from ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān Ibn al-­Sīd, a younger con­temporary of Ibn Ṣāʿid. Typically for thinkers in the eleventh ­century, this mathematician, wary of a hostile and watchful environment, did not write down his observations, but transmitted them orally to two trusted persons, Ibn Bājja being one of them. Ibn Bājja, who, in an Almoravid prison, allowed himself to write them down, also chose to write “without g ­ oing into detail.” 110 The specific out­spoken form that the “revolt against Ptolemy” took in the second half of the twelfth ­century was not only a necessary outcome of astronomical observations, but also of the changing philosophical climate.111 Sabra has identified the force of this “revolt” mostly in twelfth-­ century Andalus, in the Almohads’ sphere of influence. The protagonists of the move w ­ ere astronomers like Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm al-­Naqqāsh al-­Tujībī known as Ibn al-­Zarqālluh (d. 493/1100), Jābir b. al-­Aflaḥ, and al-­Biṭrūjī, as well as phi­los­op ­ hers like Ibn Bājja, Ibn Ṭufayl (who was al-­Biṭrūjī’s teacher), Averroes, and Maimonides.112 Sabra therefore suggested that the astronomical revolt should be seen as another expression of Almohad literalism.113 What­ever we say about Almohad literalism (the existence of which, as argued above, is in itself questionable), phi­los­op ­ hers like Averroes and Maimonides certainly cannot be said to stick to the literal sense of scriptures, not even in their l­egal rulings.114 If we listen to 108. Sabra, “The Andalusian Revolt,” 134 and 138; Goldstein, Al-­Bitrūjī: On the Princi­ ples of Astronomy. 109. Endress, “Averroes’ De Caelo,” 38. 110. Dunlop, “Philosophical Contemporaries,” 110–11. 111. For Di Giovanni (“Motifs of Andalusian Philosophy,” 210–11), this revolt should be seen in the context of an attempt “to ­counter the reactionary opposition of Andalusian Mālikism,” but he also suggests that both Ibn Bājja and Ibn Ḥazm “exemplify the conservative character that is distinctive of Andalusian philosophy.” 112. See Samsó, “The Exact Sciences in al-­Andalus,” 966–68; Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 292–98. 113. Sabra, “The Andalusian Revolt,” 143–44; cf. also Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 50–54. 114. See also chapter 2, notes 79–80.

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their astronomical deliberations, it is not the ẓāhir, the literal meaning of a text, that concerns them, but safeguarding the authoritative place of the Aristotelian corpus as a foundational text: the physical princi­ples set forth by Aristotle, if true, cannot be exchanged for other princi­ples in order to suit con­ve­nience or to save the phenomena. Fully realizing that astronomical observations required a dif­fer­ent explanation, both Averroes and Maimonides nevertheless strove to maintain Aristotle’s infallibility. Averroes offers no detailed refutation of the Ptolemaic astronomy in his Epitome of Aristotle’s Physics, but in his Long Commentary on the Physics, written a few years ­later, he states that Ptolemaic astronomy is no longer adequate. Without offering clear solutions, he defends Aristotle’s theory of homocentric spheres and points in the direction that may lead to such a solution without deviating from the Physics.115 Endress, who notes that Averroes was “not enough of an astronomer to evaluate the theories of his pre­de­ces­sors and contemporaries mathematically,” rightly describes his approach as dogmatic.116 For Averroes, Ptolemy offered messy ad hoc solutions for specific prob­lems, whereas his own sympathy was for an elegant theory, established upon Aristotelian foundations. In some cases, disagreements between the Andalusian phi­los­o­phers themselves reveal a gradual hardening of Aristotelian orthodoxy. Averroes thus disagreed with Ibn Bājja, defending Aristotle’s position regarding motion through a medium (air or ­water).117 This dogmatic approach is evident in Averroes’s Prooemium to his Long Commentary on the Physics, where he refers to Aristotle as deserving to be called “Divine.” 118 It is also evident in Maimonides, who, like Averroes, accepts Aristotle’s position as true for every­thing lying beneath the lunar sphere. A comparison of Aristotle, “the Chief of the phi­los­o­ phers,” to Moses is implicit in Maimonides’s Guide, and in his letter to Samuel Ibn Tibbon he describes Aristotle’s knowledge as “the utmost that a ­human being can achieve, ­unless this ­human being receives the divine flow of emanation, so that he attains the rank of prophecy.”119 Advising his 115. Endress, “Averroes’ De Caelo,” 40–41. See also Lay, “L’Abrégé de l’Almagest,” 25; Kraemer, “Maimonides on Aristotle and Scientific Method,” 51–52. 116. Endress, “Averroes’ De Caelo,” 39, 41. See also idem, “ ‘If God ­Will Grant Me Life.’ ” 117. See Lettinck, “Ibn Bāğğa as a Commentator of Aristotle,” 485–86. 118. Steven Harvey, “The Hebrew Translation of Averroes’s Prooemium,” 70 and 83; see also Wirmer, Averroes. Über den Intellekt, 25–26. 119. Guide, 1.5 (Dalāla, 19; Pines, 28); Pines, “Translator’s Introduction,” lxi and note 8; Maimonides, Epistles, 553; Forte, “Back to the Sources,” 76–77; and see chapter 5, note 6. Notwithstanding the Neoplatonic aspects of Maimonides’s philosophy, Ivry’s suggestion that “the ‘Sabians’ Maimonides had in mind w ­ ere Aristotle and his ilk” (“Maimonides and

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translator about his readings, Maimonides continues to say that “Aristotle’s books, and they alone, are the roots and princi­ples for all other scientific compositions.”120 Although the relevant passage of this letter is extant only in Hebrew, the original Arabic terminology (uṣūl) is echoed in the Hebrew words “roots and princi­ples” (shorashim ve-­ʿiqqarim). It is also quite clear that ­these words are no mere rhetorical hyperbole, admiringly attached to the name of Aristotle, but rather a methodological statement, establishing the Aristotelian corpus as the authoritative, foundational text for philosophy in general and for physics in par­tic­u­lar. It thus overrules any other authority in this category, including that of Ptolemy. In addressing the issue at hand, Maimonides shows that he clearly considers himself as belonging to the circle of Andalusian “rebels.” He says that he met Ibn al-­Aflaḥ’s son, and had studied with one of Ibn Bājja’s pupils.121 Years ­after ­these meetings, he calls the clashing of astronomical theories “the true perplexity,” a phrasing that for Tzvi Langermann conveys the core issue of the Guide of the Perplexed and the reason ­behind its title.122 Regarding the order of the planets, however, Maimonides (unlike Averroes, and perhaps unlike Ibn Bājja) nevertheless adopts Ptolemy’s position, according to which the spheres of the moon, Mercury, and Venus all lie below the sun, while Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn are above it.123 Since no proof can be adduced for the planets’ relative position, and since Ptolemy’s view on this point contradicts no fundamental Aristotelian physical theory, Maimonides felt f­ ree to decide on the m ­ atter in a pragmatic way. He therefore opts for Ptolemy’s position, not ­because he believes it to be closer to the truth, or b ­ ecause it agrees better with the observed phenomena, but rather ­because it better fits his theology of divine providence.124 Although the rejection of Ptolemy’s epicycles and eccentrics is the more famous “revolt,” similar moves, spurning long-­held traditions and Neoplatonism,” 140) misses Maimonides’s metahistoric understanding of the Sabians, and underrates his full commitment to Aristotle as a model phi­los­o­pher. 120. Maimonides, Epistles, 553; Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 44. 121. See Guide, 2.9 (Dalāla, 187; Pines, 268). 122. See Guide, 2.24; Langermann, “Maimonides and the Sciences,” 166–67; idem, “The ‘True Perplexity’ ”; but see Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 64, note 51. 123. See Guide, 2.9 (Dalāla, 187; Pines, 268). On Ibn Bājja’s position on this question, see Endress, “Averroes’ De Caelo,” 42–43; Forcada, Ética e ideología de la ciencia, 293–96. On Averroes’s position, see ibid., 296–98. 124. See Kraemer, “Maimonides on Aristotle and Scientific Method,” 51–53; Freudenthal, “Four Observations.”

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seeking to replace them with simpler, more coherent paradigms, may be detected in other fields. It has been suggested, for instance, to see such revolts in Averroes’s criticism of al-­Kindī’s pharmacology, or in Ibn Maḍāʾ al-­Qurṭubī’s syntactical theory, which rejected the concept of ʿāmil.125 The Almohads themselves ­were neither phi­los­o­phers nor scientists, nor w ­ ere they more inclined than other rulers to promote t­ hese fields. As the previous examples establish, however, what began as their revolutionary l­egal methodology had an abiding impact on both scientists and phi­los­o­phers.

The Andalusian Aristotelian School It is now time to return to the topic that started this chapter: the remarkable phenomenon of twelfth-­century rigorous Andalusian Aristotelianism. A significant trait of this brand of Aristotelianism is what appears to be a twelfth-­century “Andalusian disdain” for Avicenna’s philosophy. We noted above the scholarly debate about the date of introduction of Avicenna’s works to al-­Andalus. By the twelfth ­century, in any case, Avicenna’s writings w ­ ere certainly available in the region.126 Yet the reaction to Avicenna was often tepid, and sometimes outright negative. The physician Abūʾl-­ʿAlāʾ Ibn Zuhr, who wrote a response to Rāzī’s Dubitationes on Galen, is said to have purged Avicenna’s Qānūn from his library, using it as draft paper.127 Maimonides refers to Avicenna by name in his correspondence as well as in his Epistle on Resurrection, and in his other works 125. Langermann, “Another Andalusian Revolt?” (and see Ibn Rushd, Kulliyyāt, 462– 64); Sabra, “The Andalusian Revolt,” 143. Shawqī Ḍayf (introduction to Ibn Maḍāʾ, Kitāb al-­radd ʿalā al-­nuḥā, 32) regards Ibn Maḍāʾ’s innovative approach as reflecting Qurʾānic tendencies, which aim to reduce the recourse to interpretation of the Qurʾānic text. It seems, however, that Ibn Maḍāʾ’s primary concern was to remove from the grammatical system all superfluous, ­later accumulations; see Ḍayf, ibid., 18. 126. See chapter 5, note 3. 127. IAU, 517–18; Balty-­Guesdon, “Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 342; Langermann, “Another Andalusian Revolt?,” 366. The Egyptian Ibn Jumayʿ (d. 594/1198), who repeats this story, says that Ibn Zuhr disapproved of mixing philosophy in medicine; see Chandelier, “Que le bon médecin ne doit pas être philosophe.” One should note, however, that while some Andalusian phi­los­o­phers rejected Galen’s dictum that the best physician is (necessarily) also a phi­los­o­pher, they did not say that a physician must not be a phi­los­ o­pher. In his critique of al-­Rāzī, Ibn Zuhr prob­ably followed the phi­los­o­phers’ topos of denigrating a physician with philosophical pretense (be he Galen, al-­Rāzī, or Isaac Israeli) as “only a physician”; see Stroumsa, “Al-­Fārābī and Maimonides on Medicine as Science,” 247–48; Forte, “Back to the Sources,” esp. 66–67. It is therefore more likely that his objection to al-­Rāzī as well as to Avicenna reflected his disapproval of their par­tic­u­lar kind of philosophy.

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we can often uncover unacknowledged echoes of Avicenna’s writings, but his explicit evaluation of Avicenna is rather reserved.128 Langermann has even suggested that Averroes may have written his series of commentaries on Aristotle “as the Andalusian response to Ibn Sīnā’s al-­Shifāʾ.”129 The Andalusian attitude to Avicenna may reflect a broader depreciation of works originating in the Islamic East.130 But the rejection of Avicenna in par­tic­u­lar seems to be another example of the “revolts” prompted by Almohad “fundamentalism.” Avicenna may have been chosen as a primary target of this revolt, ­because of what was perceived as his departure from Aristotle.131 As we saw above, it may be pos­si­ble to trace the more orthodox character of the Andalusian Aristotelian school to Almohad epistemology. The Aristotelian corpus was granted the rank of a foundational text, and it was this corpus, as interpreted by Aristotle’s Alexandrian commentators, which ­these Andalusian Aristotelians believed should be followed. ­There is no question that their thought retained Platonic and Neoplatonic colorings, as did the work of al-­Fārābī, which served as their model. But they perceived themselves as strict Aristotelians, certainly more so than Avicenna.132 The naturalist fundamentalism discussed above, which gave a canonical place to Aristotle’s Physics, also had repercussions in metaphysics. Avicenna considered that the necessary existence of God could be proven without relating Him to physical phenomena. For Averroes, however, the apprehension of God as Prime Mover, identified with the intellect of the outer sphere, remained tightly connected to the physical understanding 128. Maimonides, Epistles, 325–26; and see Pines, “Translator’s Introduction,” xciii–­ ciii; Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 160–64, 174; Dobbs-­Weinstein, “Maimonides’ Reticence ­toward Ibn Sīnā;” Forte, “Back to the Sources,” 77–78. 129. Steven Harvey, “Some Notes on ‘Avicenna among Medieval Jews,’ ” 254; Langermann, “Another Andalusian Revolt?,” 367. 130. Another example of this general attitude may be seen in Ibn al-­Ṣalt, al-­Risāla al-­ miṣriyya, which expresses sharp sarcasm about Egyptian medicine. 131. This is the subject of Bertolacci, “The ‘Andalusian Revolt against Avicenna’s Metaphysics’ ” (non vidi). 132. See, for instance, Radtke, “How Can Man Reach the Mystical Union?” For Puig Montada, “the Andalusians took up al-­Fārābī’s proj­ect of reconstructing and further developing the thought of Aristotle,” but “even authors who worked within the falsafa tradition ­were not immune to the appeal of the Ṣūf īs” (“Philosophy in Andalus,” 155). Maimonides’s work also displays some Neoplatonic, even mystical ele­ments, especially in the last chapters of his Guide; see chapter 4, note 84. His affiliation with the Aristotelian tradition, however, is self-­declared. See Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition.” The synthesis of Aristotelian and Neoplatonic thought in the work of the Spanish falāsifa continues to be a debated question; see, for instance, Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 35–40.

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of the universe.133 Maimonides, for his part, tapped into the writings of both of t­ hese phi­los­op ­ hers, variously applying their views as they served his arguments. He accepted Avicenna’s concept of God as the Necessary Existent, yet turned to the observation of physical phenomena, and in par­ tic­u­lar to the motion of the heavenly spheres, as the only anchor for any positive knowledge of God.134 The perception of relations between physics and metaphysical knowledge is closely linked to the question of ultimate h ­ uman felicity, a topic that can be treated h ­ ere only in the most cursory fashion. In theory, the falāsifa aspired to attain knowledge of metaphysical realities. The realization of such knowledge was variously put as contemplation of the pure intellectual forms, or conjunction with the Active Intellect. Shlomo Pines, however, thought he had detected in the works of the falāsifa, and in par­ tic­u­lar in the writings of the Andalusian Aristotelian phi­los­o­phers, expressions disclosing deep doubts regarding the possibility of attaining such knowledge. His argument rested heavi­ly on a text identified as written by Ibn Bājja, in which he quoted al-Fārābī’s lost Commentary on the “Nicomachean Ethics.” The reading of Ibn Bājja’s manuscript on which Pines relied has now been proven to be erroneous, but this does not completely resolve the question he raised.135 It remains true that the writings of Ibn Bājja, Averroes, and Maimonides offer dif­fer­ent, sometimes contradictory accounts of the possibility of attaining metaphysical knowledge. Such variance with re­spect to religious doctrine is to be expected; as we have seen, the po­liti­ cal and religious environments of the phi­los­o­phers obliged them to strictly self-­monitor their writings and teaching. Their plain talk concerning the resurrection of the dead, then, comes as something of a surprise: both Averroes and Maimonides treat the resurrection as a doctrine of faith and flatly refuse to discuss it further, as they would have when making a claim for a philosophical truth.136 To the topic of attaining metaphysical knowledge, however, the phi­los­o­phers dedicate long, elaborate, and out­spoken 133. Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 57. 134. Kraemer, “Maimonides and the Spanish Aristotelian Tradition,” 57–59; Joseph Stern, The ­Matter and Form of Maimonides’ “Guide,” 148–59. See also Dobbs-­Weinstein, “Maimonides’ Reticence ­toward Ibn Sīnā,” 287–92. 135. Pines, “The Limitations of ­Human Knowledge”; Vallat, Farabi et l’École d’Alexandrie, 102–26, esp. 116; Genequand’s introduction to Ibn Baǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 12–14. 136. See Ibn Rushd, Tahāfut al-­Tahāfut, ed. al-­Jābirī, 555–59 (trans. Van Den Bergh, 359–63); Stroumsa, Maimonides in His World, 164–83; eadem, “The Elegance of Precision,” passim.

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discussions. The subject would seem to have been sufficiently abstruse to deter inquiry from inquisitive religious authorities. Yet each of ­these phi­los­o­phers concludes written discussions of this ­matter with ambiguous or contradictory positions.137 Elsewhere, I have suggested seeing such oscillations as reflecting genuine changes of mood between the hopeful anticipation of attaining ­human perfection, and the disheartened appreciation of the enormity of this task for any ­human being, earth-­bound by the ­human corporeal nature.138 It is pos­si­ble that the Andalusian falāsifa’s stronger commitment to Aristotle’s Physics accentuated the conflict between the two poles, and the occasional skeptical tone. As metaphysicians, they strug­gled to uphold the possibility of conjunction (colored with varying amounts of Neoplatonist ele­ments), but as physicians they ­were constrained by the Aristotelian affirmation that ­matter, and every­thing attached to it, is corruptible. Yet it is not only the stricter version of Andalusian Aristotelianism but the very flowering of philosophy in twelfth-­century al-­Andalus—­and the fact that it was predominantly Aristotelian—­that remain puzzling. Attempts to attribute the renewed focus on Aristotle to Almohad tastes, as we have seen, are unwarranted: the shift ­toward Aristotelian philosophy, as well as the more orthodox character it took, had begun already u ­ nder the Almoravids. I believe that at least a partial explanation for the character of Andalusian philosophy in the twelfth c­ entury lies in previous intellectual developments of philosophy. Neoplatonism was suspect in tenth-­century al-­Andalus, chiefly b ­ ecause of its association with Ismāʿīlī Fāṭimid propaganda. Jews could and did plunge into Neoplatonic philosophy, developing it along the way, but Muslims considered it safer to keep their distance from it, as well as from philosophy in general. By the twelfth ­century, the Fāṭimid danger was already remote, and Muslims could venture to study all branches of philosophy. We thus find Ṣūf ī authors like Ibn Barrajān and Ibn al-­ʿArīf, inspired by Ibn Masarra. Al-­Baṭalyawsī and Ibn Ṭufayl ­were able to develop Neoplatonic philosophy, the latter also exhibiting the clear influence of Ibn Masarra. Besides this resurfacing of previous philosophical trends, the twelfth-­ century environment in al-­Andalus permitted, and indeed favored, the emergence of the Andalusian Aristotelian school. ­There are no pre­ce­dents 137. The ambiguity of the texts themselves also results in scholarly disagreements about their correct interpretation; see, for example, Altmann, “Ibn Bājja on Man’s Ultimate Felicity,” esp. 74–76; and Genequand, introduction to Ibn Bāǧǧa, La conduite de l’isolé, 64–68. 138. See Stroumsa, “ ‘True Felicity,’ ” 74–75; eadem, “The Elegance of Precision.”

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for this school in tenth-­century al-­Andalus, and in fact, the form it took has ­little pre­ce­dence also in the Islamic East.139 It is pos­si­ble that the lingering memory of the pressures that, in the tenth and eleventh c­ entury, curtailed the development of Neoplatonic philosophy among Muslims also encouraged twelfth-­century thinkers attracted to philosophy to turn further away from Neoplatonism and embrace Aristotle. We have noted the “Andalusian disdain” for Avicenna evinced even by ­those likely to have read him. Andalusian authors knew his works and even borrowed from them, but it was the exceptional writer who acknowledged this fact. One detects a similar phenomenon concerning the writings of al-­Kindī.140 Rather than reflecting a ­simple rejection of all ­things Oriental, the concealment of the names of t­ hese two phi­los­o­phers may have been related to the memory of the tenth-­century trauma of the persecution of Neoplatonist authors.141 Put differently: Muslim Andalusian thinkers ­were surely attracted to the philosophical merits of Aristotelianism. The fact that it was not tainted by past association with the propaganda of po­liti­cal rivals, however, could well have increased its appeal. In choosing to adopt a strict version of Aristotelian philosophy, twelfth-­century Andalusian Muslim phi­los­o­phers distanced themselves from the legacy of Shīʿī Ismāʿīlī Neoplatonism.142 To the extent that this was indeed a f­ actor in their choice, instinct, rather than calculation, was likely at play. The adult Maimonides, as a Jew living in Egypt, would certainly not have been troubled by the e­ arlier po­liti­cal Fāṭimid threat of the Andalusian past. But as a Jewish thinker, he did what Jewish thinkers did across the ages: he ­adopted the leading philosophy of his time—in his case, the Andalusian version of Aristotelianism. The Almohad religious policy pushed many Jews to move to Christian Spain. Among them was also the earliest representative of Jewish Aristotelianism in the peninsula, Abraham Ibn Daud. It is in Christian Toledo, around 1161, that he wrote, in Arabic, his Lofty Faith. This book, which is primarily a reaction to Jewish Neoplatonism, openly criticizes

139. Ruth Glasner (“The Peculiar History of Aristotelianism among Spanish Jews,” 362) goes so far as to say that “Jewish Aristotelianism began and ended in Spain.” 140. See Wirmer, Vom Denken der Natur, 87; and see chapter 5, pages 155–56. 141. See Balty-­Guesdon, “Al-­Andalus et l’héritage grec,” 342. 142. The presence of this memory in twelfth-­century al-­Andalus is noted by Fierro (“The Almohads and the Fatimids”), who suggests seeing pos­si­ble influences of the Shīʿī-­ Fāṭimī model on the Almohad doctrine. The ambivalent attitude reflected in such pos­si­ble influences does not, however, erase the initial anxiety, nor does it preclude animosity to renewed manifestations of the rival’s impact.

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Ibn Gabirol.143 Ibn Daud’s criticism of Judah Halevi also comes through in the Lofty Faith, although he does not mention him by name. The very title is a rejoinder to “the despised religion” (al-­dīn al-­dhalīl), namely, Judaism, in the title of Halevi’s Kuzari.144 It is pos­si­ble that Ibn Daud’s book was intended as a response to the flagrant Shīʿi-­inspired Neoplatonizing spirit of the Kuzari.145 Ibn Daud’s engagement with the Aristotelian corpus is evident throughout the Lofty Faith, but he also wrote, in Arabic, a commentary on Aristotle’s Physics. Only two leaves of this text are extant, and the damaged fragment does not preserve legible quotations from Aristotle’s text, as we would expect to find in a consecutive commentary. Nevertheless, it bears the distinctive characteristics of the Aristotelian school, both in terms of the genre (commentary on the Aristotelian corpus) and subject ­matter (­going beyond the Organon, and a deep preoccupation with the Physics).146 Ibn Daud was less careful than his Muslim Aristotelian contemporaries to steer clear of ­things Neoplatonic, and his Aristotelianism also differs from that of Maimonides. Specifically, it is more openly influenced by Avicenna, and it lacks the “fundamentalist” bent evident in Maimonides’s writings and in t­ hose of Averroes. Like other Jewish thinkers, Ibn Daud draws on the teachings of dif­fer­ent schools. Although he has sometimes been described as having laid the foundations for the Aristotelian school in medieval Jewish philosophy, his philosophical work also bears the stamp of other scholastic influences.147 One can recognize in his work echoes of Saadya’s Kalām as well as of al-­Baṭalyawsī’s Imaginary Circles, and his Aristotelianism is mixed with Neoplatonist hermeneutics, as found in Avicenna. His Aristotelian orientation, however, is unmistakable, and it seems to be an extension of the line of thought that began among Jews in Saragossa in the eleventh c­ entury and flourished among Muslims with Ibn Bājja and Averroes. 143. See also conclusion. 144. See Eran, From S ­ imple Faith to Sublime Faith, 20–22; Fontaine, In Defence of Judaism, 2–3. The Arabic original of the book is not extant. The titles of the two medieval Hebrew translations, Emmunah ramah and Emmuna nisaʾa, recall the Arabic al-­ʿAqīda al-­raf īʿa. 145. See Fontaine, In Defence of Judaism, 2–3, 14. If so, this would mean that Ibn Daud was the first to sense the deep Shīʿī impact on Halevi, a fact that, when first pointed out by Pines, was received by the scholarly world as something of a shock. 146. On this fragment, see Szilágyi, “A Fragment of a Composition on Physics”; Langermann, “Fragments of Commentaries on Aristotle’s Physics,” 39–59. 147. See Eran, From ­Simple Faith to Sublime Faith, 20; Fontaine, In Defence of Judaism, 26–27.

A r istoteli a n Neo-­Orthodox y [ 161 ]

Among Jews, Ibn Daud’s writings w ­ ere overshadowed by t­ hose of Maimonides, whose philosophical works ­were also taken up by Muslims and Christians. And yet Ibn Daud’s more tentative Aristotelianism may be the best illustration of how twelfth-­century Andalusian Aristotelian phi­los­o­ phers negotiated Neoplatonic ele­ments and past po­liti­cal concerns.

Conclusion

Moving Out I n t h e n i n et e e n t h and early twentieth centuries, leading (and, invariably, Western) scholars believed that, with the waning of philosophy in al-­Andalus, philosophy in the Islamicate world also came to its end.1 This view has long been debunked: although ­later philosophy was sometimes called by some other name than falsafa, it continued to thrive in the Islamicate East, both in Shīʿite and Sunnite lands.2 In al-­Andalus, however, the twelfth ­century indeed represented the high watermark of philosophy. Although the thirteenth c­ entury saw some remarkable manifestations of Neoplatonic mystical philosophy, with Ibn Sabʿīn and Ibn ʿArabī (both of whom ended their lives in the East), the Aristotelian school had no significant succession ­after Averroes within the borders of al-­Andalus. But the legacy of Arabic Andalusian philosophy, both Muslim and Jewish, continued to thrive in the Iberian peninsula. A ­ fter the Christian conquest of Toledo in 1085, Christian Spain witnessed a growing interest in philosophy and science. This interest was expressed in a large-­scale effort to translate philosophical texts from Arabic. The result was a “­wholesale appropriation of current Muslim and Jewish learning . . . ​during the first half of the twelfth ­century.” 3 Like the Abbasid translation movement in the East, this second translation movement in the West was supported by the ruling class. And it, too, was at least partly “sustained by needs and 1. See, for instance, Dunlop, “Philosophical Pre­de­ces­sors,” 115–16: “Philosophy in Muslim Spain, destined to be the last impor­tant phase of activity of Arabic philosophy in general ­until the pre­sent time.” 2. See, for example, El-­Rouayheb and Schmidtke, introduction to OHIP, 1–5. 3. Reilly, The Medieval Spains, 126–67; see also Dye, “Les Grecs, les Arabes et les ‘racines’ de l’Eu­rope,” 819–20 and notes 36–37.

[ 162 ]

Conclusion [ 163 ]

tendencies in the nascent . . . ​society,” motivated not only by intellectual curiosity but also by more practical motives, such as competition with the Muslim ­enemy.4 The translation activity, centered in the cathedral chapter of Toledo, was spearheaded by educated clergymen from outside the peninsula: the French Archbishop Raymond de Sauvetât (1126–52), the Italian Gerard of Cremona (d. 1187), the German Herman of Carinthia (d. ca. 1160), the En­glish Robert of Ketton (d. ca. 1157).5 The involvement of the Church in ­these translations reflects the centrality of the polemical ­factor; it seems that Christian Eu­rope had de­cided that the strength of al-­Andalus lay in this learning, and moved to acquire it. Arabic-­speaking Iberian Christians played only a minor role in the development of philosophy in al-­Andalus.6 To access the legacy of Greco-­ Arabic and Arabic philosophy, another transmission agent had to be found.7 Muslims interested in philosophy, members of the educated elite classes, rarely stayed in the lands conquered by the Christians, preferring to relocate to Muslim territory: to the shrinking al-­Andalus in the south of the peninsula, to North Africa, or to the Islamic East. Of course, one should not underestimate the “brave subculture, the survival and mutations of myriad ele­ments into a new life, the courage and dignity and tenacity of t­ hose who made a new world out of the old.”8 But as the conquered communities—­first the Christian “Mozarabs,” then the Muslim “Mudejars”—­were struggling to preserve their own culture, few had the means, training, or desire to dedicate themselves to universalist learning, philosophy, or science. A significant part of the task of transmitting Arabic philosophy to the Christians thus fell to the Jews, many of whom found refuge from Almoravid and Almohad persecution in Christian territory, and some of whom had converted to Chris­tian­ity.9 One can therefore say that the 4. See Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture, 2. On the translations from Arabic to Latin, see, for example, D’Alverny, “Translations and Translators”; Burnett, “The Coherence of the Arabic-­Latin Translation Program”; idem, “The Translating Activity”; Burns, Muslims, Christians, and Jews, 99–108. 5. Reilly, The Medieval Spains, 126–27. Reilly insists that “the phenomenon was by no means purely foreign,” but the evidence he adduces shows relatively ­little indigenous Christian participation. 6. See introduction, pages 15–17. 7. See Reilly’s observation (The Medieval Spains, 124–25), quoted in the introduction, note 66. See also Kimmel, Parables of Coercion, 83; and cf. Ben-­Shalom, The Jews of Provence, 449. 8. Burns, Muslims, Christians, and Jews, 19. 9. For example, John of Seville, or Petrus Alfonsi; see Reilly, The Medieval Spains, 127;

[ 164 ] Conclusion

second translation movement tapped into the Muslim-­Jewish culture of al-­Andalus and was built on spolia from its ruins.10 Translations of Arabic into Latin ­were sometimes executed in teams.11 In Barcelona, the Italian Plato of Tivoli worked with Abraham Bar Ḥiyya to translate Ptolemy and al-­Battānī.12 Another prime example of such teamwork was the translation activity of Ibn Daud. The identification of Ibn Daud with Avendauth, suggested by Marie-­Thérèse d’Alverny more than half a c­ entury ago, has now been confirmed through Krisztina Szil­ ágyi’s discovery of a fragment of Ibn Daud’s lost commentary on the Physics, copied in Christian Spain, and carry­ing a Christian dating.13 Aven­dauth is mentioned, along with Dominicus Gundissalinus, as the translator of Ibn Gabirol’s Fons Vitae as well as of Avicenna’s Kitāb al-­Shifāʾ.14 In parallel to the translation of Arabic books on philosophy and science to Latin, t­ hese books w ­ ere also translated, around the same period, into Hebrew.15 The area then known in the medieval Hebrew sources as Provence (which covered the entire French midi as well as Catalonia), where most of this translation activity took place, was at the time part of the Catalan intellectual sphere. The fascinating development and the intriguing motives of this Jewish “Hebraist” movement lie beyond the scope of the pre­sent book. One ­ought to affirm, however, that it was carried out by immigrants, often refugees, from al-­Andalus, ­people who ­were steeped in Arabic culture and considered it to be the hallmark of a fine

Lasker, “Jewish Christian Polemics,” 130. On the role of Jews as transmitters of the Arabic philosophical lore to the West, see also Munk, Des principaux philosophes arabes, 309– 458; Renan, Averroès et l’averroïsme, 165–66; Twersky, “Aspects of the Social and Cultural History,” 190–91; Gómez Aranda, “The Jew as Scientist and Phi­los­o­pher,” 62. 10. As in the use of Andalusian spolia in Castillian architecture, h ­ ere, too, the appropriation reflected an admixture of “recalling the vanquished foe” and “pride in a glorious shared Arabic culture”; see Dodds, Menocal, and Balbale, The Arts of Intimacy, 143 and 183. 11. On such teamwork, see also chapter 1, page 30; and see Dye, “Les Grecs, les Arabes et les ‘racines’ de l’Eu­rope,” 833–34. 12. Ben-­Shalom, The Jews of Provence, 449. Abraham Bar Ḥiyya was also, along with Abraham Ibn Ezra, one of the first to write on science in Hebrew, creating for this purpose a technical Hebrew vocabulary, dif­fer­ent from that of the Tibbonides; see, for instance, Gómez Aranda, “The Jew as Scientist and Phi­los­o­pher,” 69–81. 13. See D’Alverny, “Avendauth?”; Szilágyi, “A Fragment of a Composition on Physics”; Freudenthal, “Abraham Ibn Daud”; and see chapter 5, page 160. 14. See Fidora, “Abraham Ibn Daūd und Dominicus Gundissalinus.” 15. On t­ hese translations, see Steinschneider, The Jewish Translations of the M ­ iddle Ages; Ben-­Shalom, The Jews of Provence, 426–36, 445–64.

Conclusion [ 165 ]

education.16 The polemical needs of the local Provençal Jews may have brought them to see the utility of acquiring philosophical tools, as suggested by Gad Freudenthal. Without the new immigrants’ initial commitment to their native culture, however, it is hard to see how even the awareness of the availability of this polemical tool could arise.17 The part played by Jews in the translation of philosophical and scientific works from Arabic to Latin is remarkable, but perhaps even more significant is their role in preserving the Arabic texts themselves, as well as the scholarly tradition attached to them. The extant Arabic manuscripts are t­ hose that survived the mass burning of books initiated by Cardinal Jiménez de Cisneros (d. 1517) a­ fter the conquest of Granada. In the sixteenth ­century, Arabic manuscripts ­were systematically destroyed by the Church authorities. The surviving manuscripts, a mere shadow of the lost magnificent libraries, survived, as one may rightly argue, mainly through chance, and thus do not allow any generalization. This being said, a surprisingly consistent picture emerges from their examination. Although the censorship of Arabic books is supposed to have spared books of philosophy, medicine, and history, the surviving Arabic manuscripts actually suggest that Muslims living in Christian territory invested their efforts in preserving what could in some way be seen as religious sciences.18 Jews living in the urban centers of Castille, however, commissioned Arabic philosophical and scientific manuscripts, employing for that purpose mostly Muslim scribes (sometimes educated prisoners of war) but also Jewish ones. And thus “the diffusion of Arabic culture from Muslim to Christian Spain went through the channel of Jewish owner­ship.” 19 Pieter Van Koningsveld, who meticulously examined ­these manuscripts, therefore concluded that “the Jews emerge from ­these Andalusian-­Arabic manuscripts as the main heirs 16. See, for example, Septimus, Hispano-­Jewish Culture in Transition. Leicht (“Yehudah Ibn Tibbon”) as well as Ben-­Shalom (The Jews of Provence, 414–17, 426, 483–510) point to Judah Ibn Tibbon’s commitment to the Andalusian tradition of adab, which focuses on Arabic linguistics, lit­er­a­ture, and style. But for Arabic-­speaking intellectuals like Moses Ibn Ezra, al-­Baṭalyawsī, and Ibn Bājja, adab came combined with philosophy. 17. See Freudenthal, “Philosophy in Religious Polemics”; idem, “Arabic into Hebrew,” 129; and, on the other hand, Lasker, “Controversy and Collegiality.” Further on this translation movement, see Ivry, “Philosophical Translations”; Steven Harvey, “Arabic into Hebrew.” 18. See Ribera y Tarragó, “Bibliófilos,” 18; Kathryn Miller, Guardians of Islam, 60–61. Thus, for example, according to van Koningsveld (“Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Christian Spain,” 87), the seven extant manuscripts of al-­Ghazālī include only his “lesser works,” and only an abridgment of his Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-­dīn; see also van Koningsveld, “Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Medieval Christian Spain,” 812. 19. Van Koningsveld, “Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Medieval Christian Spain”; idem, “Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Christian Spain,” 89, 90–91.

[ 166 ] Conclusion

of the specifically secular, purely scientific ele­ments of the Arabic civilization in Medieval Christian Spain.”20 We may now return to the criticism of the notion of las tres culturas, and to García-­Arenal’s observation that, while t­ here w ­ ere indeed three religions in the Iberian peninsula, t­ here w ­ ere only two cultures, the Christian and the Muslim, with the Jews attaching themselves to the one or the other, according to the territory in which they lived.21 As the example of the second translation movement shows, when Jews moved to another territory they did not at once move to another culture, but often remained attached, sometimes for centuries, to the culture of the territory they had been forced to leave.22 Thus we find Jews living in Christian territory (Christian Spain, Provence, or Italy) who ­were steeped in Muslim philosophy, and this remained the case even long ­after most Jews no longer read Arabic. Up to the fifteenth ­century, Jews living in urban centers in Christian Spain—in Segovia, Aguilar de Campoo, Saragossa, and Burgos—­had access to philosophical manuscripts in Arabic, and continued to study and copy them in Hebrew characters. They also employed Muslim scribes to copy Arabic philosophical and medical manuscripts. Most of the Arabic manuscripts in Hebrew characters contain medical texts, and in fact, as in al-­Manṣūr’s tenth-­century purge, Arabic medicine and other practical disciplines remained relatively protected in Christian Spain. T ­ here is thus some evidence of an Islamic “school” of Arabic medicine and physics in fifteenth-­century Aragon.23 Beyond medicine, however, significant information can be gleaned from the colophons of impor­tant scientific and philosophical manuscripts. The colophon of a manuscript of the Almagest, for example, copied in Calatayud, testifies to three generations of Jews (between 1379 and 1495) interested in this book. We have evidence, then, of a f­ amily tradition of studying Arabic, in Hebrew characters, in northern Spain.24 Another prime example of this continued scholarly tradition is a manuscript copied in the ­middle of the f­ ourteenth c­ entury in Saragossa, which contains three of Averroes’s ­middle commentaries on Aristotle: on the De generatione et corruptione, on the De anima, and the Epitome of the Parva 20. Van Koningsveld, “Andalusian-­Arabic Manuscripts from Christian Spain,” 93; and see also Burns, Muslims, Christians, and Jews, 126. 21. See introduction, note 23. 22. This is another example of the phenomenon of cultural time lag mentioned above; see chapter 4, page 114. 23. Girón-­Negrón, Alfonso de la Torre’s Visión Deleytable, 50–69, esp. 61–62; quoted in Sirat and Geoffroy, L’original arabe, 78. 24. Ms. Paris BnF hébr. 1100; see Sirat and Geoffroy, L’original arabe, 75–76.

Conclusion [ 167 ]

naturalia, all of them in Arabic, in Hebrew characters. In the margins of this manuscript, a c­ entury ­later, Jewish students of philosophy copied, in the original Arabic, Averroes’s Long Commentary on the De Anima, a text that had other­wise been considered lost.25 We cannot know if con­temporary Muslims in al-­Andalus held such books, b ­ ecause books in Arabic characters w ­ ere ­later destroyed.26 Arabic manuscripts in Hebrew characters, however, could apparently pass u ­ nder the censors’ radar, and so we find the Iberian Jews functioning, once again, as custodians of scientific and philosophical books. The second translation movement thus sheds further light on a phenomenon we have seen ­earlier in al-­Andalus. It appears that, throughout the fraught interreligious history of the Iberian peninsula, Jews played a disproportionate role in the transmission of philosophy and the sciences. And, at the risk of stating the obvious, this role did not derive from any inherently Jewish characteristic, nor does it reflect a “continuity” of Jewish destiny.27 Rather, the involvement of Jews in the transmission of philosophy was the result of the historical constellation in the peninsula, which placed them in a par­tic­u­lar position vis-­à-­vis the other two religious communities.

The Common Ground Although our documentation of the transmission of Arabic philosophy from al-­Andalus to Christian Spain leaves much to be desired, we know even less about what led to the dramatic developments of mystical thought in the Iberian peninsula ­after the twelfth ­century. The thirteenth ­century witnesses, on the Jewish side, the emergence of Moshe Cordovero’s Kabbala in the north of the peninsula, while from Murcia in the south stems the g ­ reat Muslim mystic Muḥyī al-­dīn Ibn al-­ʿArabī. Evaluating the parallelism of Jewish and Muslim texts from this period, Georges Vajda ventured only to say that “despite all the differences, ­there is at least

25. Ms. Modena (Biblioteca Estense α J. 6. 23); see Sirat and Geoffroy, L’original arabe, 69–70; Sirat, “3 Studia of Philosophy as Scribal Centers”; Hacker, “On the Intellectual Character,” 52–56. On this kind of “school manuscripts,” and on the teaching of philosophy that they reflect, see Sirat and Geoffroy, L’original arabe, 72–74. 26. See, for example, Kathryn Miller, Guardians of Islam, viii–ix. Current scholarship nevertheless often depicts the Muslim community in Christian Spain as rather unintellectual. To be sure, the eventual finding of more manuscripts would change this depiction. 27. On “continuity,” a particularly laden term in the history of Iberian historiography, see Burns, Muslims, Christians, and Jews, 2–3, 18–19.

[ 168 ] Conclusion

a similarity of atmosphere which presupposes . . . ​a common ground of Gnosticism.”28 Vajda cautiously refrained from suggesting any influence in e­ ither direction, but one may, perhaps, be more affirmative. Although one cannot draw a continuous line describing the stemma of development and transmission, we know that the similarity of atmosphere that presupposes a common ground of ideas was more than a nebulous Zeitgeist. It was nourished by direct contacts between Muslims (both Sunnīs and Ismāʿīlī Shīʿites) and Jews.29 ­These contacts allowed for the f­ ree flow of ideas in both directions. Ibn Masarra was highly instrumental in introducing this porous atmosphere to al-­Andalus, offering the first recorded manifestation of systematic mystical thought in the Iberian peninsula. As discussed above, Ibn al-­Marʾa quotes Ibn Masarra’s Tawḥīd al-­ mūqinīn in his commentary on al-­Juwaynī’s Kitāb al-­Irshād. Ibn al-­Marʾa was the shaykh of Ibn Sabʿīn, or, more precisely, the teacher of his teacher Ibn Aḥlā (d. 645/1247); hence, James Morris’s observation that Ibn al-­ Marʾa’s citation of Ibn Masarra witnesses a continuous “Ṣūf ī” tradition of study of Ibn Masarra in the interval between al-­Ḥumayḍī and Ibn al-­ ʿArabī.30 The appearance of Ibn al-­ʿArabī’s highly sophisticated mystical system seems to spring from the ground in full glory, with no apparent continuous development leading ­toward it.31 In Morris’s view, Ibn al-­ Marʾa’s quotation from Ibn Masarra can serve as a fingerpost to guide us in tracing the transmission and development of this mystical tradition. This fingerpost indicates that, although the l­ ater development of mystical thought in the Iberian peninsula lies beyond the scope of the pre­sent book, its tracking requires an integrative, multifocal approach, similar to the one that suits the study of Andalusian intellectual history in an ­earlier period. The common linguistic and intellectual ground on which Muslim, Christian, and Jewish philosophy flourished then characterized the entire medieval Islamicate world. But within the semiclosed precincts of “this peninsula” (a term of endearment as much as a geo­graph­i­cal designation, used by both Jews and Muslims), the commonality is particularly 28. “Il y a du moins, malgré toutes les divergences, une similitude de climat qui suppose . . . ​un fonds commun de gnosticisme” (Vajda, “Les lettres et les sons,” 125). 29. ­Needless to say, pointing out ­these direct contacts and their significance does not suggest that they ­were ­either the sole or the primary source for Cordovero’s Kabbala, nor for Ibn ʿArabī’s mysticism. 30. Morris, “Ibn Masarra,” 23; see also Vahid Brown, “Andalusī Mysticism,” 82–83. 31. Affifi, The Mystical Philosophy; Addas, “Andalusī Mysticism”; Sviri, “Spiritual Trends,” 78; Stroumsa and Sviri, “The Beginnings of Mystical Philosophy,” 211, 215.

Conclusion [ 169 ]

striking, and perhaps easier to follow. Without imposing on al-­Andalus a single predominant school of thought (be it Pseudo-­Empedoclean or Aristotelian), and without appealing to a spurious Spanish “genius,” one can identify recurring themes in Andalusian speculative thought. The true meaning of tawḥīd and the correct interpretation of the divine attributes run like a thread through Andalusian thought, from Ibn Masarra and Ibn Gabirol to the Almohads and Maimonides. The respective merits of rational thought and revelation, philosophy and scriptures, preoccupied thinkers from Ibn Masarra and Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda to Averroes and Judah Halevi. Key concepts such as tadbīr (as divine providence or as h ­ uman governance) or iʿtibār (contemplation and drawing a lesson) surface time and again, receiving dif­fer­ent interpretations and being put to dif­fer­ent uses by Ibn Masarra and Baḥyā, by Averroes and Maimonides. All of ­these thinkers had to negotiate their way in the po­liti­cal and social framework of al-­Andalus, balancing mundane commitments to the court and to their respective communities with a yearning for perfection, for the sublime and the transcendent. We can sometimes trace the movement of t­ hese themes from one thinker to another; more often, the transmission lines remain buried, leaving us to choose between assuming an enigmatic osmotic pro­ cess and admitting the existence of yet unknown contacts. We have come to the end of our tale. The story that I have presented ­here has been told many times, but rarely in its fullness. Much has been written on the development of Muslim philosophy on the one hand and of Jewish philosophy on the other, as if ­these demanded distinct narratives and necessitated discrete studies of po­liti­cal, religious, or philosophical history. In the course of this piecemeal recounting, the lines connecting the dif­fer­ent segments to a coherent narrative became blurred. In this book I have attempted to show that the history of philosophy in al-­Andalus cannot be told as separate stories of Muslim or of Jewish philosophy. Nor can intellectual history be told as an abstract history of ideas, while ignoring the politico-­religious circumstances in which t­ hese ideas grew and developed. The contributions of Jews, Christians, and Muslims to the development of philosophy in the Iberian peninsula are parts of a single work, a chef d’œuvre set in the frame of the po­liti­cal, social, and religious life of al-­Andalus. It is by viewing t­ hese contributions as interwoven threads of a ­grand tapestry that we can begin to glimpse the glory of the intellectual history of al-­Andalus.

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I n de x

ʿAbd al-­Aʿlā b. Wahb, 64 ʿAbd Allāh al-­Mahdī, Caliph, 56 ʿAbd al-­Mālik, 65 ʿAbd al-­Muʾmin, 132, 134–35, 138n50 ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān al-­Nāṣir li-­Dīn Allāh, Caliph (also ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III), 17–18, 28, 29, 30–31, 83; and Andalusian Jews, 29; and Masarrīs, 57; nationalists and, 57n130 ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān Ibn al-­Sīd, 152 ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān II, 67 ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān III. See ʿAbd al-­Raḥmān al-­Nāṣir li-­Dīn Allāh, Caliph ʿAbd al-­Wahhāb, Muḥammad ibn, 64, 131n27 ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­Marrākushī. See Marrākushī, ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid alAbraham Bar Ḥiyya Ha-­Nassi, 83, 164 Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-­Qurṭubī, 39 Abū ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Khamīs al-­Jābūrī, 40 Abū al-­Barakāt al-­Baghdādī, 124 Abū al-­Ḥasan ʿAlī b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Malik al-­Maʿmarī al-­Ubādhī, 40 Abū ʿĀmir. See Manṣūr Ibn Abī ʿĀmir, Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb alAbū Bakr Faraj b. Sallām, 66–67 Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā. See Ibn Bājja, Abū Bakr ibn al-­Ṣāʾigh Abū Bishr Mattā, 20 Abū Ḥabūs, 134 Abū Jaʿfar Aḥmad b. Naṣr, 36 Abū Jaʿfar ibn ʿAbbās, 32n18 Abū Jaʿfar Yūsuf ibn Aḥmad ibn Ḥasdāy, 92 Abū Saʿīd b. al-­Aʿrābī, 35 Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf, Caliph, 85, 136–38, 139, 142, 143 Abū Yazīd al-­Bistāmī, 122 Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb, 79, 137–38, 142 Abūʾl-­ʿAbbās al-­Aʿmā, 85n13 Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy ibn Yūsuf ibn Ḥasdāy, 91–92, 107, 125–26 Abūʾl-­Faḍl al-­Dimashqī, 94 Abūʾl-­Faraj Hārūn, 76

Abūʾl-­Ḥārith, 56n125, 105n13 Abūʾl-­Hudhayl al-­ʿAllāf al-­Baṣrī, 46, 48 Abūʾl-­Ṭaras, 76 Abūʾl Walīd Muḥammad. See Averroes Africa, northern. See Maghreb, the Alexander of Aphrodisias, 127 al-­Ḥakam al-­Mustanṣir, Emir, 18n63, 28 Allah. See God Almohads (also Muwaḥḥidūn), 25, 128–29; education of, 130–34; hierarchy of, 130, 132; literalism, 151, 152–53; philosophy and, 134–61; propaganda of, 135–37; religious beliefs of, 69–71, 72n43, 79–80, 128–31; religious persecution by, 1n2, 130; and science, 141 Almoravids, 128 alphabet. See letters Alvarus, Paulus, 17 Anan ben David, 73–75 Ananites, 73–75 Andalus, al-­(Andalusia): Christian community in, 13–19, 24; geographic extent of, 1; Jewish community of (also Karaites, Rabbanites), 1n2, 3, 7–8, 13–15, 19, 23, 72–73, 81–101; ­legal systems in, 25; multiethnic nature of, 7–8, 11–19, 23–24; philosophy in. See Aristotelianism, Neoplatonism, philosophy and subentries; religion in, 12–14, 16–17, 25–26, 61–80; self-­identity of, 2–4; study of, xii–­xiii, 2n4, 7–8, 13n45, 116–18 Arabic, 4–6; used by Jews and Christians, 5–6, 8, 15–17, 24, 30n11, 54–55, 77, 85–86, 87; translations from and into, 16n57, 18, 30, 120, 162–63, 164. See also language; letters Aristotelians, 20–21, 66, 102–3, 104, 109, 113n51; educational system, 90–92, 122, 125; neo-­orthodox, 124–61; with Neoplatonist characteristics, 120–23; on truth, 87–88; on state-­building, 89–90 Aristotle, 125, 136–37, 154; Ibn Ḥazm and, 105, 106n16; and Neoplatonism, 104, 109, 118, 119, 120; on physics, 151–52

[ 213 ]

[ 214 ] index Ashʿarism, 67, 70–71, 72n43, 79, 131, 141 astronomy, 151–54: Almohads and, 141; animosity ­toward, 22, 32; in the curriculum, 90, 92, 132–33 Avempace. See Ibn Bājja, Abū Bakr ibn al-­Ṣāʾigh Avendauth, 164. See also Ibn Daud, Abraham Averroes (Abūʾl Walīd Muḥamad Ibn Rushd), 21, 85, 89; Abū Yaʿqūb Yūsuf and, 136–38; Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb al-­Manṣūr and, 85, 139; on al-­Andalus, 2; Al-­Marrākushī and, 136–38, 139n54, 140–41; Almohads and, 84–85, 134, 137, 139, 141, 143–44, 146–48, 151; and the ancient phi­los­ o­phers, 87, 143–44; on Aristotle, 153; Aristotelianism and, 87, 123, 136–41, 151, 153, 156, 157–58; Bundūd and, 140n58; commentaries of, 2, 93, 136–44, 153, 156, 166–67; on God, 156–57; Ibn Bājja and, 153; Ibn Sīnā and, 156; Ibn Ṭufayl and, 144; influence on Ibn Ṭumlūs, 22n82; on law, 147; and Maimonides, 71n40, 98, 137n48, 147–48; on medicine, 151; on metaphysics, 157–58; on Muʿtazilite beliefs, 71, 77; Neoplatonism and, 123; on philosophical study, 93; Ptolemian astronomy and, 151, 152–53; on resurrection, 157; on truth, 143n70 Avicenna, 124, 125n3, 164; Aristotelianism and, 20, 124, 155–56, 160; on God, 156–57; influence on Ibn Daud, 160; influence on Ibn Ṭufayl, 21, 122, 128; Ibn Zuhr and, 155n127; Maimonides and, 23, 125n3, 155–57; Platonism and, 124; revolt against, 155–56 Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda, 111; al-­Muḥāsibī and, 23; Jewish law and, 111; Neoplatonism and, 121; rationality, 169; Sufism and, 111, 114 Ballūṭī, Mundhir b. Saʿīd al-­, 64 Banū Hūd, the, 110 Banū Ḥudayr, the, 65n9 Banū Qasī, the, 57n130 Baṭalyawsī, Ibn al-­Sīd al-­, 21, 88–89, 114, 158, 165n16; and al-­Fārābī, 125; The Book of Circles, 108–9, 110n35,

112, 121; The Book of Questions and Answers, 109–10; and Ibn Bājja, 127; and Isaac Israeli, 10n32; influence on Ibn Daud, 160; students of, 126 Biṭrūjī, Nūr al-­Dīn al-­, 151–52 Book of Circles, The. See Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī. Book of Creation, The. See Sefer Yeṣira Book of Explanation, The. See Ibn Masarra, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh Book of Letters, The. See Ibn Masarra, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh Book of Questions and Answers, The. See Ibn al-­Sīd al-­Baṭalyawsī books, 94; censorship of, 31–32, 33n23, 59n136, 104, 165, 167; collections of, 28–30, 76, 96, 113, 142; in creation story, 54; translations of, 5–6, 17–18, 73, 164; writing of, 37, 106n16 Braulius of Saragossa, Bishop, 75n56 Cairo Genizah. See Genizah. censorship: of Averroes, 143; evasion of, 33–34, 165–66; of Ibn Masarra, 113; of Jews, 33n23; of libraries, 31–32, 59n136, 104, 165, 167; by al-­Manṣūr, 31–32, 33, 102, 104; of Muslims, 33–34, 69, 79, 104, 165; of Neoplatonism, 104; of scholars, 32–34, 69, 102–3, 104, 133–34 Cervantes, Miguel de, 81–82 Christians (also Mozarabs), 13–15, 24; as courtiers, 83–84; conversion of, 15; as historians, xii, 7–8; and language, 5, 16–17; persecution by and of, 30, 33, 130; as translators, 9n30, 16, 18n63. See also philosophy, Christian Cisneros, Jiménez de, Cardinal, 165 Commentary on Plato’s “Republic.” See Averroes conversion, religious, 14–15, 16nn55 and 57, 75n56, 83–84, 130, 163 convivencia. See al-­Andalus, multiethnic nature of Ḍabbī, ʿAlī b. Yaḥyā al-­, 41n60 Daniel al-­Qūmisī, 73, 74 Dāwūd al-­Ẓāhirī, 64n7, 79n71 Dhahābī, Abū Jaʿfar al-­, 139, 142 Dhū ʾl-­Nūn al-­Miṣrī, 59

index [ 215 ] Dunash ben Labrat, wife of, 86n15 Dūnash ben Tamīm, Abū Sahl, 30, 51n103, 53 education, hierarchical structure of, 90–94, 125–26 Eliʿezer Alluf, 73 Empedocles, 46, 103, 115, 117, 119 Epistle of Contemplation, The. See Ibn Masarra, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh Epistles of the Pure Brethren, The, 53, 106, 118, 121 Eulogius, 17 Fārābī, Abū Naṣr al-­, 20, 90–91, 124, 135; Aristotelianism and, 95, 121, 127, 156; influence on Maimonides, 23; metaphysics and, 157; Neoplatonism and, 121; on phi­los­o­phers, 94 Fāṭimids, 25–26, 57, 60, 65n9, 102, 103–4, 106n20, 108, 120, 158 friendship, 96–101 Genizah (also Cairo Genizah), 5n15, 6, 15n51, 75n57 Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid al-­, 40, 143n69, 149, 165n18; Almohads and, 69, 129; as anti-­Almoravid, 129; Aristotelians and, 124; Halevi and, 23; Ibn Ṭāhir and, 135; Maimonides and, 149n95 Gnosticism, 117–18, 168 God: attributes of, 38, 42, 44–48, 50, 68n21, 69–70, 117n65, 169; corporeality of, 129, 148–49; knowledge of, 47–48, 68n21, 71n40, 143, 149, 156–57; names of, 45, 50–51; unity of (tawḥīd), 41–48, 50, 54, 59, 69–70, 71n40, 111, 129, 148–49, 169 Guide of the Perplexed. See Maimonides, Moses. Ḥabbūs al-­Muẓaffar, 83 Ḥafṣ the Goth, 17 Hai Ben Naḥshon, 73 al-­Ḥakam (head of the Muʿtazilites), 64–65 Ḥakam II, al-­Emir, 28–30, 31–32, 83 Ḥallāj, al-­, 122 Hanoch, Rabbi, 30–31 Ḥarrānī, ʿUmar al-­, 105n13

Ḥasdāy ibn Shaprūṭ (also Ḥasdāy ibn Isḥāq; Hasdeu), 18, 29–30, 31, 83, 91n39 Ḥayy b. ʿAbd al-­Mālik, 37–38 Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān. See Abū Bakr ibn Ṭufayl Hebrew, 4, 15nn51 and 54, 86; characters for Arabic, 5, 24, 54–55; translations from and into, 8, 73, 110, 113n49, 164, 166. See also language; letters Hishām b. al-­Ḥakam, 18n63, 31–32 Ḥumaydī, Abū ʿAbd Allāh Muḥammad b. Abī Naṣr b. Fattūḥ al-­, 40–41, 46n80, 168 Ibn Abī Saʿīd b. ʿUthmān, 94n53 Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, 29n8, 133n33, 148 Ibn ʿAdī, Yaḥyā (also Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī), 20, 94n53, 124 Ibn al-­Abbār, 36, 37–38 Ibn al-­Aflaḥ, Jābir, 152 Ibn al-­ʿArabī, Abū Bakr, 108 Ibn al-­ʿArabī, Muḥyī al-­dīn (also Ibn ʿArabī, Muḥyī al-­dīn), 38, 49, 50, 77n62, 110, 162, 167–68 Ibn al-­ʿArīf, 111, 158 Ibn al-­Bālia, Baruch, 87n22, 97 Ibn al-­Bālia, Isaac, 87n22, 96 Ibn al-­Faraḍī, Al-­Walīd ʿAbd Allāh b. Muḥammad b. Yūsuf, 41, 45–46, 59n140, 68n21 Ibn al-­Haytham, 56, 103 Ibn al-­Imām, Abū al-­Ḥasan, 28n4, 99, 126 Ibn al-­Kattānī (Muḥammad b. Ḥasan al-­ Madhḥījī), 41, 56n125, 105, 125n5 Ibn al-­Marʾa b. Dahhāq al-­Mālaqī, 39, 41–42, 44–45, 117n65, 168 Ibn al-­Māshiṭa, Daniel, 72n44 Ibn al-­Naghrīla, Samuel ha-­Nagid. See Samuel ha-­Nagid Ibn al-­Naghrīla, Yehoseph. See Yehoseph ha-­Nagid Ibn al-­Samīna, Abū Bakr Yaḥyā, 58, 64 Ibn al-­T īflwīt, 84 Ibn al-­Zarqālluh. See Tujībī, Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm al-­Naqqāsh alIbn ʿĀmir, al-­Manṣūr. See Manṣūr Ibn Abī ʿĀmir, Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb alIbn ʿArabī, Muḥyī al-­dīn. See Ibn al-­ʿArabī

[ 216 ] index Ibn Bājja, Abū Bakr ibn al-­Ṣāʾigh (also Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā, also Avempace), 10, 21, 84–85, 88–89, 92, 94–95, 126n9, 127; Abū al-­Ḥasan Ibn al-­Imām and, 99; Abū Jaʿfar Yūsuf Ibn Ḥasdāy and, 100; Aristotelianism and, 127, 153; and astronomy, 152, 154; on friendship, 100; Ibn Ṭufayl and, 122–23, 128, 136; on knowledge, 157–58, 165n16; Maimonides and, 23, 93; Mālik Ibn Wuhayb and, 126; Regimen of the Solitary, 92n44, 99, 122, 127; tartīb and, 92n44 Ibn Barrajān, 111, 114, 158 Ibn Bundūd, Abū Bakr, 136 Ibn Danan, Saadia, 31n14 Ibn Daud, Abraham (also Avendauth), 29n8, 64, 75, 76, 87n22, 96, 97, 164; as Aristotelian, 159–61; Book of Tradition, 30–31; The Lofty Faith, 121, 159–60 Ibn Ezra, Abraham, 53n113, 75, 86, 113, 164n12 Ibn Ezra, Moses, 17, 28n4, 29n9, 83, 86–87, 88, 112, 125n3, 127, 165n16; on al-­Andalus, 3 Ibn Falaqera, Shem Tov, 112, 115, 116 Ibn Gabirol, Salomon, 17n60, 116, 126n8; Ibn Daud on, 159–60; as Neoplatonist, 111–12, 114, 115, 127; as poet, 88; as Pseudo-­Empedoclean, 115; The Source of Life (Fons Vitae), 52, 88, 111–12, 113, 115, 164 Ibn Ghiyyāth, Isaac (also Isaac b. Ghiyyāth), 87n22, 88, 112, 119 Ibn Ḥafsūn, 57n130 Ibn Ḥafṣūn, Aḥmad, 105n13 Ibn Hārūn, Abū Jaʿfar, 66 Ibn Ḥasdāy, Abraham, 119 Ibn Ḥayyān, Jābir, 30n11, 108; on Ibn Masarra, 36n37, 41, 57n130, 68n21 Ibn Ḥazm, 2, 67, 75, 105, 106n16; on Aristotle, 105, 106n16; on al-­Ḥakam, 64–65; on Ibn Masarra, 47–48, 49–50, 58, 59–60, 117; on law, 149; Maimonides and, 149; and Muʿtazilism, 47, 67–69; on philosophy, 22; Ptolemian astronomy and, 152n111; and Ẓāhirism, 78–80 Ibn Hūd, Abū ʿĀmir, 107

Ibn Hūd, al-­Mustaʿīn II, 84 Ibn Hūd, ʿImād al-­Dawla, 84 Ibn Janāḥ, Abūʾl-­Walīd Marwān, 76 Ibn Juljul, 17–18, 29; on Dioscorides, 18n63; on Ḥasdāy ibn Isḥāq, 30; Ibn Daud and, 29n8 Ibn Jumayʿ, 155n127 Ibn Khāqān, Abū Naṣr al-­Fatḥ, 41n60, 109n34, 127 Ibn Lubāba, 64 Ibn Maḍāʾ al-­Qurṭubī, 155 Ibn Marwān al-­Jillīqī, 57n130 Ibn Masarra, ʿAbd Allāh, 34, 39, 64n6 Ibn Masarra, Aḥmad b. Abd Allāh al-­ Qurṭubī, 40 Ibn Masarra, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Najīḥ, 21, 34–60; Abū Jaʿfar Aḥmad b. Naṣr and, 36; The Book of Explanation, 39; The Book of Letters (also The Book of Properties of Letters), 38, 43, 45, 47–48, 49, 50, 53–54, 55; Epistle of Contemplation, 36–37, 38, 40, 42–43, 45, 48–49, 55; Ibn Gabirol and, 116n61; influence by and on Jews, 39, 48–57, 113–14, 168; Kitāb tawḥīd al-­mūqinīn, 39, 41–45, 50; Maslama b. Qāsim and, 108; and Muʿtazilism, 37, 42, 64, 67–68; and mysticism, 38, 110–11, 113, 117–18, 122, 168; and Neoplatonism, 35, 37, 38, 48, 103, 108; as poet, 41; Pseudo-­Empedocleanism and, 117; rhetorical talents of, 35–36; writings of, 36–41 Ibn Megash, Meir, 97 Ibn Paqūda. See Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda Ibn Qāsī, 109n33, 111 Ibn Rushd, Abūʾl-­Walīd Muḥamad. See Averroes Ibn Sabʿīn, Muḥammad ʿAbd al-­Ḥaqq, 38, 162, 168 Ibn Ṣaddiq, Joseph, 73, 75, 85n13, 113, 119, 121 Ibn Ṣāʿid (also Ṣāʿid Ibn Ṣāʿid al-­ Andalusī): on Abūʾl-­Faḍl Ḥasdāy, 91–92, 125–26; on censorship, 31–33, 102–3, ; on Empedocles, 46; on Ibn Masarra, 46–47, 48, 117; on Jews, 11, 97; al-­Maqqarī and, 22n82; on philosophy in al-­Andalus, 11, 27, 28–29, 33–34, 97, 104–9, 125–26; study and, 93

index [ 217 ] Ibn Sīnā, 156 Ibn Ṭāhir, Abū ʿAbd al-­Raḥmām, 135 Ibn Tāshuf īn, Ibrāhīm b. Yūsuf (also Ibn Tāʿyāsht), 85 Ibn Taymiyya, 5–6, 57n131 Ibn Tāʿyāsht. See Ibrāhīm b. Yūsuf Ibn Tāshuf īn Ibn Ṭufayl, Abū Bakr, 21; al-­Marrākushī on, 136–37, 138n50; Almohads and, 135–36, 144, 146–47; Aristotelianism and, 135–37; Averroes and, 136–38. 140n58; Ḥayy Ibn Yaqẓān, 97, 99, 122, 128, 144–45; and Ibn Bājja, 85, 122–23, 136; influence on Maimonides, 23; on knowledge, 127; and mysticism, 21, 122–23; and Neoplatonism, 21, 122–23, 128, 144–45, 158; Ptolemian astronomy and, 152 Ibn Tūmart, Muḥammad (Mahdī), 69–70, 129–32, 142, 149, 150 Ibn Ṭumlūs, 22, 25n95, 69n30, 111 Ibn Waḍḍāḥ, Muḥammad, 34, 39–40 Ibn Wuhayb, Mālik, 126 Ibn Zarb, Muḥammad b. Yabqā, 41n60, 59n136 Ibn Zuhr, Abū Bakr, 133–34 Ibn Zuhr, Abūʾl-­ʿAlāʾ, 127, 155 Ibn Zuhr, Abū Marwān, 151 Ibrāhim ibn Yaʿqūb al-­Isrāilī al-­Ṭurṭūshī, 31n15 Imaginary Circles (Ibn al-­Sīd al-­ Baṭalyawsī), 160 Iqbāl al-­Dawla ʿAlī, 11 Isaac b. Ghiyyāth. See Ibn Ghiyyāth, Isaac Isaac b. Qisṭār, 11 Isaac Israeli, 10n32, 53, 56, 104, 112, 119; The Book of Creation (Sefer Yeṣira), 52, 53, 55, 56–57, 114 Isidore of Seville, 18 Islam: Fāṭimid, 25–26, 56, 57, 60, 65n9, 102, 103–4, 106n20, 108, 110, 158, 159; geographic extent of, 4; Ismāʿīlī, 25, 56, 102, 103, 104, 106n20, 107–8, 110, 113, 118–19, 120, 158, 159, 168; religious intolerance in, 13; Shīʿī, 25, 51, 63, 65n9, 66, 70n32, 113, 130, 159, 160, 162, 168; Sunnī, 25, 51, 110, 129–30, 162, 168 Islamicate, 4–7; philosophy, 11–12, 18–9, 61–62, 81, 88–91; religious relations in, 12–14; study of, 7–8, 62, 162

Jabalī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdūn al-­, 105n13 Jāḥiẓ, ʿAmr b. Baḥr al-­, 66, 71 Jews, 3n8, 13–14; in the Almohad realm, 18, 130, 145–48; as courtiers, 16n55, 29–31, 82–85, 89–90; Ibn Massara and, 48–57; influence on Iberian peninsula, 7–8, 19, 23, 163–69; Karaite, 63, 73–77; language and, 4–5, 15; as phi­los­o­phers, 4n12, 18–19, 32–34, 60, 87–90, 111–15, 165–67; persecution of, 1n2, 33n23, 88, 96, 130; as poets, 85–87; Pseudo-­Empedocles and, 117–20; Rabbanite, 63, 72–73, 74, 75–76, 77; as translators, 163–65. See also Andalus, al-­, Jewish community of; law, Jewish; philosophy, Jewish John of Gorze, 31 Joseph Ibn Jābir, 145 Joseph Ibn Shimʿon, 92–93, 146 Jubbāʾī, al-­, 64n7 Judah ben Barzillai ha-­Barceloni, 53, 54n118 Judah Halevi, 3–4, 73, 75; on Aristotelianism, 20, 113; influences on, 23, 54; Kuzari, 20, 53, 54, 73, 88, 113, 121, 160; as Neoplatonist, 113; as poet, 88 Judah Ibn Tibbon, 165n16 Junayd, al-­, 35 Karaites, 73–77; beliefs of, 63; and Muʿtazilites, 63; oral tradition and, 73–74 Khalīl b. ʿAbd al-­Mālik (also Khalīl al-­ Ghafla, also Khalīl al-­Qadarī), 58–59, 64 Khushanī, ʿAbd Allāh b. Ḥārith b. Asad al-­, 34, 36, 39–40, 59n140 Kindī, al-­, 20, 120, 159; Aristotelianism and, 20, 159; Averroes and, 155; Neoplatonism and, 20, 120 Kirmānī, Abūʾl-­Ḥakam al-­, 106–7, 108 language: as divisive agent, 5; as unifying agent, 4–6, 15; source, 8; technical, 6; written, 50–53. See also Arabic; Hebrew; letters law: Jewish, 29, 33n23, 63, 72–80, 111, 149–50; Mālikī, 25, 63, 79–80, 108, 129, 141–42, 147, 152n111; and philosophy, 61, 147–50; and theology, 22n80,

[ 218 ] index law (continued) 54, 61–80, 129–30, 143; Ẓāhirī, 25, 64n7, 77–80, 155n125 letters: Arabic, 38, 42–43, 47, 49, 50–52, 55; Hebrew, 52 libraries, 28–33, 76–77, 96, 142; censorship of, 31–32, 59n136, 165, 167 Liudprand of Cremona, 31 Lofty Faith, The. See Abraham Ibn Daud Luʾluʾī, Abū Bakr al-­, 41 Madhḥījī, Muḥammad b. Ḥasan al-. See Ibn al-­Kattānī Maghreb, the, 2; Almohads in, 70, 128– 32; religious movements in, 3n10, 63, 70, 92–93, 118, 141n61 Maimonides, Moses, 8n26, 99, 159; Almohads and, 147, 148; on al-­Andalus, 3; on Aristotle, 153–54; Averroes and, 98, 156–57; and Avicenna, 125n3, 157; on faith, 148–49; on friendship, 97–99; on God, 146, 148–49; Guide of the Perplexed, 10, 52–53, 70–71, 98–99, 149, 154; influences on, 10, 23; on law, 149–50; on metaphysics, 157–58; on perfection, 95; on philosophy, 87, 94; on Ptolemy, 154; on resurrection, 157; as teacher, 92–93, 145–46 Majrīṭī, Maslama b. Aḥmad al-­Faraḍī al-­, 105n13, 107 Mālikīs, 25, 63, 79–80, 108, 129, 141–42, 147, 152n111 Manṣūr Ibn Abī ʿĀmir, Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb al-­ (also Abū ʿĀmir; al-­Manṣūr Ibn ʿĀmir), 31–33, 57, 60, 85, 102–3, 104, 139, 166 Maqqarī, al-­, 28n4; on astronomy, 22; Ibn Ṣāʿid and, 22n82; on philosophy, 22n82 Marc of Toledo, 93 Marcus (Muḥammad b. Maymūn), 105n13 Marrākushī, ʿAbd al-­Wāḥid al-­, 69, 122–23, 128, 135–36 Marrākushī, Ibn ʿAbd al-­Mālik Al-­, 136–38, 139n54, 140–41 Masarrīs, 44, 64, 103, 110–11, 144; beliefs of, 58, 59; persecution of, 57–60. See also Ibn Masarra, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh

Maslama b. Qāsim al-­Qurṭubī, 93n51, 107–8, 123 Meccan Revelations (Ibn al-­ʿArabī), 49 Moshe Cordovero, 167, 168n29 Mozarabs. See al-­Andalus, Christian community in; Christians Muhammad I, 66 Muḥammad b. Abī Burda, 64 Muḥammad b. Maymūn (also Marcus), 105n13 Muḥāsibi, al-­, 23, 111 Muʿizz, al-­, Caliph, 103 Muqammaṣ, Dāwūd al-­, 121 Muʿtamad, al-­, 96 Muʿtazila, the, 6n19, 42, 47, 61–73, 114; ʿAbd Allāh and, 64n6, 68n21; Almohad period, 69–71, 76–77; Banū Ḥudayr and, 65n9; beliefs of, 62, 64, 65, 68n21, 69, 70–72; Ibn Ḥazm on, 68; Ibn Masarra and, 35, 37, 42, 46–48, 67–68; Ibn Tūmart and, 69–70, 131; al-­Jāḥiẓ and, 66, 71; and Jewish scholars, 63, 72–73, 77n62; Karaites and, 63, 76–77; on knowledge, 62; Mālikī period, 63–65, 67–68, 69; Masarrīs and, 57, 59, 67n20; post–­Muslim Conquest period, 63–64, 65–67; Ẓāhirists and, 64n7, 68–69, 77 Muwaffaq Mujāhid al-­ʿĀmirī, al-­, 11, 117 Muwaḥḥidūn. See Almohads mysticism, 61–62, 110–11, 117–18, 167–68; Baḥyā Ibn Paqūda and, 111; Ibn Massara and, 38–39, 43–44, 48–50, 60, 113–14; Ibn Ṭufayl and, 122–23; Jewish, 9n28, 50, 52–57, 111, 113–14, 117; Maimonides and, 117, 156n132; and Neoplatonism, 21, 103–4, 117, 162; texts, 35n33, 52–57, 107–8 Nasafi, Abūʾl-­Ḥasan al-­, 103 Naṭronay Gaon, 73, 74–75 Neo-­Aristotelian philosophy. See Aristotelians, neo-­orthodox. Neoplatonism, 20, 21, 60, 102–23; Aristotle and, 104, 109; with Aristotelian characteristics, 120–23, 156, 160; Fāṭimids and, 25, 60, 103–4, 110, 158; Ibn Gabirol and, 88; Ibn Masarra and, 35, 37, 38, 48–49, 103; Ibn Ṭufayl and, 21, 128, 144–45; Jewish tradition of,

index [ 219 ] 112–14, 119–20, 158, 159–60; proponents of, 4n12; Pseudo-­Empedoclean, 115–20; texts of, 107–9, 113n51, 118–19 Nicholas (monk), 18n63 Ordoño III, King, 31n15 Otto I, Holy Roman Emperor, 31 philosophy: definition of, 20, 21; hostility ­toward, 10n33, 31–33, 95, 159; mystical (see mysticism); training in, 90–94 philosophy, Christian: role in Arabic Islamic philosophy, 8–9, 15–16, 18–20, 23–24, 105n13; role in Jewish philosophy, 17, 23–24; role of non-­Christians in, 16n57, 162–63 philosophy, Islamic: comparison with Jewish philosophy, 3, 5n17; Neoplatonism and, 103–4, 158–59; role in Eu­ro­pean philosophy, 9n27; role of non-­Muslims in, 5n17, 9–11, 168 philosophy, Jewish, 3–4, 8, 23, 24, 111–15; comparison with Islamic philosophy, 3, 114, 121; designations of, 3, 21n78; role in Arabic Islamic philosophy, 8–11, 48–49, 52–56, 60; role in Eu­ro­pean philosophy, 9n27, 162–69; role of non-­Jews in, 5n17, 8–9, 23, 113–14, 168. See also Jews: as phi­los­o­phers Plotinus, 20, 118, 120–21 poetry, 15, 41, 85–89 Porphyry, 120 Priscillianism, 117–18 Pseudo-­Empedocleanism. See ­under Neoplatonism Ptolemy, 151 Qāḍī al-­Nuʿmān, 103 Qasmūna (­daughter of Samuel ha-­Nagid), 85n15 Qirqisānī, Abū Yaʿqūb al-­, 73, 75n55 Qūmis ibn Antunyān (also Qaumis), 84 Qurʾān, the, 43: Almohads on, 129, 131, 132–33, 135; Averroes on, 139n53; as created or uncreated work, 64; on creation, 55; Ibn Masarra on, 41, 45, 47–48, 51–52, 55–56, 68n21; Khalīl al-­ Ghafla on, 64; Maimonides and, 148;

Masarriyya on, 58; Muʿtazila on, 62, 64, 65, 77; on the soul, 135; Ẓāhirīs on, 64n7, 77, 79 Rabbanites, 63, 72–73, 74, 75–76, 77 Rabīʿ bn. Zayd, 56n125 Rāzī, Abū Ḥātim al-­, 50, 155n127 Regimen of the Solitary. See Ibn Bājja, Abū Bakr ibn al-­Ṣāʾigh Ruʿaynī, Ismāʿīl al-­, 49–50, 58, 59–60 Saʿadya Gaon, 52–53, 72, 121 Saʿīd b. Fatḥūn b. Makram, Abū ʿUthmān, 33, 104–5 Ṣāʿid Ibn Ṣāʿid al-­Andalusī. See Ibn Ṣāʿid Ṣalt, Abū al-­, 126 Samson, 17 Samuel Ben ʿEli, 99 Samuel ha-­Nagid (also Ibn al-­Naghrīla), 30n11, 75, 83, 85n15, 86n18, 87n22, 96 Saragossa, 85, 92, 110, 124–26, 166 science: censorship of, 102–3; philosophical, 21n79, 27, 31–32, 45, 90–94, 140n58; physical, 27, 31–32, 90, 93 Sefer Yeṣira (The Book of Creation), 52, 53, 55, 56–57, 114 Shahrastānī, al-­, 115 Shahrazūrī, al-­, 115 ­Shallūn, Aḥmad b. ʿAlī, 40 Sijistānī, Abū Sulaymān al-­, 105n13 solitude, 94–96, 97–98 Spain, “golden age” of, 82 Subkī, al-­, 69 Tādilī, al-­, 122 tawḥīd. See God: unity of Thābit b. Sinān, 105n13 translations: by and into Arabic, 16n57, 18, 30, 120, 162–63, 164; of books, 5–6, 17–18, 73, 164; by Christians, 9n30, 16, 18n63; by and into Hebrew, 8, 73, 110, 113n49, 164, 166; by Jews, 163–65 Tujībī, Abū Isḥāq Ibrāhīm al-­Naqqāsh al-­, 106, 107n22, 152 Tustarī, Aḥmad b. Sālim al-­, 35 Tustarī, Sahl b. al-­Faḍl al-­, 35, 77n62 Umayyad dynasty, 57, 65n9, 82

[ 220 ] index Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī. See Ibn ʿAdī, Yaḥyā Yaḥyā b. Yūsuf Ibn Tāshuf īn, 85 Yefet Ben ʿEli, 74n50 Yehoseph Ha-­Nagid (also Yehoseph Ibn al-­Naghrīla), 30n11, 83, 96

Yeshuʿah ben Yehuda, 76 Yūsuf al-­Baṣīr, 73n46 Yūsuf ibn Yaḥyā al-­Khurāsānī, 56 Ẓāhirīs, 25, 64n7, 77–80, 155n125

Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World Edited by Michael Cook, William Chester Jordan, and Peter Schäfer A Shared World: Christians and Muslims in the Early Modern Mediterranean by Molly Greene Imperialism and Jewish Society: 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. by Seth Schwartz Beautiful Death: Jewish Poetry and Martyrdom in Medieval France by Susan L. Einbinder Power in the Portrayal: Repre­sen­ta­tions of Jews and Muslims in Eleventh-­and Twelfth-­Century Islamic Spain by Ross Brann Mirror of His Beauty: Feminine Images of God from the Bible to the Early Kabbalah by Peter Schäfer In the Shadow of the Virgin: Inquisitors, Friars, and Conversos in Guadalupe, Spain by Gretchen D. Starr-­LeBeau The Curse of Ham: Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Chris­tian­ity, and Islam by David M. Goldenberg Resisting History: Historicism and Its Discontents in German-­ Jewish Thought by David N. Myers ­Mothers and ­Children: Jewish F ­ amily Life in Medieval Eu­rope by Elisheva Baumgarten A Jewish Re­nais­sance in Fifteenth-­Century Spain by Mark D. Meyerson The Handless Maiden: Moriscos and the Politics of Religion in Early Modern Spain by Mary Elizabeth Perry Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt by Mark R. Cohen Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Vio­lence by Elliott Horo­witz Living Together, Living Apart: Rethinking Jewish-­Christian Relations in the M ­ iddle Ages by Jonathan Elukin The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam by Sidney H. Griffith

The Religious Enlightenment: Protestants, Jews, and Catholics from London to Vienna by David Sorkin American Evangelicals in Egypt: Missionary Encounters in an Age of Empire by Heather J. Sharkey Maimonides in His World: Portrait of a Mediterranean Thinker by Sarah Stroumsa The Scandal of Kabbalah: Leon Modena, Jewish Mysticism, Early Modern Venice by Yaacob Dweck Cultural Exchange: Jews, Christians, and Art in the Medieval Marketplace by Joseph Shatzmiller The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the “­People of the Book” in the Language of Islam by Sidney H. Griffith Defining Neighbors: Religion, Race, and the Early Zionist-­Arab Encounter by Jonathan Marc Gribetz The Apple of His Eye: Converts from Islam in the Reign of Louis IX by William Chester Jordan Andalus and Sefarad: On Philosophy and Its History in Islamic Spain by Sarah Stroumsa

a no t e on t he t y pe

this book has been composed in Miller, a Scotch Roman typeface designed by Matthew Car­ter and first released by Font Bureau in 1997. It resembles Monticello, the typeface developed for The Papers of Thomas Jefferson in the 1940s by C. H. Griffith and P. J. Conkwright and reinterpreted in digital form by Car­ter in 2003. Pleasant Jefferson (“P. J.”) Conkwright (1905–1986) was Typographer at Prince­ton University Press from 1939 to 1970. He was an acclaimed book designer and aiga Medalist. The ornament used throughout this book was designed by Pierre Simon Fournier (1712–1768) and was a favorite of Conkwright’s, used in his design of the Prince­ton University Library Chronicle.